Chapter Eleven

“It’s not pretty.” Miles said the words before slipping into Emile’s usual booth at the Big Skate.

“I ordered you a rare cheeseburger, sweet potato fries, and a Blue Moon IPA.” Like most Americans, Miles always got right to the point, while Emile believed in taking care of the niceties and the housekeeping first. The news was going to be the same ten minutes from now.

Miles smoothed his tie and grimaced. “That’s what you always order.”

“Not today. I am having the salad with grilled salmon, but I thought someone should have my meal of choice.”

“Whatever.” Miles didn’t seem to ever care what he ate. “Do you want to hear about Snow or not?”

“Ah, here is the lovely Megan with our food.” The waitress wore short shorts, white tennis shoes, and—like every other member of the wait staff—a purple and silver Sound jersey. “You wound me, ma petite canard. You are wearing Mikhail’s sweater today. Why not mine?”

“I can’t wear yours every day.” She set the food before them. “I think Carlo is wearing yours today.”

Emile didn’t really care who wore his sweater, but they all expected him to pretend like he did.

“I will recover.” He glanced at his water. “I have changed my mind. Will you bring me a glass of Clear Valley Vineyards Chardonnay?” He had never really learned to tell the difference in wines, but he was contractually obligated to drink Clear Valley Vineyards wine in public when it was available.

“Sure thing.” Emile turned to watch her little bottom bounce as she walked away, but lost interest after about two steps. Odd. That didn’t usually happen.

“Did you call her a little duck?” Miles shook catsup onto his burger.

“I like ducks, at least as well as any other water fowl.”

“How about this little water fowl you have staying with you? Do you like her?”

“Of course. She is doing a good job for me. Yesterday, I went home, and she had put all of my kitchen cabinets and drawers in order—and though I did not ask it of her, she cooked a meal with salad and chicken not from a can.” He’d had to insist that she sit and eat with him. For the first time ever, there had been something more than beer, water, and Gatorade in his refrigerator. “She bought cheese, chocolate milk, and fruit.”

“You do realize that’s how normal people live, don’t you—even those who don’t hire personal assistants?”

“Merci,” Emile said when Megan brought his wine. He took a sip to fortify himself. “All right, tell me of Cameron Snow.”

Miles leaned forward, looking like a wolf who was about to capture a goose. He lived for these moments.

“As I said, it’s not pretty.”

“So, is he really in California?”

Miles nodded. “San Francisco. And he’s married.”

“Baise-moi!” The words flew from Emile’s mouth, louder than he intended. He had not seen that coming. “How? When? Il a été marié tout ce temps?”

Miles frowned. “Speak English, Emile.”

“He has been married all this time?”

“No. He got married this morning.”

“And you already know?”

“Twitter.” He reached for his phone. “I made a few calls yesterday and found out he was in San Francisco. Then I followed him and some of his clients, just to see what would happen. I thought I’d have to make more calls, but there it was, like a gift.”

Some gift. “You mean to say that this salaud put this on social media?” Did he think Amy would never have Internet access again? Didn’t he know she would see it? Even though he knew she had not finished setting up her new phone yet, a part of Emile wanted to go rush back home, but he needed more information. A goalie might rely on instinct, but he never entered the net unprepared.

“No.” Miles scrolled his phone screen. “San Francisco Today did, and they tagged everyone involved. Here.” He handed Emile his phone.

The tweet read, “Super couple attend wedding,” and there was picture of an attractive couple in party clothes.

“I don’t understand,” Emile said. “This isn’t Snow.”

“No. That’s Reynolds Fallon and his girlfriend, Jules Perry. He plays for the 49ers and is Snow’s client. She’s that actress who was in the movie about the Vietnam war.”

“I know who he is. I just didn’t recognize him without his football uniform. I do not know her. So the wedding they attended was Snow’s?”

“Yes. Snow married Fallon’s sister.”

“And you get all that from this?”

“Oh, I forgot. You don’t know anything about Twitter. One of my assistants handles your account. You have to click through to the story. Here.” Miles reached for phone. “I’ll read it to you.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“‘Super couple 49ers wide receiver Reynolds Fallon and Oscar winner Jules Perry attended the wedding of Fallon’s socialite sister, Marley, to Fallon’s long-time agent, Cameron Snow. The wedding was held at the Fallon family’s Bay Area waterfront mansion. Reynolds and Marley Fallon are the children of Silicon Valley billionaires Joyce and Andrew Fallon. Sources say the newlyweds are expecting a baby in June.’ Here’s a picture of the happy couple.” Miles handed his phone back to Emile.

The woman—Marley—was pretty enough, though the dress she wore looked more like a nightgown than a wedding dress and she had nothing on her head. That was no way to get married, even to an asshole like Snow. If her parents were billionaires, it seemed like they could have gotten someone moving on that and gotten her a better outfit. The cake they stood beside was certainly big enough—at least five feet tall with bridges, towers, and all manner of other architectural gewgaws. How many people were they going to feed, anyway? Oh, well. Not his business. Emile had only seen Snow that one time when he’d given Emile his business card. Emile hadn’t remembered what he looked like from then, but he recognized him from the picture he and Amy had showed around at Cracker Barrel. He was pretty nondescript with beady eyes, and he was running a hard race to fat. Maybe he was planning to eat the whole cake himself. Maybe that’s why they’d paid more attention to the cake than the dress.

“I guess we know now why he abandoned Amy and ran off to California.”

Miles wrinkled his forehead and squinted his eyes like he always did when he was about to broach something with Emile that he was dreading. The look put Emile in mind of someone who had seen a baseball headed for his face but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Emile, are you absolutely certain he ran out on this girl? That she didn’t make the whole thing up?”

“I’m certain. I told you. I was there with her at the office at the Star View. I went to the bank with her. He stole her money and left her.”

Miles nodded. “All right. I had to ask. It’s my job to protect you.”

“I understand, but I have nothing to fear from Amy—though she did take all my canned chicken and Nesquik to a soup kitchen.”

“At least it sounds like she’s got good sense about food, if not men.”

“Do you think there’s any way to get her money back?”

Miles shook his head. “Not if he’s not willing surrender it. And I see why he took it. The Fallon family would be a hard one to marry into. He was probably trying to even the score a little—plus cut all ties with Amy. I doubt if the Fallons would be thrilled to find out he had a live-in girlfriend up until a few days before the wedding.”

“Amy seemed sadder about the loss of her personal things than the money. She didn’t understand why he took her things that meant nothing to anyone but her.”

“Probably to cut ties. And remember, he needed the people at Star View Towers to think she was moving out, too.”

“Do you think he might give her little things back?”

Miles shrugged. “Maybe. If he didn’t dispose of them. He has no idea that Amy has allied with someone who knows him. He might turn her things over in exchange for a promise to keep quiet.”

“We shouldn’t keep quiet!” Emile could already taste the revenge he could bring about for Amy. “We should call newspapers and ESPN and tell on him. Everyone should know. Yes. Tell your assistant that I want to—what do you say?—tweet that.”

Miles was already shaking his head, denying his fun.

“No, Emile.”

“Why? Why should we save Snow?”

“We aren’t trying to save Snow. We are trying to save you and your product endorsements—Clear Valley Vineyards, Au Chocolat, the Urban Under. They don’t like messy. Involve yourself in a scandal, and they can terminate your contracts.”

“I don’t care. I have enough money—enough to pay you for your lost commissions from those endorsements.”

“I’m not thinking about my commissions.”

“How can you not?”

“I do. But I don’t have to worry about my commissions, because I always put my clients’ interests before my own. You know that. That’s why I work for you.”

Emile could not argue with that. “Oui. You do.”

“But getting back to the question at hand,” Miles said. “Do you want to ruin things with Open Hearts and Arms? Even if you aren’t being paid for it, you were pretty pleased to be asked to be their spokesperson. The campaign launches the first of the year. All the TV spots and print with your face all over it has been done.”

That gave Emile pause. This international child abuse and neglect prevention agency was important to him—and they’d made clear there could be no whisper of scandal associated with their spokesperson. But, still—Amy. Wasn’t she more important? Open Hearts and Arms could find another public figure—a better one.

“Besides,” Miles went on, “do you think Amy would want her name associated with all this? If I understood you correctly, she refused to tell even her family. Do you think she’d want them to find out this way? Wouldn’t this be the ultimate humiliation?”

“I think she’s already had the ultimate humiliation.”

“Well, then the ultimate public humiliation—which is a thousand times worse than private humiliation.”

All that was true.

“If you like, I’ll fly out there and talk to him, try to get her personal things. He’ll think it’s a business meeting. I’ll blindside him.”

A jolt of possibility went through Emile. He would have his pound of flesh, after all.

“Non. I will go myself. Next week. We play the not-so-mighty Ducks and the Kings in California.”

Miles looked amused. “California is a big state. Do you know how far it is from Anaheim to San Francisco?”

“Non. I am no good with American geography. But I don’t care. I will make him come to me.” Emile rose. “Thank you, Miles. I am in a hurry, but please finish your meal. Please tip Megan thirty percent and bill me. I must go tell Amy this news—before she finds it herself.”