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“Where?”
“Chicago.”
“Are you kicking me out? I can’t afford a hotel.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my tone calm and even. Nothing I say can upset her. That’s vital. “You can stay here while we’re gone. Kind of like a house sitter. Maybe do some baking, if you feel like it.”
“I’m down with that,” Sam says.
“Can Jeff and I trust you?”
A pointless question. Of course I don’t trust her. It’s why I’m going to Chicago with Jeff in the first place. Leaving her behind is my only option.
“Sure.”
I remove the cash I had stuffed into my pocket right before coming into the room. Two rumpled hundred-dollar bills. I hand them to Sam.
“Here’s some walking-around money,” I say. “Use it for food, maybe go to the movies. Whatever.”
It’s a bribe and Sam knows it. Rubbing the bills together, she says, “Don’t house sitters also get some sort of fee? You know, for looking after the place. Making sure everything’s fine.”
While she frames it as a perfectly reasonable question, it doesn’tkeep the betrayal I feel from stinging like a slap. I remember Sam’s first night here, how Jeff flat-out asked if she had come seeking money. She denied it, and I had believed her. Now I get the feeling that’s the only reason she’s here. The late-night talks, the baking, the entire friendship was just a means to that end.
“How does five hundred sound?” I say.
Sam appraises the room. I can see her doing the math in her head, weighing the potential value of each object.
“A thousand sounds better,” she says.
I grit my teeth. “Of course.”
I leave to fetch my purse, returning with a check made payable to Tina Stone and postdated for the day after Jeff and I are scheduled to return. Sam says nothing when she sees the date. She simply folds the check in half and places it with the cash on the nightstand.
“Do you still want me here when you get back?” she says.
“That’s up to you.”
Sam smiles. “It really is, isn’t it?”
•••
On the plane, the solo traveler next to me kindly agrees to switch places with Jeff, allowing us to sit together. During takeoff, Jeff grabs my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.
After landing and checking into our hotel, we have an entire afternoon and evening alone together. Gone is the awkwardness of two nights ago, when Sam’s absence was as noticeable as a missing pinkie finger. We stroll the downtown blocks around our hotel, the tension from the past week thawing in the breeze blowing off Lake Michigan.
“I’m glad you came along, Quinn,” Jeff says. “I know it didn’t seem that way last night, but I mean it.”
When he reaches for my hand, I gladly take it. It helps having him in my corner. Especially considering what I intend to do.
On the walk back to the hotel, we’re both taken with a dress in a boutique window. It’s black and white, with a cinched waist and a skirt that flares outward like a 1950s-era Dior.
“Right off the Paris plane,” I say, quoting Grace Kelly inRear Window. “Think it will sell?”
Jeff stammers, Jimmy Stewart–style. “Well, see, that depends on the quote.”
“A steal at eleven hundred dollars,” I say, still Grace.
“That dress should be listed on the stock exchange.” Jeff drops the charade, becoming himself again. “And I think you should buy it.”