Chapter 4 - Dinner with the Enemy
By Friday morning, strangers had opinions about my rent, my dress, and the expression on my face in a photograph taken without my permission.
Three customers canceled consultations.
One woman called to ask whether I still served “ordinary people.”
Ruby took the receiver.
“Only the ones with manners.”
I made her put it down.
Wyatt texted once.
Tell me what would actually help.
I stared at the words.
Then I answered.
Dinner. Somewhere nobody cares who you are.
He arrived at seven wearing jeans and a navy sweater.
I took him to a diner beside a marina, where the owner called everyone honey and charged extra for substitutions.
Wyatt ordered meatloaf.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“I thought billionaires survived on tiny fish and hostile salads.”
“Only during negotiations.”
For a while, we talked about ordinary things.
He hated decorative hotel pillows.
I hated bouquets dyed blue.
He had once been trapped in a service elevator with a wedding cake.
I had once delivered funeral flowers to a birthday party.
“Was anyone offended?”
“Only the birthday boy. He was eighty.”
Wyatt laughed, and something inside me unclenched.
Then Grant walked in.
Caroline followed him.
Of all the restaurants along the Rhode Island coast, he had found the one where I was eating fries off Wyatt Calloway’s plate.
Grant stopped at our booth.
“Laurel.”
“Grant.”
His eyes moved to Wyatt.
“Small world.”
“Occasionally inconvenient,” Wyatt said.
Caroline’s smile wavered.
Grant ignored her.
“I hope there are no hard feelings about the redevelopment. Business decisions can look personal when people don’t understand them.”
“I understand my lease.”
His expression shifted.
“Then you understand relocation is inevitable.”
“My attorney is reviewing that.”
“An attorney?” He gave a small laugh. “That sounds expensive.”
Wyatt set down his fork.
I touched his wrist.
He stayed silent.
Grant noticed.
I did too.
“You should enjoy dinner with your fiancée,” I said.
Caroline looked at me.
For a second, shame crossed her face.
Then Grant leaned closer.
“You always did make things harder than they needed to be.”
“And you always confused agreement with affection.”
The words surprised us both.
Grant straightened.
“We’ll talk when you’re less emotional.”
“No,” I said. “We won’t.”
He walked away before Caroline did.
She stood beside the booth, gripping her purse.
“The comment,” she said quietly. “My friends thought it was funny.”
I waited.
“It wasn’t.”
“No.”
Her eyes dropped.
Then she followed him.
Wyatt watched me for a moment.
“You didn’t need me.”
“I needed you to let me handle it.”
“I noticed.”
After dinner, we walked along the marina.
The boats shifted softly against their lines.
“My father used to bring me here,” I said. “We couldn’t afford one, so we named everybody else’s.”
“What was that one?”
I pointed toward a white sailboat.
“College Tuition.”
Wyatt smiled.
“And that?”
“Bad Second Marriage.”
He laughed again.
I wanted to keep making him do that.
The thought frightened me.
At the end of the dock, he stopped beside me.
“May I ask you something?”
“That depends.”
“Do you still want him?”
I watched the water.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I miss who I thought he was. That’s different.”
Wyatt nodded slowly.
“What about you?” I asked. “Has there been anyone?”
“Someone I nearly married.”
“What happened?”
“She said I made room for her appointments, but not her life.”
“Was she right?”
“Yes.”
I turned toward him.
He didn’t defend himself.
That made the answer harder to dismiss.
“What changed?”
“I got older. Nothing improved automatically.”
The wind pushed hair across my mouth.
He lifted his hand, then stopped.
I nodded.
He tucked the strand behind my ear.
It was a small touch.
Far more dangerous than the hand kiss on the terrace.
My phone rang before either of us moved closer.
Denise.
I answered immediately.
“Your renewal appears valid,” she said. “But there’s another document in the landlord’s file.”
“What document?”
“A termination agreement dated six weeks ago.”
“I never signed one.”
Denise paused.
“Laurel, it has your signature.”
Across the dock, Wyatt’s expression sharpened.
I gripped the phone.
“And it lists a witness,” Denise continued.
May you like
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
