THIRTY

It was Emma’s intention to follow her usual routine: Drive the van to the small industrial building in which she maintained her office, storeroom, and kitchen, refrigerate what perishables were left over, and leave the rest for the morning. But one of her servers, who’d been with her since Emma started the catering company, insisted on helping unload everything.

“Okay,” said Emma. “Means I can sleep in tomorrow morning.”

As they brought things in from the van, Emma thought of Phil. What was he doing at that moment? she wondered. She knew that although he’d shared a great deal with her about the envelope and its contents, he’d kept his most private feelings to himself. She’d grown certain that however things were resolved, his relationship with Lyle Simmons and the Simmons family would never be the same. On the one hand, she would be sorry to see that happen. The unraveling of friendships of such duration was always sad. On the other hand, she wondered what price Rotondi had been paying to maintain the relationship.

“Thanks, Imelda,” she told her employee after they’d emptied the van. “Drop you home?”

“No, thank you, Emma. I called my husband. He’s on his way. You go. Go on. Go home and rest.”

Emma got in her car, started the engine, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and pulled away. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. Engaging in pleasant chitchat with Rick Marshalk had been a chore because of what she knew about the allegations raised by Rotondi.

She turned on the radio, tuned to a classical music station, and played Beethoven’s Fifth loud, very loud, to drive those thoughts out of the car through the open windows.

Would Phil be there when she reached home?

She assumed he would, and that contemplation brought a smile to her face.