butter on her dress. Nathan toyed with his soup, barely touching it. The waiter came over to ask if anything was wrong. Nathan shoved the bowl away and asked for the check.
On the way out, Zora headed toward Craig's table.
"Where are you going?" Nathan asked, placing his hand on her arm.
"To say hello."
Nathan tugged at her sleeve."I don't think they want to be disturbed."
She plucked his hand off. "They've seen us. We can't ignore them. "
Nathan lagged behind as she led the way to Craig's table.
"What a coincidence," she said brightly.
Craig stood up, but Zora flicked her wrist. "Please sit. We were just on our way out."
Caprice flashed a porcelain smile.
Craig resumed his seat and nodded to Nathan.
Nathan placed a hand on Zora's back and guided her away.
Once outside, Zora hooked her arm into his. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Didn't you see they wanted to be left alone?"
"It wouldn't hurt to say hello. You shouldn't be rude to him. He's still your boss."
Nathan placed his hand over hers. "I'll keep that in mind."
As they drove home, Zora's mind was on their annual party. Christmas was three months off, but it was not too soon to start planning. There was the room to book, a menu to decide, invitations to be engraved. No, it was none too soon.
On a beautiful Indian Summer day under a brilliant Northern California sun, Charlotte Armstrong was about to enter the Fairbrook Country Club for the first time since her divorce to meet with the man who had replaced her with a woman half her age six years before. This would be the first time she'd been alone with Craig since he'd left. He hadn't even spoken to her at their son's high school graduation four years ago. Of course with his new wife hanging on his arm, that would have been awkward. Since then, she hadn't even seen him, although she often saw his photo in the newspaper: either in the business section as Power House CEO, or at a social event with his young wife/ former secretary, beaming at his side. They lived in the same town, but different worlds.
When she heard his voice on the telephone yesterday her heart started pounding so loudly she thought he must have heard it across the phone lines. She had been so stunned she had accepted without thinking. "I need to talk to you, and I'd rather do it in person," he'd said. And she'd agreed. As soon as she'd hung up she wondered why she hadn't asked more questions. What was so important he couldn't tell her over the phone? She'd lain away all night -at least it seemed all night - wondering and worrying. Was it good news or bad? Was he ill? Terminal? Getting divorced again? Did he want her to take him back? Did she want him back? She didn’t know. This morning, she'd spent an hour agonizing over what to wear, finally choosing the blue silk blouse that matched her eyes. She'd tried to disguise the effects of a sleepless night, but all she had was some ancient powder and lipstick. On her way out the door her Labrador, Lucky, had jumped up leaving a dusty paw print on her black slacks.
The road to the club had changed radically in the last few years. The mosaic of flowering peach and almond orchards that thrived when her grandfather built their family home was now a desert of terra cotta and white stucco mini-mansions. Power House Inc., where Craig ruled, had mowed down the orchards to plant its concrete roots there. Now Fairbrook, once a sleepy village, the fruit basket of the Bay Area, was a smugly prosperous sterile suburb.
The Fairbrook Country Club was a large, rambling building resembling a ranch house on steroids. The three flags outside the front door, American, California, and the club flag - green with crossed golf clubs - were at half mast. Charlotte wondered who had died.
Charlotte handed her car keys to the valet and sucked in her breath to quiet her squirrely stomach. She threw back her shoulders, clutched her purse in front of the smudge on her slacks and walked in.
Nothing had changed. The lobby had the same red and black swirled carpet, brass-studded leather couches, and wagon wheel coffee table it had when she was last there.
She waited in the dining room entry for the hostess. The light from the glass wall overlooking the golf course silhouetted the diners. She couldn't make out any faces. Not that it mattered. She'd been out of the social loop since the divorce. The only one who'd kept in touch was Laurel.
The hostess, blonde hair pinned in a tight French twist that seemed lacquered in place, teetered toward Charlotte on spike heels. She looked at Charlotte as if she couldn't quite place her. When Charlotte said she was meeting Craig Armstrong, the hostess's expression changed to a smile. Charlotte followed her toward the back of the room, her purse clutched over the paw prints on her thigh.
Craig had barely changed since she last saw him. His forehead was a little higher than she remembered, but it could just be that his thick hair was brushed straight. While her hair had grayed to mouse, his was silver, accentuating his tan. Wrinkles were gaining on her despite her daily slathering with moisturizer. He appeared rugged and, she had to admit, handsome. Life would be more fair if he sported a shiny-smooth cranium ringed with gray frizz and hair poking out his ears.
"You're looking well," he said. He waved the waiter over. "What'll you have? A glass of white wine?"
"I'll have a martini," she said, as the waiter snapped her napkin open and placed it on her lap.
Craig raised an eyebrow. "One martini, and one Perrier." He studied her for a moment. "You've changed."
Charlotte didn't know if he meant her choice of beverage or the fact that she no longer wore her hair in the plastered page-boy of their married years. Or that she wasn't wearing one of the prim dresses she had given away. "I suppose I have," she shrugged. "I'm through with patent pumps and panty hose now that I'm not a corporate wife."
"I meant the drink," Craig said. "But I like your new style. It's becoming."
The waiter returned with their drinks and menus.
"What's with the lowered flags?" she asked.
Craig's jaw tightened, then he shook his head. "You didn't hear? Larry Hopkins died."
"Your lawyer?"
"The company lawyer."
"I'm sorry. When?"
"Last week."
"What did he die of?"
"It was a freak accident." He raised his glass and drank half of it in one gulp.
"What kind of accident?" she pressed.
"He was killed by a runaway golf cart." He set down his glass. "Have you decided what you want?"
Charlotte glanced at the menu."Yes." She sipped her martini and waited for him to tell her why she was here.
When the waiter materialized, Craig handed him his unopened menu. "I'll have the usual."
"I'll have the prime rib," Charlotte said. She never ate big lunches, but she might as well splurge on Craig's expense account.
Craig
