Sue has asked herself repeatedly whether the husband is ill-intentioned. Sue doesn’t want to deliver up a woman to a vengeful man. Had he hurt her? Is that why she ran? Would Pauline, who changed her name legally to Pauline Smith, then hid Pauline Smith inside Pauline Hansen, make that mistake again? Of course, to hear others tell it, she hadn’t made that mistake the first time, that had been a lie she used as a cover. Still, Sue thinks she was telling the truth. Word on the street is that her first husband was dirty, maybe even a killer.
Ugh. Gristle on the ham. But, if she’s fair—and Sue is always fair—the salad is outstanding in every other way, the proportions graceful, with lots of the things most places skimp on, turkey and bacon and chopped egg. And although a classic chef’s salad is served with the ingredients set in decorative rows along the top, someone has taken the time to chop it, the way they do at Marconi’s back in Baltimore, so each bite is perfectly dressed, with a little bit of everything, Sue’s favorite kind of salad.
The cook keeps coming to the door and sneaking looks at her. Homophobe or xenophobe? Sue can’t read him, but something is amiss. Is he jealous? Does he feel protective of Pauline? There’s definitely a vibe there.
Sue pays her tab and leaves, feeling her hackles rise. When she drives away, the cook is standing outside, pretending to smoke, studying her car. If he were to run the plate—but why would he run the plate?
Her job is done. Almost too quickly. She thought she’d get a few more billable hours out of this one. If she were sleazy, she’d play both sides, ask Pauline Hansen how much it’s worth to her not to be found, if her ex knows she used to be Pauline Ditmars and all that entails. But that would be wrong and, besides, Pauline Hansen clearly has no money. Sue shakes her head at her own foolishness, decides to go to a bar she knows, a discreet one in Little Italy where the locals pretend not to notice the women with good haircuts and well-tailored clothes. She needs to hold someone tonight. A dance or two would be enough, but maybe someone will want to come home with her. That would be nice.
Once in the bar, vodka in hand, she finds herself looking for redheads, trying to find someone with that same sweet, wild strawberry scent of June.
11
Gregg walks into the High-Ho three days after the visit from that salad-munching PI. Polly probably doesn’t make the connection, but Adam does. And you don’t have to be a private detective to know that the man who slams the door open at 4:30 p.m., standing there backlit for a moment, all shadow in the afternoon sun, has a claim on Polly. Even Max and Ernest pick up on it.
Yet Polly couldn’t be calmer. “What can I get for you?” she asks, drawing drafts for Max and Ernest.
“You can get your butt in the car and come home to your daughter.”
“Our daughter. And I wager she’s all I’m coming home to. You’ve got one foot out the door, Gregg. Can’t blame me because I got both feet out before you did. Saves you the postage on the child support, the way I see it.”
“Dammit, Pauline. I can’t take care of a kid and work. She’s your job.”
“Yeah, well, I quit. Sorry I didn’t give you two weeks’ notice.”
Unnatural, Adam’s client had told him. He still doesn’t believe it. She seems the opposite to him, almost too natural. The weirdest image pops into his head. Botswana, three years ago. He always travels after a big job, but when he got an unexpected bonus, he went really big, did the safari thing at a high level. Lodges with air-conditioning, great food, all the South African wine you could drink, and South African wine turned out to be darn good. But he was there to see wildlife, didn’t miss a chance to go out with the guides. One night at dusk, riding back to the lodge in the setting sun, they saw some odd weasel-like animals darting across the road, mama and a brood. She was pushing and herding most of her children, but she was indifferent to the smallest one, resigned to its slim odds for survival. He could see Polly doing that, giving up on a lost cause.
Or maybe the kid’s actually her stepchild? He never thought to ask about that. Yeah, probably a stepchild, like the other one.
Other than Max and Ernest, no one else is in the bar and Gregg probably doesn’t register Adam, a headless patch of white T-shirt in the rectangle of the pass-through. If things get rough, Adam will step out, but he has a hunch Polly can take care of herself.
Sure enough, when Gregg grabs her arm, she doesn’t shake it off. She levels her eyes on him in a way that demands: You sure you want to do this here? Is she counting on Adam to come to her rescue? Or simply assuming her husband won’t get rough in front of witnesses? Max and Ernest are watching the couple with the same rapt attention they usually reserve for the television. This scene has much more of a plot than anything on CNN.
He drops her arm.
“I’m sorry, Gregg, but you can’t make me come home. If you’re not cheating on me already, it’s not for lack of trying. You’ll be dating someone soon as we have the ‘talk.’ Right? A weekend at the beach, one last family fling, then we were going to go home and you were going to sit me down and tell me what’s what. Probably have someone picked out. Well, good news. You’re in a better position to take care of our kid, at least for the time being. You’ve got the job. The house is in both our names, but I’ll waive my equity in it.”
“We don’t have any equity.”