Page 29 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Could be,” I say.

“You didn’t ask him?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should,” she says.

“Maybe I will,” I offer. A half-truth, at best, but when Kamille smiles, I actually consider it.

We let the conversation settle into the silence of two people sharing a good meal. I glance out the window, where everything is bathed in the soft, luminous glow of the golden hour, and try to allow this feeling to fade like the sun, slowly, the way people stroll past and the trolley rattles down the middle of Main Street. It sticks with me anyway, like the warm doughy smell of the cafe, that lingers even after all our food is gone, leaving me with the vague sense of somehow wanting more.

8.

“You were supposed to bring a date.”

I know the voice without turning around, so I don’t bother with the effort.

“Good to see you, too, Henry,” I say, giving my mentor an even smile as he joins me in line at the bar.

The outdoor venue is already a sea of sundresses and bright, summery polo shirts. Across the lake, the sky is the color of an orange creamsicle. I can’t help thinking that an orange creamsicle would take about two point five seconds to melt on an evening like this. I hope it’ll be cooler once the sun goes down.

Despite the heat, the week has ended with a sigh of palpable relief. I’ve never been one to worship the weekend – maybe that’s a side effect of creating a barely-there delineation between my work life and life life – but I know as I stand here in a romper and strappy wedges that I’m grateful to be anywhere that isn’t within a hundred yards of Quentin Maxwell.

All week I’ve had the feeling of looking over my shoulder, trying to carefully plot and stay three steps ahead. I have to admit plotting is exhausting. And possibly unnecessary. At one point this week, Quentin offered me his own notes on the Glass v. Russo case thus far. He got some surprising insight from Teddy that I hadn’t to this point, as well as some thoughtful connections to a similar case recently tried in Nashville. He’s clearly trying to hold up his end of the bargain, which is admirable, I suppose.

Either way, I don’t trust him.

As I order a ranch water with a chili lime rim, I feel Henry’s inquiring presence, still awaiting my response. He traded the suit he wore to the office and is now sporting khakis and boat shoes, as if we are about to set sail on a yacht rather than pile into canoes for the sake of publicity. It gives him the vibe of a good-natured father rather than a disappointed boss, but he is in fact disappointed.

In truth, we had discussed that I should bring someone. I always hated that word, ‘should’, but I know his intentions aren’t entirely as misogynistic as they sound. Those canoes bobbing in the water along the edge of the boardwalk are intended for more than one person.

I was going to bring Meg, but she had a baking emergency. Someone hit an electrical pole, so her neighborhood experienced an unexpected power outage while she was at work, and the wedding cake she’d been working on all week melted. Like, actually melted. One side of it was drooping precariously, like it had suffered a stroke. She was in absolute damage-control mode when I left her place.

I offered to stay and help – though what help I could have offered, I’m not sure. Moral support. A power playlist. Emergency cocktails. Meg sent my well-meaning, culinary-challenged self away with the fully stocked picnic basket she had pre-made for this outing and the promise that she would be fine. Fortunately, the former contains food items that were intended to remain edible despite the heat.

“Don’t they have any kayaks?” I ask. “I’m really more of a kayak kind of girl.”

“The event is called Cocktails and Canoes,” Henry says with disapproving amusement. “No kayaks.”

“Well,” I say over the rim of the drink I’ve just procured. “I’ve at least got the cocktail part covered. And there are plenty of people here. I’m sure they can find someone to stick me with. Speaking of which, this is a great turnout.”

I scan the crowd in appreciation, not missing that Henry’s wife, Carolyn – who is looking as demure as ever in linen pants and effortless pearls – is laughing with one of the city councilwomen we’ve been trying to win over like they’re old pals. I try not to buy into the politics when I can help it, but I have to admit it’s impressive. Henry and Carolyn Lewis have always been my favorite power couple: thoroughly individual and yet immaculately aligned, always seeming to be on the same page, working towards the same goals. A winning team.

I’m wondering if maybe I could convince Carolyn to join and help me paddle to victory, when I’m intercepted by yet another familiar voice, which settles uneasily around my shoulders.

“Ah, here she is. The woman of the hour!”

Henry and Erving Maxwell are already shaking hands.

I force a smile. “Here I am.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Erving,” Henry says in a ribbing tone. “What’s the occasion?”

“Just making a few connections,” he smiles. “Isn’t that what these events are for?”

I don’t like the sound of this. I can tell from the brief sideways glance that Henry gives me that he doesn’t either, because it can only mean one thing: Quentin is here. I know before I do another scan of the crowd that he is somewhere close by. I can sense it, the way the air before a storm feels full and ominous and electric.

“I saw the article,” Erving says to me now. “It was well done. How much is that kind of publicity costing us these days?”

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