“Really.”
“That’s why I do my own cooking, for the most part, and why I don’t believe in contractors. They’re very untrustworthy.”
“In that case . . . I might need some help with repairing the built-in shelves.”
“I’ll have a look.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” The way he smiles tells me he really might find pleasure in helping me. “You know, I saw some work in the gallery over on Greene Street.”
Heat flushes my cheeks when he mentions seeing my stoneware creations. “Yeah, they’re just little . . . you know.”
“I bought a few pieces. The pasta bowl, the blue thing with twisty thing. I mean, I don’t even know what that thing’s supposed to be, but damn. You’re talented.”
I shrug. It’s not a career yet. But it’s a start.
“So.” I redirect to finish the conversation we started the day I met him. “You said you were a writer.”
“I am. I write true crime. Just haven’t found a subject worthy enough to finish.”
“Are you writing about me?”
“No.” He narrows his gaze. “But to be honest, I’d like to.”
“And you said, when I first met you, that a Tasha asked you to look after the cat.”
“I went with what I knew. I knew there was an ex-girlfriend named Natasha. I borrowed the cat . . .”
I miss the cat, who is back at the Hemingway estate. “I’m thinking of getting another, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe.”
“If you let me do the honors, I won’t steal one from the Hemingway estate this time.”
“You want to buy me a cat?”
“It’s Christmas.” He shrugs. “Least I can do.”
“You won’t put a bug on his collar this time?”
“Not this time.” He chuckles. “That was a mad scramble, getting that rental set up with two days’ notice. There was the cat . . . I even moved his litter from the cat shelter on the Hemingway grounds.”
“Just so you know, if you’d told me the truth . . . why you were here . . . I would’ve understood.”
“Lying is an occupational hazard sometimes. I’m sorry about that.”
I understand. In the scheme of things, these are tiny lies, compared to those my husband told.
“Emily said you wanted to see me.”
“Always. What are your plans?”
“I like it here. I’m going to stay.” I sip my drink. I breathe in the flora of my gardens. “I guess you were right. This island can swallow you whole.”
“Swallowed me long ago. Beats the hell out of winter in Philly.” He sips. “But really . . . I was just wondering if you had any plans for tonight. Up for dinner at Turtle Kraals?”
“Oh.”
“But I’m glad you’re going to stay.” A slow smile spreads onto his face.
“Me too.” I’ve already renamed the house: Verità. Truth. And in finding the truth about the man I’m divorcing, I’m slowly finding myself.
“So,” I say. “Dinner.”
“People have been known to eat it.”
“Just the two of us? At Kraals?”
“I like you, Veronica. From the moment I met you and your untrusting daughter, you were never just an assignment.”
“If I can find a sitter, I’m game.”
“I know a couple of teens on gap year who might be interested.”
“Then it’s settled. If Em and Andrea are available, I’m free.”
He wipes sweat with the back of his hand. “Let’s have a look at these shelves.”
Drinks in hand, we walk into the house.
“The panel is slipping,” I tell him.
“I see that.” He taps his fingertips against it, then presses his palm to it.
I worry at the wedding ring still stuck on my finger. To my surprise, it slips past my knuckle. I laugh a little. “It came off.”
As he turns toward me, the panel slips a bit more.
“Look at that.” He gives me a nod of approval.
I stand there, stunned, with the ring tucked onto the tip of my index finger. But I’m not focused on what Christian’s looking at. I’m not concerned with my ring.
I’m staring at the wall behind the shelves.
“Chris?”
He turns toward the built-in cabinetry.
The hollow space behind the shelves is lined with bound Benjamin Franklins.
“He left it,” I say. “I wonder why.”
Elizabella’s giggle carries in from the front drive.
That’s why.
He left it for me and Bella. For Natasha and Mimi.
Visions of a blue diamond ring flit through my mind. The plinking tune of a music box comes to a gradual stop in my memory, and the doors of Fourth Presbyterian close in my mind.
Christian’s fingers lace into mine.
“Dinner’s on me,” I say.
His eyes are wide, and he laughs a little. “So is the cat.”
“Again, again!” My daughter’s giggle carries on the island breeze.
I have two embryos frozen at the lab with storage paid for the next calendar year.
But Elizabella is more than enough to fulfill me.
The IVF chapter of my life is officially over.
“One, two, three . . . ,” Chris whispers. “Fly!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Over the course of a decade or more, this book has grown from a simple tale of infidelity to a story of hope laced with criminal espionage. I thank readers of Veronica’s story when it was in its infancy—Mary and Angela and my cousin Kristin—and of course I offer hugs of thanks to those who made this concept a reality.
My agent, Andrea Somberg, latched on to this story from the first mention of Nini. Andrea, I appreciate all you do. Not many writers can claim flawless feedback and utmost attention from their agents. I’m blessed to have you.
To Jodi Warshaw, Caitlin Alexander, and the team at Lake Union: Thank you for seeing the bones of this story at the bottom of the ocean and for lugging them to the surface and helping me flesh them out. I have absolutely loved working with you, and I hope this is the first project of many.
To my English teacher at Antioch Community High School, Miss Janel Maren (with whom I lost touch long ago): You introduced me to Harper Lee and Mary Higgins Clark. In your classroom, I learned to love reading again. You were the first to acknowledge and encourage my ability to manipulate the reader, and I doubt I’d be the writer I am without you.
To Patrick W. Picciarelli: Thanks for always lending an ear and for writing with me. Your voice is in every cop I write.
To Jessica Warman: Your suspense in YA, not to mention your cadence, had me engrossed from Breathless. I learn so much from you and appreciate our friendship more than words can say.
To the little girl with the original Nini in her hair: You’re a force to be reckoned with. Don’t you ever forget it again!
To my brother, who always endures: We’re survivors. Keep on truckin’.
To my mother, aunts, and grandmother: Thanks for providing a solid foundation . . . and offering a little crazy along the way.
To my daughters: You remind me that strength comes from within, and you’ve kept me strong when I most needed to steel. I think you’ve taught me more than I’ll ever teach you. You are treasures, well worth all I endured to have you.
To my hunky husband: I married an action hero. Thank you. For everything. Including your attempt at cha-cha lessons. You’re a surge of power—always have been—and Key West will never be the same without us. Let’s go back to Duval Street. Save me a seat at the bar while I wander over to Whitehead to marvel at Hemingway’s powder room.