Reputation(13)
“Kit? Hey! Kit!”
It’s Lynn Godfrey, my coworker. Tonight, she wears a sleeveless, floor-sweeping red dress and five-inch pumps, and her white-blond hair is piled on top of her head in a French twist. She waves at me from across the room as though we’re old friends, though I’m certain Lynn is brimming with schadenfreude—she definitely knows about Greg’s e-mails. It wasn’t lost on me how bitter Lynn felt when I got to go to Philadelphia to attend to her clients.
I murmur an excuse to my father that I have to go. Then I cross the room to Lynn. She’s watching me, holding two filled martini glasses.
“Got this for you.” She proffers one of the cocktails as I approach. “It looks like you need it.”
I wave it away. “I never drink at the gala.”
Lynn snorts. “I went through quite an ordeal to get this. It’s a madhouse at that bar.”
She points a manicured fingernail toward one of the bars, and I see my daughter’s friend Raina Hammond mixing a cocktail. Raina gives me a cheerful wave, almost like she’s been waiting to catch my eye. I don’t smile back—something unnerves me about that girl. Before I left for the gala, I’d called Sienna; she’d told me she might go to a party with Raina later. Sienna also mentioned the e-mail hack, pausing awkwardly as if she wanted to bring something up but was afraid of what my reaction might be. Greg’s e-mails, naturally—so she read them, too. I’d nearly hung up on her, I was so desperate to get off the call.
I want that cocktail after all. I take a long sip, about to ask Lynn how the night is going—we should compare notes about donors. Suddenly, someone slams into me from behind. The martini splatters my arms and bodice. “Oof!” I cry out.
“Oh my God, Mrs. Strasser!” A dishwater blonde steps back, her eyes round. “I am so, so sorry!”
It’s Laura Apatrea, a surgical nurse in Greg’s department. She wears an ill-fitting black shift and blocky, churchgoing heels; her dark blond hair seems tragically undone for such a formal event, almost like she quickly styled it in a public bathroom.
“Did I splash you?” Laura grabs some napkins from a nearby table. “I can’t believe I—”
“It’s all right,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’s not a big deal.”
She looks mortified, but I swish her away unsympathetically. I don’t have time for doe-eyed Laura right now. But Lynn assesses Laura over the lip of her cocktail as the nurse scuttles away. “A little bird told me the doctors paid for some of the nurses to come.” A mischievous look crosses her features. “Maybe your husband sponsored her?”
There is something about the way she says husband that needles me, but I’m not about to delight her with a reaction. “So,” I say briskly, “I already spoke to the judge and his wife, and I’m about to pitch the Lowrys, which means you should cover . . .”
But then I trail off. Lynn, only half listening, has turned to put her hand on the shoulder of someone walking past. The man’s back is still to us, but there’s something familiar about him that resonates with me on unspoken, subconscious levels. “Kit.” Lynn’s voice is honey. “I’d like you to meet my husband.” She strokes the man’s arm. “Darling? This is Kit Manning-Strasser. We work together.”
The man turns, and it feels like I’m falling down an elevator shaft. Here is that schoolboy grin. Here is that same adorable dimple in his left cheek. I blink hard, certain my mind is tricking me, but no . . . it’s him.
Patrick the hurricane pilot/auto racer. Patrick of the no last name. A man whose scent I can still smell in my nostrils, who is driving me so wild I drifted aimlessly around a grocery store. I almost drop my drink. My legs feel boneless.
A startled look flickers across Patrick’s face, too, but then he reaches out his hand. “Kit, is it?”
My tongue feels fat in my mouth, but I say, somehow, “Yes.”
Lynn beams obliviously. I remember everything she told me about this man: He’s a successful businessman, her college sweetheart. They have an eleven-year marriage and two young children. I should be mad that Patrick lied to me, but how can I be? He told me he was lying. That was the game.
“Nice to meet you,” I add, because I have to say something. Then I grab my drink and down the rest of it fast. The world wobbles. The alcohol hits me instantly. I am certain, suddenly, that I’m going to throw up.
“Excuse me,” I say. And then I turn . . . and run.
6
LYNN
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26, 2017
When asked to name the deadliest sea creature, most would probably guess a shark, but it’s not true. The best hunter in the sea—and I am reminded of this as I pass a glass case featuring a fossilized version of one at the giving gala—is the sea horse. Their heads are shaped in such a way that they slice silently through the water, causing almost no disruption to the current. They can sneak up on their prey completely unannounced. If a creature can’t sense danger coming from behind, how will it know to flee?
Just another reminder that sneaky always, always wins.
I’ve been talking with Rupert Van Grieg, one of our biggest donors, for almost thirty minutes. Would rotund, pink-cheeked, already-soused Rupert enjoy my sea horse evolutionary tidbit, or does he just want me to tell him another slightly off-color joke about Catholic priests? I’m babysitting Rupert because Kit’s not at her best right now. She’s stumbling vertiginously. She’s slurring her words. Our boss, George, has cast a couple of alarmed glances her way. This isn’t the Kit Manning-Strasser we all know and adore.