Page 62 of The Moon & His Tides
Iwas preoccupied with my meeting earlier that day with Andrea while I waited for Savannah outside of Sexy Fish restaurant a few weeks later.
Andrea and I had decided to makeBlood Oathas an independent film. The studios wanted to glamorize it too much, strip it of the raw, earthy grit I’d always envisioned for Roberto and his harrowing journey through 1920s New York. Andrea and Adam had the connections to get enough funding to do the project on our own terms without studio funding, and it seemed like an impossible offer to pass up.
Adam thought the Sundance Film Festival would be the perfect vehicle to launch the film and get bids from various studios after it performed well. I envied his confidence in the script and worked hard to emulate it.
The problem was, the only people who had ever encouraged me were my sisters, and I knew they were wildly biased.
I wasn’t afraid to admit that living with the Meyerses and watching the way they operated so confidently in life had rubbed off on me. Their secret was simple. They believed they deservedthe best because they were willing to work hard to earn it and wouldn’t settle for anything less. It was manifestation on a level I’d never considered for myself, but the magic, Savannah had assured me one night over dinner, made their dreams attainable.
And so, I chose to believe in myself.
How simple and terrifying a concept.
I was so lost in the complicated maze of my thoughts that I didn’t notice the couple exiting the restaurant at first even though they were only a handful of yards from where I’d parked the car and was leaning against the driver’s door. It was only when I heard the laughter, light and soft, transient as a wispy cloud dissolving in the sun that my attention was hooked.
When I turned my gaze to Savannah, she beamed at an older man with a thick head of steely grey hair wearing what I could now recognize as an extremely expensive navy pinstripe suit and a gold Rolex that flashed harshly in the entrance lights.
As I watched, he raised that bedazzled wrist to smooth a lock of Savannah’s hair back into her bun and then let his hand linger against her cheek.
What was even more shocking was that Savannah let him. It was hard to tell from my angle with her facing away from me and toward her lunch date, but I thought she might have even been smiling for him.
That same soft, confused little smile of vulnerability I’d thought for certain she’d only given Adam andme.
Unease skittered with eight legs down my spine and nested uncomfortably at the base of my back.
I pushed off the car, ready to do what, I wasn’t certain, when she rocked forward on the tips of her high-heeled shoes and pressed a single kiss to the side of the man’s cheek.
He blushed like a man much younger than him might have, but I understood.
That was the power of Savannah Meyers' regard.
What I didn’t understand was the level of intimacy I was witnessing.
She wasn’t a naturally warm person, so the privilege of intimacy with her was infrequent and hard-won. When people lingered too long over any aspect of physical affection at parties or luncheons or dinners that I’d witnessed her at, she always deftly blocked or ended their advances.
I racked my memory going over Savannah’s schedule for the day and only came up with the lunch meeting with an unnamed bigwig from a studio in California.
He didn’t seem like a stranger to her, though.
They seemed closer than I ever wanted to imagine her being with someone other than her husband or me.
They parted slowly, tension pulling like taffy in the air between them as Savannah backed away and then turned to walk toward the sidewalk.
It was only then that she noticed me.
There was just a slight pause in her step, one pearlescent high heel raised delicately over the asphalt before she resumed her gliding stride toward me.
But it was enough to speak of something a little like guilt.
“Hello, darling,” she greeted breezily as she approached, and I opened the car door for her automatically out of habit. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”
I didn’t respond with my normal flirtatious banter because something uncharacteristic stirred in my gut.
Jealousy.
After she slipped into the Rolls, I closed the door and peered over the roof at her lunch companion. A limousine pulled up in front of the restaurant, and the driver got out to open the door for him. The grey-haired man seemed to sense my gaze and caught my eye just before lowering himself into the vehicle.
I bristled at the small smile he shot my way, and it was utterly irrational.
