Page 124 of All the Wrong Places

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

It was Wednesday night and she was meeting him at Longfellows, an outrageously expensive steak house in the heart of Harvard Square. The Square had been pretty much the center of everything in Cambridge since the seventeenth century, and had been held in something approaching reverence ever since. Aside from being the site of Harvard University, it was chock-a-block full of historic buildings and landmarks, as well as home to a variety of upscale shops and places to eat.

Chloe had suggested going somewhere a little less punishing on the wallet, but Matt had been adamant. Nothing was too good for the woman he loved, he’d insisted, sending her two dozen long-stemmed, pink and white roses every day for the last three days to underline his point. Chloe had finally given in and agreed to meet him for dinner.

Not that she’d been persuaded by such shallow theatrics. Matt was the unchallenged master of over-the-top gestures, the undisputed king at polishing dull surfaces until they shone, persuading you to overlook the rot underneath. His clients might be fooled, but Chloe was finally starting to realize that when things were so over-the-top, there was little chance they ran very deep.

Could she settle for a life of shiny surfaces? she wondered, cutting across the crowded square toward the restaurant. And was she seriously contemplating reconciling with a man she’d considered taking out a restraining order against only days ago?

Of course, Matt had been vehement, even convincing, in his denials, swearing up and down that he’d had nothing to do with the events of last weekend. He might be guilty of some admittedly stupid behavior, he’d told her, but making obscene, threatening phone calls and spying on her? No way was he capable of such things. No way would he stoop so low. He might be an idiot, he’d insisted, but he wasn’t crazy.

I’m the crazy one,Chloe conceded, pulling open the restaurant’s ornate wooden door and adjusting her eyes to the sudden darkness of the plush interior. Even though she’d never eaten here before, she knew exactly what to expect: the heavy wood paneling, the oversized booths lining the blood-red walls, the scores of smaller tables in between, the dim lighting, the towering, glass-enclosed wine closet boasting hundreds of overpriced bottles, the decor suggesting a seriousness of purpose that didn’t exist, unless that purpose was to sell as many expensive cuts of beef and bottles of wine as possible. Why did all steak houses look pretty much the same?

And speaking of sameness, wasn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

How many times did she have to be kicked in the head before she realized she was being slowly stomped to death? Why couldn’t she be more like Paige? Chloe thought, as she’d thought often, recalling Paige’s retelling of the slap she’d delivered to Noah’s face on Saturday night.

Boston had been buzzing with the delicious gossip all week, people tweeting and sharing what they’d heard with their Facebook friends. Just this afternoon, someone had posted a grainy video of the incident on YouTube. A passerby had seen Paige and Noah embracing and, mistaking it for something sweet and romantic, impulsively recorded it, not anticipating the events that followed. Now the video was out there for everyone to see. Chloe smiled, trying to imagine Heather’s reaction when she got wind of it.

Her smile lingered as the hostess led her toward the back room, where Matt was already waiting. It faded when she saw him chatting up a pretty, raven-haired waitress, then died completely as she watched the waitress lean forward to tap something into Matt’s phone. Her phone number no doubt, Chloe understood, feeling another kick to the side of her head, and wondering if this would finally be the one to knock some sense into her.

“Chloe!” Matt exclaimed, jumping to his feet when he saw her. The waitress quickly disappeared. “You look beautiful.”

“What wasthatabout?” Chloe sat down across from him without acknowledging the compliment.

“What was what about?”

Chloe couldn’t help admiring his composure. “How do you do that?”

“How do I do what?” Matt laughed. “Sorry. I’m confused.”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” What was the point in confronting him? He’d find a way to deny any impropriety.“The waitress?”she could hear him say, managing to sound as if he were the injured party.“She was just writing down the name of a great bottle of wine.”He’d probably even name the bottle, maybe even offer to show her the message.

He can’t help himself,she thought.This is who he is, who he always will be.

“Is that a new dress?” he asked.

Chloe looked down at the loose-fitting, white cotton dress she’d chosen because of its shapelessness. Matt had always preferred her in more formfitting attire. “No. It’s old. I just don’t wear it often.”

“It’s nice,” he said, again managing to sound convincing. “This is a new suit,” he volunteered, smoothing the lapel of his beige linen jacket. “I bought it especially for tonight. Hoping to impress you,” he added, almost shyly.

“It’s an impressive suit,” Chloe said.

He smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Should it be?”

“No, I guess not. That’s okay. I don’t mind a little hard work.” He signaled for the wine steward and ordered a bottle of his favorite Zinfandel. “Who’s babysitting the kids?”

“My mother.”

“What?”

“I had no choice. The kid I’d lined up canceled at the last minute and I couldn’t find anyone else, so I…I’m just kidding,” Chloe said, enjoying the stunned look on Matt’s face but unable to continue with the charade. Not everyone was as expert at lying as her husband. “It’s Stephanie Koster from down the street.”

“Shit. You really had me going there for a second.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

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