Page 20 of Happy Wife

A quick Google search informs me that the 863 area code serves a staggeringly large chunk of the center of Florida that starts just south of Orlando and stretches all the way down to the top of the Everglades—almost one hundred and eighty miles. Where the number’s owner might hail from is anyone’s guess.

Did you get into something you shouldn’t have and skip town, Will?

That sounds nothing like my husband. He’s all rules and polish.

(863) 555…

In my mind, the balance between risk and reward tips toward reward, and I decide I have to know.

…0142

I hit the call button and feel my blood pressure instantly spike.

It rings four times before there’s a click. I gasp, thinking someone’s about to say something on the other end. A feminine robotic voice rattles off a familiar script.

“You have reached the voice mailbox of.” Then a gruff male prerecorded voice chimes with a name: “Dean Morrison.”

Who the hell is Dean Morrison?

I hold my breath, trying to decide if I should leave a message, but the line goes dead. Emboldened, I try the number a second time, but this time the lady robot voice tells me the mailbox is full. Driving out of the parking lot, I try a third time while pulling up an address on Google Maps, thinking I might know where to go next.

I try the number over and over as I drive. But I don’t get the voicemail again. Just the same rhythm of ring, click, message, disconnect.

Chapter11

Before

On the night of our first date, Will’s contact information was in my phone as: Hot Mean Lawyer. That’s how temporary I expected his presence to be.

Keep it light, Nora. Have some fun.

I dressed for the date like I was playing a part, leaning into the role of the twentysomething going on a date with a divorced dad. I drew on a slight cat eye eyeliner and fire-engine red lipstick. Not too edgy, but a little more fun than I imagined Will and his circle of friends were used to. I pulled on a sleeveless black Anthropologie dress with a trendy cutout in the back—one of the pricier pieces in my wardrobe—and thought:Hot, mean lawyers probably like the color black, right?

It wasn’t that I didn’t take the date seriously. Quite the opposite. He seemed like a good guy, a dedicated dad, and an accomplished professional. A real-life, in-the-flesh adult. He defied my affinity for men that no one in their right mind would describe as “husband material.” The more distant or in need of reform they were, the more I loved them.

Will might have been the first suitable man I’d ever dated. But I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high about anything coming from our dinner. I could imagine plenty of pitfalls that mightaccompany dating a busy divorced father. And I wasn’t sure how seriously he took me either. So, I put on a suit of armor in the form of a great outfit to feel just a little insulated from getting hurt.

I didn’t tell anyone about the date. Not my co-workers and certainly not my mother. Not because it was a secret, but since moving back to my mom’s, I had slipped into my old habit of keeping to myself. All of my friends from college were trying their luck in bigger cities like D.C., Boston, and Atlanta. My social circle was nonexistent—a casualty of my failure to launch.

Will picked some swanky Michelin star place near Park Avenue, and we agreed to meet at the restaurant. I took a rideshare to avoid having to hand my battered Honda key fob to the valet. As I arrived, I noted the row of expensive and rare sports cars lined up like a little boy’s prized collection of Matchbox cars. Only there must have been a couple million dollars in vehicles on display. I clocked Will’s car, the one he’d used to pick Mia up, in a standout position at the end.

Hot Mean Lawyer is punctual. An interesting development.

And then I saw him under the overhang outside the restaurant, in dark jeans and an untucked white button-down. But in an unwelcome turn of events, he wasn’t alone.

He was engaged in what looked like an upbeat and animated conversation with a man and a woman. Unable to picture anything more awkward than trying to make small talk with your date’s acquaintances on a first date, I slowed my pace to avoid interrupting whatever the discussion might be and pulled out my phone, preparing myself to look busy.

“Nora.” Will looked up from his conversation and waved.

I breathed a small sigh of relief—grateful I wouldn’t have to pretend to be on my phone composing a work email about…what exactly? A shortage of name tags at the museum’s front desk? Too much chlorine in the club’s pool?

God. I’m going to get through this date and then I’m going straight home to research grad schools.

He tapped the man on the back in a warm but wordless goodbye and headed my way.

“You look great,” he said, grinning like a goddamn homecoming king. There was that fluttering in my stomach again. “Haveyou tried this place before?” He gestured toward the building behindus.

“You’ll be shocked to hear I don’t get out a ton.” I shook my head as we made our way toward the entrance. “But if Zagat ever needs a comprehensive review of everything from the snack shop at the club, I’m their girl.”

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