“The captain’s the last to leave the ship. And Mr. Martini’s married, but that’s not his wife.”
He looked up now, tiger eyes steady, curious. “How do you figure?”
“He’s wearing a ring; she’s not.”
“Could be having it sized.”
“Could. Not. She’s twelve, maybe fifteen years younger.”
“Nothing to that.”
And seeing she’d gained his interest, thought she felt the first cracks in that tough nut.
“Not by itself, no.” She glanced over at them as she sipped her water. “When they’re not involved in the numerous PDAs they’ve indulged in, he expounds and she listens, wide-eyed, like he’s the most fascinating man she’s ever met, and when she went out to the ladies’， he watched her ass. He didn’t drool, but it was close.”
“Maybe they’re still very attracted to each other.”
“He got a call when she was in the ladies’， and I’m betting that was Mrs. Martini. It annoyed him. He was brief. You might say curt. Then he took a serious drink, scowled, and fiddled with his wedding ring. That’s when he ordered the second round.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
Morgan leaned on the bar. “Are you a wagering man, Miles?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll bet you a crisp dollar bill I’m right.”
“I might not have a crisp one on me.”
“You can owe me. Anyway, he told his wife he had out-of-town business. She doesn’t believe that, so she’s called and texted several times. He’s told his new to newish side piece he’s in the middle of a difficult, protracted divorce. Maybe she believes that, maybe not, but either way, she’s getting spa treatments and a classy hotel room and that platinum cuff she keeps playing with that came out of the resort’s jewelry boutique. It was in the display window. It’s gorgeous.
“Excuse me.”
Mr. Martini signaled. Morgan put their bill in a folder.
Miles watched her deliver it, hold a quick conversation as he added a tip, signed the bill.
“Have a lovely night, Mr. and Mrs. Cabot.”
The woman giggled and snuggled up against Mr. Martini. “Oh, we’re not married. Yet.”
Morgan lifted the empties, wiped the table with the bar mop, and tucked it in her waistband.
“I owe you a dollar.”
“Yes, you do. A crisp one.” She loaded the martini glasses, the wineglass, the water glasses, the shakers, the garnish plates onto a tray, took them back into the kitchen.
When she came out, he was gone. With a shrug, she emptied the ice, wiped down the sink. She closed the register, locked the cash drawer, gave the bar and bottles a last thorough wipe down.
He came back, wearing a black coat and scarf.
“Sorry, sir, the bar’s closed.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Oh. Thanks, but you don’t have—”
“I have to get my car anyway. Get your coat.”
She got her coat, her knit cap, her scarf, her gloves.
He took one look at her bundled up. “Taking a side trip to the Arctic?”
“These cold Vermont nights don’t translate into spring for me yet.”
He turned off the lights, and she took one glance back—everything in order—before going through the arch with him.
They crossed the quiet lobby where the night man read a paperback at the desk.
“Good night, Walter.”
“Night, Morgan. Good night, Miles. Drive safe.”
They stepped out into the slap of cold. Not the blast it had been the month before, Morgan decided, but still a solid slap.
They turned left, down the wide walkway, away from the front gardens and guest parking to the staff lot. The owners had reserved parking with their names on the curb. His—a husky black SUV—sat alone, but he walked past it with her.
“I’m right over there. Thanks for the escort.”
“Do you mean that?” He walked several steps closer to Nina’s car. “You need more than a dollar if you’re driving that.”
Her hackles might have risen if it hadn’t been pure truth. “I’m looking at cars.” Soon, she thought.
“Look faster. I’ll wait to make sure it starts.”
“It’ll start. Thanks again. Good night.”
She crossed to it, got out of the cold air into the somehow colder air of the car. It grumbled, it coughed. She closed her eyes and prayed. And when it turned over, she promised herself she’d look seriously for a car on her next day off.