Page 10 of Remember Me

“Yes, I can now, but I can only talk for a minute. I’m about to go into a meeting.”

I huff with frustration. She’s always about to go into a meeting, or is in the middle of one, or out in the field.

“What’s up?”

“I have some exciting news.”

“Hold on. Charlene is calling me.”

Charlene is our twentysomething nanny. We hired her through some fancy agency and are paying her big bucks. She probably makes more money than me. We’ve, however, been less than thrilled with her performance. Constant emergencies and prior obligations. A lot of drama. We’ve thought of firing her, but neither of us has had the time to come up with a replacement. Skye is in the middle of some big story, which she won’t share with me, and I’ve been focused on my latest work.

Skye returns. “Oh my God.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, alarm rising in my voice, thinking something has happened to our baby.

“Charlene . . . she just quit.”

“What?!” Though I’m relieved our child isn’t in any danger, my thoughts are already miles away from the good news I wanted to share.

“Her boyfriend proposed and they’re eloping tonight. Flying to Mexico.”

Processing her words, I curse under my breath. Skye’s voice is in a panic.

“This is the worst possible timing.”

Tell me. Our celebratory romantic dinner has just gone down the drain.

“Finn . . . I need to go out tonight . . . Business.”

Again?“What about your birthday?”

“We’ll celebrate it tomorrow.” She pauses. “Can you stay home and take care of Maddie?”

Our beautiful baby. Though I love her to death, disappointment threads through me. Reluctantly, I murmur, “Sure.”

“Great. I’ve got to go. My meeting is starting.”

The phone goes dead. And I wonder—what’s happened to “I love you” before saying goodbye.

CHAPTER 7

Finn

Six p.m. I’m slouched on my favorite chair in our family room, my legs stretched out on the coffee table. A heated-up Indian concoction from Trader Joe’s on my lap. A Heineken in my hand. Yup, my romantic dinner; pity party for one. The big screen TV’s on. Some rerun ofCriminal Justice, Las Vegaswith Nicole Farrell guest-starring. I swear there could be a whole 24/7Criminal Justicenetwork, a series that my wife, for some reason, won’t watch. That Greenberg guy I met today must be worth a fortune. No wonder he’s one of the world’s foremost art collectors. I can only begin to imagine what’s in his collection. Maybe later I’ll google him and find out. That one of my paintings may one day be among them is still hard for me to believe. I take a glug of my chilled beer, and as the frothy beverage shoots down my throat, I hear a car pull into the driveway. It must be Skye. Sure enough, the front door unlocks and the clickety-clack-clack of her heels reverberates in my ears, getting louder and faster as they near me. I’m eager to tell her about my exciting news. But instead of popping in to say hello to me, she whisks upstairs.

My heart sinks and I take comfort in my beer, my eyes glued to the TV. I don’t think I’ve seen this episode before. A missing wife. A suspect husband. As the show goes into a commercial break, heels sound again, clambering down the stairs. My head swerves toward the hallway and I catch sight of Skye scurrying my way. She looks hot as sin. In a tight black mini-dress that accentuates her curves, and strappy metallic heels. Her honey-brown hair pulled back, she’s wearing more makeup than usual, her lips painted Russian red, and her lashes thickened with black mascara. My spirit brightens, and I feel a tingle of excitement. Maybe she’s had a change of heart and decided to go out for a romantic dinner with me. Arranged for a babysitter for Maddie. It’s not too late. I’ve eaten only half of my frozen dinner and am more than willing to scrap the rest. To be honest, it tastes like crap.

“Hey, baby,” I say as she swoops into the room. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, fiddling with the gold locket that hangs from her neck and draws attention to her cleavage. I gave it to her when Maddie was born. It cost a bloody fortune, and I had to finally barter with the jeweler, giving him three of my paintings to afford it. Inside is a small photo of the three of us taken on the day we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital.

Skye has a tendency to toy with it when she’s thinking or stressing. Close-up, she looks on edge. Maybe she had a rough day.

“How was your day?” I wish she’d asked me first, and I could share my great news. My type-A wife is not one for small talk.

“Fine.” Her voice is clipped. “What time is it?”

I glance down at my watch. “Six-thirty.”

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