Stoakes pulled out of that awful wreck. Laura Boothby liked to brag about how much Jeremy spent on Faith’s flowers for the anniversary of their first date, for her birthday, for Valentine’s Day and sometimes “just because.” There were those of us who thought it was a little much, out here in the country of Mennonite farms and Yankee reserve, but the Lyon family was from Napa Valley, so there you go.
Sometimes you’d see Faith and a few girlfriends at O’Rourke’s, and one or two of them might vent about their neglectful, immature boyfriends who cheated or lied, who broke up via text or a status change on Facebook. And if Faith said something sympathetic, those girls might say, “You have no idea what we’re talking about, Faith! You have Jeremy,” almost as if it was an accusation. The mere mention of his name would bring a dreamy smile to her face, a softness to her eyes. Faith would occasionally tell people she’d always wanted a man as good as her father, and it sure as heck seemed as if she’d found one. Even though he was young, Jeremy was a wonderful doctor, and every woman in town seemed to come down with something or another the first few months after he set up his practice. He took time to listen, always had a smile, remembered what you said last time.
Three months after he finished his residency, on a beautiful September day when the hills burned red and gold and the lake shimmered with silver, Jeremy got down on one knee and presented Faith with a three-carat diamond engagement ring. We heard all about it, oh, sure, and the planning began. Faith’s two sisters would be bridesmaids, that pretty Colleen O’Rourke the maid of honor. Jeremy’s best man would be the Cooper boy if he could come home from Afghanistan, and wouldn’t that be nice, to see a decorated war hero standing up there next to his old football buddy? It would be so romantic, so lovely...truly, it made us all smile, just thinking about it.
So imagine our surprise, then, when the two kids were standing right there on the altar of Trinity Lutheran, and Jeremy Lyon came out of the closet.
CHAPTER ONE
Three and a half years later
FAITH HOLLAND PUT DOWN her binoculars, picked up her clipboard and checked off a box on her list. Lives alone. Clint had said he did, and the background check showed only his name on the rental agreement, but a person couldn’t be too careful. She took a pull of Red Bull and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel of her roommate’s car.
Once upon a time, a scenario like this would’ve seemed ridiculous. But given her romantic history, a little footwork was simply smart. Footwork saved time, embarrassment, anger and heartbreak. Say, for example, the man was gay, which had happened not just with Jeremy, but with Rafael Santos and Fred Beeker, as well. To his credit, Rafe hadn’t known Faith thought they were dating; he’d thought they were just hanging out. Later that month, determined to keep trying, Faith had rather awkwardly hit on Fred, who lived down the street from her and Liza, only to have him recoil in horror and gently explain that he liked boys, too. (Incidentally, she’d fixed him up with Rafael, and the two had been together ever since, so at least there was a happily ever after for someone.)
Gay wasn’t the only problem. Brandon, whom she’d met at a party, had seemed so promising, right until their second date, when his phone rang. “Gotta take this, it’s my dealer,” he’d said blithely. When Faith had asked for clarification—he couldn’t mean drug dealer, could he?—he’d replied sure, what did she think he meant? He’d seemed confused when Faith left in a huff.
The binocs were old school, yes. But had she used binoculars with Rafe, she would’ve seen his gorgeous silk window treatments and six-foot framed poster of Barbra Streisand. Had she staked out Brandon, she might’ve seen him meeting unsavory people in cars after they’d flashed their headlights.
She’d attempted to date two other guys since moving to San Francisco. One didn’t believe in bathing—again, something she might’ve learned by stalking. The other guy stood her up.
Hence the stakeout.
Faith sighed and rubbed her eyes. If this didn’t work out, Clint would be her last foray for a while, because she really was getting worn out here. Late nights, the eye strain associated with binocular use, a stomachache from too much caffeine... It was tiring.
But Clint might be worth it. Straight, employed, no history of arrest, no DUIs, that rarest of species in S.F. Maybe this would make a cute story at their wedding. She could almost imagine Clint saying, “Little did I know that at that very minute, Faith was parked in front of my house, chugging Red Bull and bending the law....”
She’d met Clint on the job—she’d been hired to design a small public park in the Presidio; Clint owned a landscaping company. They’d worked together just fine; he was on time, and his people were fast and meticulous. Also, Clint had taken a shine to Blue, Faith’s Golden retriever, and what’s more appealing than a guy who gets down on his knees and lets your dog lick his face? Blue seemed to like him (but then again, Blue tended to like any living creature, the type of dog who’d leg-hump a serial killer). The park had been dedicated two weeks ago, and right after the ceremony, Clint had asked her out. She’d said yes, then gone home and begun her work. Good old Google showed no mention of a wife (or husband). There was a record of a marriage between a Clinton Bundt of Owens, Nebraska, but that was ten years ago, and her Clint Bundt a) seemed too young to have been married for ten years; and b) was from Seattle. His Facebook page was for work only. While he did mention some social things (“Went to Oma’s on 19th Street; great latkes!”), there was no mention of a spouse in any of the posts of the past six months.
On Date Number One, Faith had made arrangements for Fred and Rafael to check him out, since gaydar was clearly not one of her skills. She and Clint met for drinks on a Tuesday evening, and the guys had shown up at the bar, done the shark-bump test on Clint, then gone to a table. Straight, Rafael texted, and Fred backed him up with Hetero.
On Date Number Two (lunch/Friday afternoon), Clint had proven to be charming and interested as she told him about her family, being the youngest of four, Goggy and Pops, her grandparents, how much she missed her dad. Clint, in turn, had told her about an ex-fiancée; she’d kept her own story to herself.
On Date Number Three (dinner/Wednesday, in the “make him wait to measure his interest level” philosophy), Clint had met her at a cute little bar near the pier and once again passed every criteria: held her chair, complimented her without too much detail (That’s a pretty dress, she’d found, set off no warning bells, unlike Is that Badgley Mischka, OMG, I love those two!). He’d stroked the back of her hand and kept sneaking peeks at her boobage, so it was all good. When Clint had asked if he could drive her home, which of course was code for sex, she’d put him off.
Clint’s eyes had narrowed, as if accepting her challenge. “I’ll call you. Are you free this weekend?”
Another test passed. Available on weekends. Faith had felt a flutter; she hadn’t been on a fourth date since she was eighteen years old. “I think I’m free on Friday,” she’d murmured.
They stood on the sidewalk, waiting for a cab as tourists streamed into souvenir shops to buy sweatshirts, having been tricked into thinking that late August in San Francisco meant summer. Clint leaned in and kissed her, and Faith let him. It had been a good kiss. Very competent. There was potential in that kiss, she thought. Then a taxi emerged from the gloom of the famed fog, and Clint waved it over.
And so, in preparation of the fourth date—which would possibly be the date, when she finally slept with someone other than Jeremy—here she was, parked in front of his apartment, binoculars trained on his windows. Looked as if he was watching the ball game.
Time to call her sister.
“He
