FORTY-ONE
CLARE
THE road was dark, and Matt had gone quiet. I almost nodded off again until he slapped the steering wheel and cursed in a foreign language. I think it was Portuguese.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I went too far.” He pointed at a lighted sign, dead ahead.
“Deerfield Farm?”
“That’s my landmark. When I see the farm’s sign, I know I’ve missed the turn.”
He swung the van around again. This time his U-turn wasn’t as deft as before. He nearly smashed the front bumper into a tree. Cursing again, he straightened us out and hit the gas.
Ever since I told him my dream, about the man with the gun, his mood had gone south.
“Is something bothering you?”
“No.”
“Are you hangry?”
“Change the subject.”
“Okay, then, what do they grow at Deerfield Farm? Do they have a farm stand? I could eat.”
“It’s a horse farm, Clare—stables, training, riding lessons. It’s one reason why my ex-wife bought the house at this location.”
“She was an equestrian?”
“No. I don’t think she even liked animals. The CEO where she worked played polo out here, and she wanted to fit in with his horsey set.”
“By learning to play polo?”
“Learning enough to talk the talk. You know, understand what the hell the boss and his trophy wife were babbling about at cocktail parties when dressage and forelocks entered the conversation.”
Matt slowed the van to make the correct turn. As he did, the headlights flashed across a dark green street sign: Edge of Woods Road was aptly named. Other than the pitch-black path in front of us, I saw nothing but trees and more trees.
“Aren’t there any houses around here?”
“Are you kidding? These woods are filled with them. Expensive ones with pools, Jacuzzis, and tennis courts.”
“Where are they?”
“Behind the timber. You don’t think wealthy people want the unwashed general public gawking at their properties, do you?”
“Some do.”
“These don’t.”
I drained the last of my coffee and studied Matt’s profile, trying to reconcile my memories of the man I’d married with this Hamptons dweller.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Get what?”
“The Matteo Allegro I remember was more at home in a tent or a tribal village than in a tax shelter. What are you doing with the horsey and Lambo set? It must have been this new wife of yours—”
“Ex-wife.”
“You must have fallen hard for her.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it, then?”
He shrugged. “Bree liked to travel as much as I do. The money made things nice, and she had a lot of it.”
“Was this Bree person an heiress? Or a fashion model or something? Would I recognize her name?”
Matt hesitated. “Breanne Summour is her name, and she was—”
“The famous magazine editor?!”
Matt nodded. “We weren’t married very long.”
I shook my head. “I’m glad I wasn’t there.”
“But you were. You catered our wedding at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You did an amazing job, too. You don’t remember anything about that?”
“Not a thing.”
“The truth is, Clare, if it wasn’t for you, Bree and I might not have gotten married at all.”
Once again, I doubted my sanity. Only this time I was wondering about my state of mind before I had lost my memory. Had I been completely mad, catering Matt’s high-society wedding? Was this amnesia an improvement?
“All I remember about Breanne Summour is that I was freelance writing in New Jersey, to make ends meet. Most of my work was for trade magazines and local papers. At one point, I decided to take a chance on myself and submit a piece to a national publication. The first place I pitched was Breanne’s magazine. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“It was a great little article on trends in U.S. coffee consumption. The New York Times Magazine ended up publishing it. But she rejected it, and she was pretty nasty about it.”
“Join the club. Breanne rejected me, too, and she was pretty nasty about it.”
“Why in the world did you think marrying her was a good idea?”
“At the time, I figured I could use the support. Not just financially.” He slowed the van and made another turn. “Do you really want to know?”
“I’m listening.”