has never been able to snag a husband.
Michelle rests her head on her hand as Lauren chatters about her preparations. So much to do, because even in cosmopolitan Tampa, marriage is a sacred estate and must be celebrated with every appropriate ritual. Prevailing attitudes assume that any woman who’s over thirty and still single must be a little odd, while a woman who’s over thirty, single and not looking to be married—well, that scenario is just plain unnatural.
Funny how Michelle never feels like a spinster in the office or at a club. At Lauren’s church, though, with a half-dozen preteens clustered around her elbows, she’ll feel like somebody’s withered maiden aunt.
“…I’m thinking yellow chrysanthemums will be perfect for November. You agree?”
The direct question hits Michelle like a thump between the eyes. “Mums? You don’t mean those plate-size things, do you?”
“You’re exaggerating, as always. But yes, I want this wedding to be bright and colorful. I want to hold the reception outdoors and I thought big yellow mums would be gorgeous against the deep shade of those oaks on the property.”
Michelle rolls onto her back and studies the ceiling. “I don’t know if you should count on those old oaks. We do have a hurricane headed our way.”
Lauren pffffs again. “It’s going to blow right by us. They always do.”
“This one might not. Parker’s really concerned. He’s up in his office now, checking on—”
“They said Charley was going to hit us, but that one turned at the last minute. Besides, my neighbor says the Native Americans who used to live here performed ritual sacrifices or something and swore no major storm would ever hit this area. So far, they’ve been right.”
Michelle can’t stop a wry smile. “Well, if you promise to sacrifice a chicken—”
“The weather wouldn’t dare interfere with my plans. So don’t forget—tomorrow, one o’clock, Lord & Taylor. We’re going to find my maid of honor something scrumptious to wear and soon you can ask me to return the favor.”
A sudden surge of adrenaline sparks Michelle’s blood. “Why do you say that? Did Parker say something the other night?”
“Not to me, he didn’t. But I’m sure he’s getting ready to make his move. He’s got that smitten look.”
Michelle closes her eyes, glad that Lauren can’t see her face. “He’s not in a hurry…and neither am I.”
“Good grief, why are you waiting? Haven’t you been dating over a year?”
“He has kids, Lauren, and the youngest is still seeing a shrink. Parker doesn’t want to rush things.”
“So you’re going to let him keep you hanging indefinitely?” Lauren sighs. “Out of all the available men we’ve met, why’d you have to fall for a widower with teenagers?”
Michelle turns her head and spots the single red rose Parker left on the bureau. “Because I was tired of dating boys,” she whispers, “and Parker’s the most honest man I’ve ever met.”
Her comment hangs in the silence, then Lauren clicks her tongue. “Whatever you say, girlfriend. Stay dry today, okay? And don’t stand me up tomorrow.”
“I won’t.”
Michelle snaps the phone shut, then sets it on the pillow that still bears the imprint of Parker’s head. She misses him already. If he doesn’t call and invite her to his house, it’s going to be a long, lonely weekend.
She rolls out of bed and plants her feet on the carpet, then hunches forward as an unexpected wave of nausea rises from somewhere near her center. Last night’s pasta primavera must not have agreed with her…but she didn’t eat that much. They slipped out of the restaurant after only a few bites because that gleam entered Parker’s eye. She has never been able to talk to him when he looks at her like a starving dog yearning for a steak.
At the thought of food, her stomach lurches again. She places her hand over her belly, where some sort of gastric disturbance is doing its best to emulate the hurricane. Deep breaths. If she can convince her gut she will never look at another calorie-laden pasta dish, she might make it to the medicine cabinet and that bottle of chalky pink stuff….
Another deep breath. When the gurgling beneath her palm subsides, she lifts her head and straightens to an almost-vertical posture. She can’t be sick today. She needs to get to the office before the weather worsens; she has to pick up the Owens file.
The third-floor window, flanked by accordion storm shutters she has not yet closed, reveals a slate-blue sky and the swaying tendrils of a tall palm. The live oak shading the rear of the condominium stands like a silent sentinel, its thick canopy too stubborn to shift for only a probing, preliminary wind.
A sudden urge catches her by surprise. Forgetting the weather, she flies into the bathroom and crouches by the toilet.
When her ravaged stomach has emptied itself, she leans against the wall and pulls a towel from the rack, then presses it to her mouth. A sheen of perspiration coats her arms and neck, but she is beginning to feel better. What lousy luck, to suffer a bout of food poisoning today—
Her breath catches in her throat as a niggling thought rises from the back of her brain. What if this nausea has nothing to do with food?
Like a child who can’t stop picking at a scab, Gina spreads the investigator’s report on the bed and reviews the list of dates and places.
8/21: Subject dines with young woman at Bern’s steak house
8/23: Subject and same woman eat dinner at the Columbia
8/25: Subject and woman have lunch at International Plaza, followed by afternoon of shopping. Subject delivers young woman to residence on Bay-shore Boulevard, departs 1:30 a.m.
9/08: Subject and young woman register as Mr. and Mrs. Rossman at the Don CeSar Hotel on St. Petersburg Beach.
The last entry sounds like a perfectly idyllic getaway, but Gina has never stayed with Sonny at the Don CeSar, and she would have remembered staying there as recently as last weekend. Sonny was supposed to be at a convention. In Orlando.
The corner of her mouth twists when she remembers a wedding reception she and Sonny attended at the Don CeSar. The place must have impressed him if he decided it was worthy of his mistress.
She shudders as a cold coil of misery tightens beneath her breastbone. Why is she torturing herself? Bad enough to learn of Sonny’s infidelity; she doesn’t need to know details.
Unless there’s a logical reason for all these meetings. The truth might lie in some arcane bit of information the investigator missed. Sonny could have purchased the diamond bracelet as an investment or a Christmas gift for his wife. The young girl on Sonny’s arm could be an overfriendly secretary; perhaps the lunches and dinners are innocent business appointments. He might have a hard time explaining the Don CeSar rendezvous, but one night does not have to destroy a marriage.
Gina moves to the heavy mahogany armoire in the corner of the room, Sonny’s private domain. Because the
