7

Dear Molly, Recently I was at dinner with a man in whom I am no longer as interested as I once was. In fact, I’m thinking about breaking up with him. During dinner, a man in whom I am increasingly interested walked up to us and engaged me in conversation. What is the etiquette in this situation? Should I have invited the man with potential to join us? Should I have asked him to call me later and let me get back to my date? Should I have run to the ladies room, snuck out the window, and met him out front? Did I mention the second man was a homicide detective who had, as recently as breakfast, suspected me of murder? Signed, Like Dating’s Not Hard Enough

One of the fringe benefits of my job is that I can go to sleep every night knowing that there are women out there with far more serious problems than I have. Not Schadenfreude, exactly, more a lesson in perspective, a comfort in understanding my place in the universe. Said comfort began to slip away from me as I sat in the Mermaid Inn with Peter across the table from me and Detective Kyle Edwards coming across the room to me.

I’d actually managed to get some work done in the balance of the day, between agreeing to meet Peter for dinner and leaving to get ready. I’d literally kept my head down, reading letters and checking email, doing my best to avoid meeting Yvonne’s eye as she bustled about the office, doing her best to pretend that nothing had changed. Of course, everyone was doing that to a certain extent, except perhaps Gretchen, who was being open and even a little showy in her grief. I wondered if she’d had a crush on Teddy. Maybe that’s why she’d stayed with him longer than any other assistant.

I felt guilty, sitting there in the office and thinking about Yvonne as a murderer. It seemed like some bizarre violation of her hospitality or something. Plus there was no doubt she would can me in the blink of an eye if she knew how I felt. Would I stay at the magazine after she was arrested or would I need to move on?

My cousin Caroline dumped a guy after they’d been in this hideous car crash together, not because she blamed him or anything, but because every time she looked at him, she heard the squeal of brakes and the crunch of metal. There was probably something a little Freudian going on there as well, but you’d have to know Caroline to fully appreciate those possibilities. Still. Associating a person with something traumatic can wreak havoc.

On the other hand, my friend Danielle once stayed in a relationship about a year longer than she later realized she should have because she nursed the guy through some awful ulcer thing and started feeling responsible for him. She also worried that the stress of breaking up would bring back the ulcer, and it took her a long time to work up the resolve to accept that guilt. Of course, the ulcer didn’t come back, but he started dating his dietitian and Danielle hasn’t been with anyone serious since.

All of which was putting the cart before the horse. Why worry about what I was going to do after Yvonne was arrested when I wasn’t sure she was going to be arrested? Because it kept me from having to worry about how I was going to get her arrested. I have a gift for worrying about things that might happen at some undetermined point in the future instead of taking care of things that need immediate attention in the present. If you’re going to worry about something, which I do as a nervous habit, it’s much less pressure to worry about what to name your children than worry about whether the man you’re meeting for dinner has the potential to be their father.

That was not an issue here. At some point during the cab ride to the East Village, I realized I’d already decided to end my relationship with Peter. When we were first dating, I thought of him with excitement and anticipation. Now I thought of him with irritation. I told myself it had nothing to do with my territorial issues with the article. But even if it did, that had to say something, didn’t it? If I really cared about the guy, I’d want to share with him, wouldn’t I? Or I’d at least trust him enough to be willing to tell him what I was doing and ask him not to horn in.

A little wave of cold washed over me. That was it. I didn’t trust Peter. How could I be involved with a guy I didn’t trust? Had I withdrawn my trust at some point or had he never had it? Maybe this was one of those relationships that never got deep enough for it to be an issue. I’d apparently never given it sufficient thought. And that pretty much sealed the deal right there.

Now, it was all I could think of as I looked at him across the table, studying him as he studied the menu. It’s a charming restaurant, walking that fine line between fun neighborhood place and destination of choice, with all sorts of seafaring and seafood art and memorabilia on the walls. The lighting in here suited Peter, the golden hues bouncing off the whitewashed walls and playing up the warm tones in his skin. He was a hunk, no question. He was rich, handsome, smart, good in bed, kind to animals—what a bummer that that wasn’t enough.

I was also fairly sure that he would not be devastated when I broke up with him. But there was still that nagging thought that I would become “that bitch” in all his conversations for the next six weeks and that’s a tough psychic hit to take, knowing you’re sending someone out into the big, wide world who will speak your name as though he’s spitting out rancid milk. If I was willing to be perfectly honest, I might say there were already people out there spewing my name, but I still had to psych myself up to add Peter to that list.

He put the menu down and smiled lazily. “Know what you want?” he asked with just the proper shade of innuendo.

“Order for me,” I smiled. I wasn’t going to be able to eat it, anyway, so what did it matter? Peter has this Old World streak in him that would get off on picking my dinner and I could keep my mind focused on more pressing issues—like the best way to break up with him. And when. After dinner but before dessert? As we walked out? Now, so he didn’t feel like he was getting stuck with dinner?

He put down his menu and smiled. I smiled back. “Great. Now that that’s taken care of, tell me how you are.”

“Fine,” I responded automatically. I needed to start getting myself in the break-up mindset. Hone in on his ex potential, make cons out of the pros. Like—he’s good in bed. Okay, he’s good in bed. Not great, just good. I deserve better. That’s one.

“Must be weird in the office, with Teddy gone.” He furrowed his brow. Man, the golden light in here really did suit him. Maybe it was the robber baron in his blood. Next thing you know, he’s lighting up a cheroot and building a railroad. But he’s rich. And the rich boyfriends can be hard work, because they aren’t used to working hard. Things come to them—opportunity, power, other women—and they forget how to make an effort. That’s two.

“It’s … interesting. Tell me more about the wedding.” I didn’t want to talk about work. I wanted to make it as hard as possible for him to direct the conversation to writing an article. Especially now that I had a meeting at Manhattan.

“You should’ve come with me. It would’ve been more fun.” He was deflecting my line of inquiry. It hadn’t occurred to him until this very moment to take me to the wedding with him. We were barely dating at an in-town wedding level; we certainly weren’t at the out-of-town-with-the-family-for-four-days level.

There’s that whole weird thing about taking a date to a wedding—I’d rather take a friend and proclaim him to be such than take a boyfriend. And it’s not the whole pressure-to-be-next deal that comes of being together at a wedding. It’s really all the introductions. And the pictures. Not only are you constantly having to explain your relationship to the bridal couple, you have to characterize your relationship with the guy you brought with you. “And this is my boyfriend/special friend/lover/stopgap/occasional sexual partner/whatever, Peter.”

Yeah, I know Miss Manners tells you to just say, “And this is Peter,” and make it clear that it’s nobody’s business how close you are, but you gotta wonder—when’s the last time she had to do it? Not as easy as she makes it sound. The only thing worse than having to characterize the relationship is not characterizing it at all, which leads to weird looks and/or smirks from the people around you and a pretty stony gaze from the non-characterized fellow himself. A glaring omission, I believe they call it.

And the pictures. Pressed between the sweet white leather covers of a dear friend’s wedding album, you are forever paired with some guy you could come to loathe. Every time the pictures get dragged out, you have to put up with, “Good God, what did you ever see in him?” Of course, the same fate has been known to befall the bridal couple itself, so maybe that’s not as big a deal.

“What’s the craziest thing you did?” I persisted, driving the conversation back into shallow waters.

It worked. He got this goofy grin on his face, then leaned forward, looking around the restaurant as he did so as though checking to make sure his grandparents weren’t somewhere within earshot. I leaned forward and scanned, too, figuring I should help him go for the joke, but instead I almost collapsed on the table.

As I scanned the indistinct faces of the other diners, one came sharply into focus. I couldn’t believe it, but Detective Edwards was striding across the room, his eyes dead on me. I couldn’t sit back up, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t do anything but stare.

“Molly?” Peter asked, probably concerned that I had had a sudden brain seizure of some sort, since I was staring, slightly open-mouthed, I will admit.

I straightened up and, in those three seconds, concocted a whole bunch of reasons Detective Edwards could be in the restaurant, none of them having anything to do with me. He had a date. He was meeting friends. He was a part-owner. He was in hot-foot pursuit of a nasty perp who had ducked into the kitchen from the alley and Edwards was heading him off here in the dining room. He wouldn’t even see me.

“Ms. Forrester, good evening.” So much for my great theories. He walked right up to our table, acknowledged Peter briefly—“Excuse me for interrupting”—then turned the big ol’ blues right back on me.

“Detective Edwards.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter react. Surprise doesn’t suit him. Probably doesn’t happen to him very often either.

“I’m sorry to intrude on your meal, but may I speak to you for a moment?”

Peter started to slide over like he was going to invite Edwards to sit down with us, so I got up as fast as I could. “Will you excuse us, Peter?” I walked past Edwards to the bar and hoped that only he would follow.

Peter stayed in his seat and Edwards followed me. Peter was displaying no possessive instinct, not even an appealing amount that he might be working to keep in check. That’s three.

I put a hand on the bar to steady myself, but decided to stay on my feet. That whole subliminal thing about this conversation won’t be long, so why bother sitting down. Edwards knew exactly what I was doing and leaned back onto a barstool. Okay, so who was going to be right?

“I have to ask. How did you find me?” No way he was having me followed. I didn’t even want to have to decide if being followed was flattering or creepy, it was just way too expensive. Edwards seemed shrewder and more economical than that.

“I went to your office and the grim young woman I spoke to said she’d overheard you making dinner plans on the phone.”

Had to be Kendall. Okay, we were having a talk in the morning. “Was she that helpful before or after you identified yourself as a homicide detective?”

“After. She stonewalled appropriately before.” A smile flickered across his face, probably in response to the grimace stomping across mine.

“So now that you’re here …” I prompted.

“What did you take out of Teddy Reynolds’ office?”

I almost put my hand on my pocket. Tragically, the thing that stopped me was not good sense but remembering that I had changed clothes. The picture and the key were on my dresser at home. It still took a lot of concentration not to pat my hip guiltily. “Stuff,” I told Edwards, a noncommittal shrug thrown in for good measure.

He sighed. “What kind of stuff?”

“Personal stuff. Why?”

“Because stuff is missing. I went back to his office to look for something and stuff is gone. Where did it go?”

I embraced what little righteous indignation I could justify. “Helen asked me if I’d pack up his personal stuff. She didn’t feel up to it. I assumed she had cleared it with you.”

He semi-nodded. “Where’s the stuff you took?”

“In my apartment.” I said it with as straight a face as possible, lest he read anything into it or worse, think I was hoping he would read anything into it.

“If you packed it up for Mrs. Reynolds, why doesn’t Mrs. Reynolds have it?”

“Because Mrs. Reynolds has other things on her mind.” It was infuriating to be standing in front of him, really angry about his insistence that Helen had something to do with Teddy’s death and really captivated by those damn blue eyes. I hate talking to someone in sunglasses because I get self-conscious about seeing my own reflection, but right now I would’ve happily shelled out the cash to corral those blue orbs behind a pair of mirrored Armanis.

He squinted, which helped my concentration slightly. “Which one are you protecting? The wife or the mistress?”

I gripped the bar as hard as I could and hoped the effort didn’t show. He knew about Yvonne already? That was good, if it helped get him off Helen’s case, but I was a little miffed somehow. I had wanted to present Yvonne to him in a pretty little package, slam-dunk, whaddya think of that? “I’m not protecting anyone. I’m trying to do—”

“The right thing by your friend, yeah, I remember.” He shook his head. “I think you need a better class of friends.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“No disrespect, but even his mistress didn’t have a lot of nice things to say about him.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Why wouldn’t Yvonne have gushed for Edwards the way she did for the staff? She was smart enough to know that trashing him would make her look bad.

Edwards shrugged. “Of course, she strikes me as someone without a lot of nice things to say about anyone.”

I had to nod at that one. Yvonne was abrasive on a good day, scathing on a bad one. Which made her affair with Teddy all the more fascinating, aside from the breaking-Helen’s-heart part.

“I was actually kinda surprised. She looks so sweet in all those perfume ads.”

I nodded again, but now it was to buy time. I had no idea what he was talking about. Yvonne in a perfume ad? Was he drunk? “Appearances can be deceiving,” I said because it seemed to be a safe thing to say.

He looked me over, head to toe, then nodded. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a safe thing to say in the middle of a murder investigation. “Guess that’s what being a model is all about.”

Excuse me? A model? Teddy was having an affair with a model? And with Yvonne? I clenched my teeth hard so my mouth wouldn’t hang open. “How did you find out?” I asked.

“She was all over his PDA, which we did take out of his office last night. The first time I saw ‘Camille,’ I thought that must be one of the perks of the business. But she was in there often enough that Lipscomb and I decided to go have a chat with her. She’s meaner in person, but she’s prettier, too.”

Model … Perfume ads … Camille … Oh, no way. No. Way. Camille Sondergard sleeping with Teddy? Our Teddy? No offense to Helen, but it’s amazing he only bragged about it in his PDA and didn’t rent a billboard somewhere. Suddenly, against my will, I could see the video clip playing on the Jumbotron in Times Square—with product placement by Trojan, of course. Camille was hot, in all meanings of the word. She’d gone from a couple of jeans ads to a huge deal with Chanel in what seemed overnight, even for her ridiculous business. Her ads were all over our magazine. Maybe now I knew the reason why. Wow.

“She said they just broke up.” He looked at me for a reaction and I went back to nodding. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just found out recently myself.” I smiled apologetically. How far can you bend the truth before you have to consider it broken? “So is she your suspect now?”

He shook his head. The lighting in the restaurant was even better for him than it was for Peter. Oh, yeah, Peter. I should probably be trying harder to get back to him than I was. In a minute.

“She was a celebrity auctioneer at some big animal rights deal uptown, alibi checks out solid.”

I felt breathless, but did my best not to sound that way. “But if they just broke up, that helps Helen, doesn’t it? Why kill your husband after he breaks up with his mistress ?” Because you realize he has more than one would have been my guess, but I wanted to see what Edwards had to say.

“Because it’s not enough.”

I wanted to object, but I pictured Helen’s face as she told me about regret and I couldn’t summon the energy to convince Edwards he was wrong. Was I wrong? Had Helen found out about Camille, made Teddy break it off, and then found out about Yvonne and hit her breaking point?

“Let’s get back to the stuff,” Edwards said, having let me stew in my silence a moment.

“I’d rather get back to my dinner date.”

Edwards shot a look across the room, then frowned. “Really?”

I didn’t intend to laugh as loudly as I did. I didn’t intend to laugh at all—it gave him the upper hand somehow. But still, there was something about his frown that cracked me up. I clamped my own hand across my mouth and glanced guiltily across the room. Peter was looking at us with his own frown and his was neither amused nor amusing.

Edwards looked at me, still smiling. “He’ll keep.”

I shook my head, more vigorously than before. “Nope, I’m thinking about throwing him back.”

“Over your limit?”

“Not even close. I’m a choosy fisher.”

“What do you use for bait?”

“It’s not about the bait, it’s about the lure.”

“It certainly is.”

“The trick is to get the fish on the deck before he even notices he’s out of the water.”

I’ve never been fishing once in my entire life, unless you count arcade games at the carnival and I’m pretty lousy at those, too. But when a metaphor turns itself into foreplay, you have to go with it, see where it leads you. Edwards’ grin had softened, so had his gaze, and he was leaning toward me, his hand slipping along the edge of the bar toward mine. And I was loving it.

His fingers overlapped mine and his hand stopped, resting comfortably. “I don’t want to be the enemy.”

“Good.”

“I’ve found out a lot about you in the last eighteen hours and I’d like to find out more.”

“Good.” If I could get away with the same answer for a while, it would free up some of my concentration for important things like breathing evenly and not drooling.

“So are we on the same side?”

“Good” wasn’t going to work here and I took a moment to think. How sincere was this? I knew he didn’t want to be my enemy because he didn’t want me messing up his investigation. He didn’t have a warrant or he would have played that card already. He probably thought he could use charm instead. But was the rest of it for real or just a sales pitch? His hand was warm and firm and I had a fleeting thought about how warm and firm the skin on his chest might be. But I forced myself to be careful. I wanted to be the one doing the reeling in here. “Sure. We both want the same thing, right?” I paused, giving him a chance to nod, before elaborating. “The murderer caught and justice served?”

The smile slid back into grin territory and his hand moved to cover mine completely. “Yeah. That, too. So when can I see the stuff?”

“Ask Helen.”

“She doesn’t have it.”

“She will.”

“Is it at all clear that I’m angling for an invitation to your apartment?”

“I’m just evaluating your pretenses.”

“You’re also obstructing a criminal investigation, but I didn’t want to have to go there.” His smile didn’t change a bit as he said it, his eyes never left mine. It wasn’t a threat, it was a simple statement of fact. And somehow I found that incredibly compelling. This guy was trouble. I really wanted to get into trouble. Not the “can I play with your handcuffs” kind of trouble, necessarily. But trouble on my own terms.

“I need to go home.”

“I’ll take you.”

“That wouldn’t sit well with my date.”

This time, Edwards didn’t so much as glance in Peter’s direction. “Does that matter?”

“Yes.”

“But only because your mother raised you right.”

“Maybe.”

“What if we tell him it’s police business?”

“Is it?”

His fingertips moved lightly on my wrist. “Partly.” The word “swoon” has always fascinated me—it sounds just like it should, like Merle Oberon falling back against Laurence Olivier’s arm. The actual mechanics of swooning, however, have always eluded me; how do you get your knees to give just enough so that they don’t buckle and dump you on your rear end at the feet of a man who’s trying to sweep you off your feet? I locked my knees because this didn’t seem the best time or place to find out.

“I’m not the kind of guy to force an issue, but this has to happen tonight.”

There actually was a moment when I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the partly-police-business part or the partly-not-police-business part and I didn’t want to overreact on either front. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to lay awake all night thinking about you …” He paused to measure how beautifully he was stringing me along before continuing. “ … burning anything you don’t want me to see.”

I smiled because he deserved it. “You’re not the enemy, remember?”

He leaned his head in Peter’s direction. “He’s not going to think so.”

Now I paused, because I realized he really was going to make me give him Teddy’s stuff tonight and because he was enjoying the idea of Peter sizing him up as a rival. This could be delicious or messy or both. It was certainly going to be interesting.

So much of the art of relationships is knowing when to stop—when to stop talking, when to stop kissing, when to stop seeing other people, when to stop seeing each other. Most of the time, it’s difficult to make that decision in the heat of the moment. Occasionally, rarely, you can almost hear the music swell because it’s so totally time to make a move.

I moved across the room, returning to my table and Peter, fighting the impulse to turn around and make sure that Edwards was following me. I was pinned between their gazes: I could see Peter glaring at me as I approached and I could feel Edwards’ eyes on my back. Caught in the crossfire.

I couldn’t blame Peter for being unhappy, but I was feeling pretty good, giddy even, and I knew better than to let that show. I dove in, taking the offensive before he could. “Peter, I’m so sorry, but I have to go.” I stood beside the table to emphasize my point. I could feel where Edwards’ hand had lain against mine and imagined for a moment that Peter could see it, like a sunburn or a tattoo. I covered it with my other hand. “Something’s come up …”

“Obviously.” Peter wasn’t going to make this easy. Edwards was no help either, standing just slightly behind me, letting me take the brunt of Peter’s displeasure.

I was considering how to pay him back for that when he stepped forward and gave Peter an official scowl. “I apologize, but—at the risk of sounding clicheéd—this is police business.”

I winced. I didn’t want Peter to know any more about this than necessary and here was Edwards, enticing him with coming attractions. Peter cleared the napkin off his lap. “I absolutely understand.” He flashed Edwards one of those annoying “let’s all be sports about this, old chum” smiles that should come with its own navy blue blazer and deck shoes, and stood up. “Let’s go.”

“Excuse me?” Edwards was as surprised as I was, but I was the one who spoke.

Apparently, Peter was going to play the Gentleman card. Who coulda seen that coming? “I’m not going to abandon you, Molly. You’ve been through enough already. Whatever’s going on, I want to help.” I could smell the jealousy leaking out of his pores. The question was, personal or professional jealousy? I decided to be flattered on both counts, but that still didn’t mean I wanted him around the rest of the night.

“Oh, Peter, that’s very thoughtful, but it’s really not necessary,” I demurred, trying to send Edwards a telepathic message that this was the perfect time for him to flash his badge and tell Peter to sit back down and order the cioppino.

“I insist,” Peter said, as much to Edwards as to me.

Edwards wouldn’t look at him and apparently wasn’t receiving my message. He sighed and shook his head, as though there were areas of civilian life in which he, gratefully, was forbidden to intrude. He wasn’t going to help me out at all.

I had no card to play except to proclaim that I wanted Peter to stay behind, primarily in the hope that I could get Edwards alone and entice something more out of him than homicide theories. And announcing that seemed a little premature and a whole lot inelegant. It was like holding one of those original Polaroid photos in my hand, desperate to see the finished picture but knowing that if I peeled the paper back too soon, it wouldn’t develop at all.

Which is how I came to leave the Mermaid Inn in the company of both Peter and Detective Edwards and driving back to my apartment in Edwards’ car. I was braced for twenty minutes of stony silence or perhaps tense conversation with deeply charged undertones and a dollop of sexual tension.

But no. Peter and Edwards had the nerve to have a conversation. A friendly conversation. An animated one at that. About the Yankees, of course. If the Titanic went down today, half the men on board would be so engrossed in talking about the Yankees that they’d be in the water ten minutes before they knew they were wet.

I hate baseball.