Page 66 of The Husband Hour
“Henny told April? What is this, whisper down the lane?” Lauren said.
“Well, Henny’s not speaking to me at the moment, so yes, I’m relying on secondhand information.”
“Oh no. Because of her signs?”
Nora nodded. “Yeah. A casualty of progress. I really didn’t think she’d take it so hard. It was barely any money in her pocket.”
“It’s probably not about the money. Have you tried talking to her? Do you want me to talk to her?”
Nora shook her head. “Go see what your visitor wants.”
Lauren threaded her way through a party of six leaving the restaurant. Matt spotted her and waved her over.
Yeah, I see you.
“I hope you’re only here to eat,” she said, “because I don’t have time to talk.”
“I’d love to eat,” he said, smiling. “But I don’t have time for that line. Can you bump me ahead of the crowd?”
“This isn’t Studio Fifty-Four. Seriously, I gotta work, Matt.”
He looked at the photographs on the wall. “She replaced Henny’s hand-painted signs with this crap?”
“You know about that?”
“Yeah. But I set her up on Etsy so she’s back in biz.”
Lauren looked at him in surprise. “That was nice of you.”
A woman stepped in front of Matt. “Miss, can you tell us how much longer? It’s been forty minutes. We’re on the list. Last name is Feld.”
Lauren looked around for the hostess, a college kid. She directed the woman to the side. “Please check with the hostess.” Turning back to Matt, she said. “I’m really busy.”
“Someone is making a feature film about Rory,” he said.
“I know. You are.”
“No, I’m making a documentary. The other project is a scripted movie. Someone is writing their version of the story.”
She felt the room tilt. “Who? Can they do that?”
“I don’t know who. It’s not listed on IMDb. A friend told me. And yes, they can do that. But Lauren, you know the real story. The truth. And I can help you get it out there. Don’t you want that?”
“I already did an interview. I gave you your hour! What do you want from me?”
“More,” he said.
The room, overcrowded, felt suddenly like it was closing in on her.
Beth hesitated outside of Stephanie’s bedroom door. She looked again at her watch, stalling. Eleven in the morning. Goddamn it, she hated being put in this position, having to treat her grown daughter—a mother herself—like a recalcitrant teenager.
She pushed open the door after one brisk knock.
“Rise and shine,” she said, walking in and drawing back the curtains. Stephanie groaned.
“What are you doing?”
“Your son is in the kitchen, waiting to go to the beach. And you’re going to take him.”
