Matthew opened the silver bag of coffee and poured in the beans. When one fell out and skittered across the floor, he quickly bent down to scoop it up and tuck it in his pocket even though Marissa said, “Oh, don’t worry about it.” He pressed the red switch and the grinding noise erupted so loudly it made conversation impossible.
Marissa couldn’t decide if she should stay there or walk back to the counter, and her indecision made the choice for her.
The machine cut off and Matthew sealed up the bag. The smell of the medium-roast grounds was strong, but not unpleasantly so.
“Need anything else? Cream, maybe?”
“Nah, thanks, that’s it.”
She walked back to the register, stopping at the door to flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and he followed.
While she rang him up, he looked around. “You work here alone?”
“Yeah.” She felt a swell of pride. “I’m just about to close up.”
For a moment she worried he might misconstrue her words and think she was trying to get rid of him, but he only appeared impressed.
He pulled a crumpled $10 bill out of his pocket to pay for the coffee, and when she gave him his change, their hands brushed together.
He looked down at his shoes, then directly up at her. Their eyes locked as Marissa, who’d felt limp and gray for most of the summer, as if she were the one who’d turned into a ghost when Tina was killed, experienced an awakening.
He picked up his coffee and tossed the bag from one hand to the other. She saw the Swatch watch on his left wrist, a scar on the underside of his jaw （from playing ice hockey, she’d learn）， and almond-shaped icy-blue eyes.
“Want me to wait for you?” Matthew asked. “I could maybe walk you home?”
* * *
The waiter breaks into her memory, clearing away Marissa’s appetizer plate and asking if she’d like another glass of wine when her scallops are delivered.
“No, thank you.”
The young couple a few tables over get up and head toward the exit, the guy’s hand hovering by the small of the woman’s back but not actually touching it.
Marissa’s eyes trail them. Just before they reach the ma?tre d’， they step aside to let another customer pass by.
Her heart leaps.
It’s Matthew.
He strides to her table and leans over. He kisses her on the cheek, just as he did after he walked her home in the velvety August air on that long-ago night, when they were teenagers and on the cusp of something life changing. Back then, he was saying good night.
Right now, he is saying hello.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AVERY
SUNDAY MORNINGS ARE SUPPOSED TO be lazy. If it weren’t for Romeo trying to lick my face and bumping his cone against my cheek, plus the realization that I’ve scheduled an important 10:00 A.M. appointment, I’d roll over and go back to sleep.
Instead I flip onto my right side, draping my arm around my dog, and grab my cell phone from the charger. Two days in, and I’ve already broken the no-sleeping-in-my-bed rule.
There’s nothing urgent to attend to. Just an email confirming the address of my meeting and a text from Derrick. Fun night, babe. Wish I was waking up next to you.
It had been a fun night, even if I’d arrived nearly half an hour late, explaining I’d had a client emergency. This was only a partial fib. I’d planned to be at Derrick’s place in Adams Morgan by 8:00 P.M., but Marissa and Matthew’s date night proved more complicated than I’d anticipated.
I’d needed to make sure the Bishops had followed my instructions and gone out together. And I’d wanted to observe the couple as they left their home, and again as they entered the restaurant. Would their body language change when they were in public versus in private?
It would be informative to compare my impressions with their recounting of the evening when we met for our third session.
The first surprise of the night came when Marissa drove to the restaurant alone. I followed her in Paul’s old Mercedes, then double-parked with my hazard lights flashing, figuring Matthew must have had a prior commitment and was meeting her there. I hadn’t used Paul’s car in a while, and I swear when I first opened its door, I could still smell the faint scent of his cologne.
Twenty minutes later, Matthew still hadn’t shown up, and I’d been flipped off by more than one driver who’d had to maneuver past me. Was it possible he’d driven to the restaurant before Marissa and I’d simply missed his entrance? I was tempted to call the ma?tre d’ and ask if the Bishops had arrived—I could pretend I wanted to send them a bottle of wine—then Matthew pulled up in his Land Rover and jumped out, handing his keys to a valet. But rather than hurrying inside to meet his wife, Matthew remained on the sidewalk. I leaned to my right and peered through the passenger-side window, trying to see what he was doing.