Page 11 of The Wife Upstairs
“I’m notwithyou,” I say to him, though, because that’s the truth. We may be standing here, his hand on my arm, but we’re not together. There’s still a big fucking canyon between the Eddie Rochesters of the world and me.
But then he smiles, that slow smile that only lifts one corner of his mouth and makes him look younger and more charming.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” he says.
I like that. How it’s not a question.
“Yes,” I hear myself say, and it’s that easy.
It’s like walking through a door.
7
I don’t let him pick me up.
I’d be insane to let Eddie see where I really live, and the thought of him and John crossing paths is enough to make me shudder. No, I want to exist only in Eddie’s world, like I’d sprung from somewhere else, fully formed, unknowable.
It’s true enough, really.
So, I meet him in English Village, a part of Mountain Brook I’ve never been to, although I’d heard Emily mention it. There are lots of “villages” in Mountain Brook: Cahaba Village, Overton Village, and Mountain Brook Village itself. It seemed silly to me, using a word likevillageto meandifferent part of the same community—just useneighborhood,you pretentious assholes, we don’t live in the English countryside—but what did I know?
I park far away from the French bistro where Eddie made a reservation, praying he won’t ask to walk me to my car later, and meet him under the gold-and-black-striped awning of the restaurant.
He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a white shirt, a nice complement to the deep eggplant of my dress, and his hand is warm on my lower back when the maître d’ shows us to our table.
Low lights, white tablecloths, a bottle of wine. That’s the part that stands out to me most, how casually he orders an entire bottle of wine while I was still looking at the by-the-glass prices, wondering what would sound sophisticated, but wouldn’t be too expensive.
The bottle he selects is over a hundred dollars, and my cheeks flush at knowing I’m worth an expensive bottle of wine to him. After that, I put the menu away entirely, happy to let him order for me.
“What if I pick something you don’t like?” he asks, but he’s smiling, His skin doesn’t seem as pale as it did that first day. His blue eyes are no longer rimmed with red, and I wonder if I’ve made him happy. It’s a heady thought, even more intoxicating than the wine.
“I like everything,” I reply. I don’t mean for the words to sound sexy, but they do, and when the dimple in his cheek deepens, I wonder what else I can say that will make him look at me like that.
Then his eyes drop lower.
At first, I think he’s looking at the low neckline of my dress, but then he says, “That necklace.”
Fuck.
It had been stupid to wear it. Reckless, something I very rarely was, but when I’d looked in the mirror before leaving, I’d looked so plain with no jewelry. The chain I’d taken from Mrs. McLaren wasn’t anything fancy, no diamonds or jewels, just a simple silver chain with a little gold-and-silver charm on it.
A bee, I now realize, and my stomach sinks, fingers twisting in my napkin.
“A friend gave it to me,” I say, striving for lightness, but I’m already touching the charm, feeling it warm against my chest.
“It’s pretty,” he says, then glances down. “My late wife’s company makes one similar, so…”
Eddie trails off, and his fingers start that drumming on the table again.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I… I heard about Southern Manors, and it’s—”
“Let’s not talk about it. Her.” His head shoots up, his smile fixed in place, but it’s not real, and I want to reach across the table and take his hands, but we’re not there yet, are we? I want to ask him everything about Bea, and forget she existed, all at the same time.
I want.
I want.
As the waiter approaches with our expensive wine, I smile at Eddie. “Then let’s talk about you.”
