“Daddy D! Daddy D!”
Annabelle called out to me in the most wonderful, happy, sing-song-y voice as I walked through the door. She ran as fast as her little legs would let her, jumping into my arms. I squeezed her tight, spinning her around.
“Anna B! Anna B! I’ve missed you so much! Did you miss me? Show me how much!”
She pushed her hands wide apart and giggled. “Dis much!”
“That’s my girl! That’s my Anna B!” I spun her around again, showering her with kisses. “Where’s Daddy T?”
“He’s right here,” said Tracy, coming around the corner.
We formed an Annabelle sandwich as we hugged, which made our little girl giggle even louder.
“I’m so glad you’re both home, safe and sound,” I said.
“I think someone here was a little homesick, actually, so we got on the road earlier than planned this morning.” Tracy gave Annabelle a few playful pokes to her belly. “Isn’t that right, Anna B?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said. “What did she miss more, me or her toys?”
“Well, to be fair, she does have some really great toys,” he deadpanned. He lifted Annabelle from my arms. “Hey, sweetheart, I have a fun idea. Why don’t you go to your bedroom and get the squishy fishy that Aunt Rebecca gave you so you can show it to Daddy D?”
Annabelle nodded with a big smile as he lowered her to the floor. Off she scampered, disappearing down the hall that led to her bedroom. Tracy and I would now be alone for a minute, which was clearly what he wanted.
Something suddenly didn’t seem right. Or maybe I’m the one who doesn’t seem right?
“Are you okay?” asked Tracy, taking a step back. “You look absolutely exhausted.”
“I hardly slept last night,” I said.
It technically wasn’t a lie, but the two of us had dealt with some major trust issues in the past couple of years—all because I’d hidden my CIA past from him for a long time—so I immediately felt guilty about letting him picture me tossing and turning in our bed as opposed to what I was really doing, risking an international scandal by conspiring to bug a foreign consulate.
“What about you? How was the trip?” I asked. “How’s your sis?”
“It was good,” he said. “She’s good.”
I waited for Tracy to keep talking as he usually did, never needing much prompting to launch into a story, any story, from his daily life. He was like a walking, talking human version of the Metropolitan Diary section of the New York Times.
But here he was, after being away for a couple of days, staring at me and saying nothing. His shoulders tightened.
“Okay,” I said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Who’s Frank?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Seriously? That’s your answer? That’s what you’re going with?”
“Tracy, what are you talking about?”
“I’m not home longer than ten minutes when I get a call from the lobby telling me there’s a delivery for you,” he said. “It’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. I googled it. Three hundred and forty dollars, to be exact. A Brunello. Great meeting you last night, it says on the card. Frank.”
“Oh, that Frank,” I said.
“Ah, and just like that, he remembers. What were you saying about getting no sleep last night?”
Tracy folded his arms, shifting on his feet into the universal gotcha pose. As he did I could see Frank Brunetti’s bottle of Brunello behind him. Say that three times fast. The bottle—with a bow on it, no less—was sitting on the end table in our living room.
I wanted to promise Tracy that this wasn’t what it looked like. Not even close. But that’s the tricky thing about trust in any relationship. Promises only get you so far.
“Let’s at least open the bottle first,” I said. “Then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”