Page 6

Additionally, there will be far rougher waters ahead for the team if Edward Morgan is sick, which my intuition tells me he is.

The look in his eyes before he flew to Switzerland to see the doctor…

it was something I recall seeing in Sofia: a sense of resignation that said her body intuited that things were dire before it was confirmed.

I sign off the call and tuck my phone into a pocket, grimly nursing my drink, one eye on Natalia. Her gaze snags on mine, and she lifts one hand in acknowledgment before looking away. Finishing my cognac and tucking a ten-dinar tip under my glass, I push off the bar and head toward her table.

Laskaris rests with his chiseled chin on one hand, the picture of affected ease, as I walk up. I hear the tail end of his story, monologuing at Natalia.

“But, you know…” His wink is sly. “That’s a joke people only get if they went to Saint Paul’s. Or if they’re just fans of John Milton. The poet ,” he adds.

“Glad you clarified,” Natalia deadpans. “I thought you were talking about John Milton the plumber, who installed my aunt’s garbage disposal.”

I stop a meter from the table, and she looks up—lips parting to speak, shoulders straightening on an intake of breath. Laskaris delivers me a sulky glare at the interruption.

“I don’t blame you for starting without me,” I tell Natalia, sketching a wave at her untouched plate of what looks to be artichoke dip and sliced baguette. “Apologies for my tardiness. Meetings ran longer than expected.”

It’s a bluff, and a risky one—we’ve not spoken privately since the nighttime walk in Melbourne two weeks ago, when she parted from me cold and wounded, even after the unwise kiss we weren’t able to resist. But Natalia’s jewel-blue eyes shine now as she picks up the metaphoric baton I’ve passed.

“No worries. I haven’t even taken the first bite yet.” Shifting her focus to Laskaris, she says, “Sorry to give you the heave-ho.”

“Oh, shit. Right.” He pushes the chair back and stands, conceding the place to me. “Wasn’t aware you had a date, Evans.”

“It’s business,” I tell him coolly, taking his spot. I lift a finger at a passing server, gesturing toward the bar, silently communicating that the bartender knows my drink.

“Alex, I’m sure you know Mr. Franke?” Natalia asks. “Emerald’s TP.”

“Of course.” Laskaris extends a hand, and we exchange a terse shake in which he applies 50 percent too much pressure.

A mischievous part of me wants to say, We’ve never met, in fact , but I resist the urge to humble him.

“Well, then…” Laskaris shoots a stiff smile at Natalia. “Reckon I’ll see you in Shanghai, Evans.”

He saunters off, and Natalia rotates her plate a quarter turn, picking up a bit of baguette.

She glances after him, murmuring, “Not if I see you first, bucko.” Wielding a short butter knife, she scoops into the artichoke dip and places a dollop on a bite of bread.

“I suppose you think you really rescued me there,” she states, eyes on her task.

“Did I not?” I ask with amusement.

She lifts an arched eyebrow, placing the bread into her mouth and chewing. After dabbing each corner of her lips with a cloth napkin, she shrugs. “I was fine. But you got rid of him faster, so thanks for that.”

I stretch my legs beside the small table, crossing them at the ankles. “Alexander Laskaris is a good-looking man,” I gently tease. “Wealthy too.”

She rolls her eyes. “Wealthy family . He’s a nepo-baby clown, not my type, and such a shameless sex-pest that William Hill is probably offering odds on when he’ll get canceled. I’ve only been at ARJ a few months and he’s already asked me out twice. Annoying.”

The server comes and places a new glass of Courvoisier before me. Natalia eyes it, then prepares another bite of food.

“Your usual cognac?” she inquires casually.

I’m flattered that she remembers. The image returns to me: that night in the Abu Dhabi lounge, months ago.

Natalia sampling my Courvoisier before slowly pushing it back my way.

The way I deliberately rotated the glass so my mouth covered the red imprint of her lipstick before taking my own drink, our eyes locked.

“Shall we share it again?”

Her glare is chilly, brief. “No thanks.”

I sip my drink, giving her time to eat without an interrogation. I can tell she’s had as taxing a day as I. My stomach growls again, and though I’m sure she can’t hear it over the music in the bar, she scoots the platter a few inches my way.

“We can share this, though,” she offers. “Here, dig in.”

“Thank you.” I tear a strip of crust off a baguette slice and plunk it into the ramekin, then chew it. “How are you finding Bahrain?”

“It’s not Paris,” she replies, “but what is?”

I smile. “Paris.”

“Smartass.” Her tone is indulgent, which encourages me.

“No trouble whilst here?”

“Work troubles?”

I nod.

She takes a deep drink of her wine. “Nope. International journalist is definitely a different animal to working at a literary magazine, I’ll admit. But I got some pointers from Phaedra about the travel part. Photo ID and press credentials on me at all times.”

“Smart.”

“Also—” She lifts her left hand, displaying a simple gold band. “From my pretend husband. Oh, and…”

She taps her phone, awakening the lock screen to display a photo of a man with a wholesome catalogue-model grin. He stands in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, an ax resting over one broad shoulder. On his left, a pile of firewood, on the right, a brown Labrador.

“Hubby,” she says.

I twist the phone upside down to view the picture. He looks a bit like me—dark hair with some gray, over forty, tall.

The screen darkens. I slide the phone back toward Natalia. “You have a type.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Did I say the type might be me , kleine Hexe?”

She frowns, her nostrils flaring, then tucks the phone into her purse. As she reaches again for her butter knife, I intercept her left hand, curling her fingers over my own and surveying the little “wedding ring.”

“Hmm, your imaginary husband must be a pauper. You deserve far better.”

She gives me a sardonic look. “Yeah, well. Not a ton of money in lumberjacking.”

I skim a thumb across her knuckles, then release her fingers. There is the briefest pause before her hand slips from mine, as if she too is grieved to break our contact.

“Who is it—in the photo?” I can’t help asking.

She chews and swallows the bite of bread in her mouth. “Some random guy I found on Google images. I’ve named him Ethan. He kinda looks like one, don’t you think?”

“I’ll trust you on that. You’re the writer.” I take another piece of bread and tear it in half before folding and dipping it. “I suppose you’ve dreamed up a full history.”

“Oh, heck yeah. You know me.”

After saying it, Natalia freezes momentarily with her hand en route to the artichoke dip. She meets my eye as if to check whether I’ll offer a comeback. In truth, we know each other both quite intimately at this point and… not at all.

I register the faint pink of her blush and give her an out while focusing on the food.

“Tell me about Ethan. I love a good story, and after your confession in Melbourne—how you enjoy watching and imagining the lives of strangers—I have every confidence you’ve generated a creative narrative for your beloved husband. ”

She finishes the last inch of her wine. “We’ve been married six years.

He got me Sparky—that’s the dog—as a puppy for our first anniversary.

He went to college for three years because he was planning to be an architect, but his father got sick and Ethan had to drop out and go back home to rural Oregon to take over the family lumber business. ”

Hearing Natalia’s mention of the sick father, I wonder if Phaedra has told her about Edward’s headaches or his trip to Switzerland to see a specialist. But Natalia’s mood is so light, spinning her little fiction, that I can’t imagine she’s borrowed a sorrowful detail from her friend’s life.

“We got married in front of the old sawmill. Super rustic. Charming.”

“Indeed,” I agree.

“The wedding cake was a zucchini cake, decorated with wildflowers.”

I emit a surprised half-laugh and nearly choke on a bite of food. “Isn’t that… it’s a vegetable, yes? A courgette?” At Natalia’s nod, I ask, “Do people make this into cakes , truly?”

“Good lord, you’ve never had zucchini cake?”

“Thankfully not. Though I enjoy steamed courgette with fish.”

Natalia rolls her eyes. “You would. So healthy.”

She plucks up the last baguette slice and surprises me by flipping it lightly at me, discus style. I catch it easily and tear it in two, offering half to her.

We each eat a final bite of bread and dip.

Tired as I was an hour ago, I now feel almost radiant with energy.

A thought arises: This is what it was like to remove your armor—do you remember?

A needle of guilt over the small disloyalty to Sofia pierces me.

My smile falters for a moment before I rally.

“What else?” I prompt Natalia. “Where was the honeymoon?”

“Mmm, good question,” she says around her food, a hand over her mouth as she speaks, then swallows. “We didn’t travel. Just spent a week at the family cabin in the mountains. Donated the honeymoon cash to charity. Ethan’s a giver.”

“As it’s said: happy wife, happy life,” I quip.

I take another sip of cognac, watching Natalia as she watches me. Sorrow plucks at my chest as a realization asserts itself: As relaxed as I feel with this woman, I’ll never risk a connection. There’s too much I couldn’t share with her.

Not only the small daily details that might spell disaster for the team in the hands of a journalist—such as Edward Morgan’s health or the sponsor problem—but the simple fact that I’ll never stop missing my wife.

No one should have to compete with a ghost.

I swirl my tulip glass, fumbling to pick up the thread of conversation. “What charity did you and Ethan choose to enrich?”

She squints one eye in thought, and something about the gesture is so natural and charming that I wish I could kiss the small crow’s-foot crinkle above her cheekbone.

“Um, something for children? Ethan adores kids. We’re going to have three or four.”

“Quite the full house.” I swirl the cognac and peek at Natalia. “Is that part fiction? Do you want children?”

There’s hesitance in her expression. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

I move the glass idly, examining the way the candlelight gilds the amber liquid. For some reason, I’m afraid to look at Natalia. “You’ve plenty of time to decide,” I say, my brightness forced. I lift the glass in a toast. “To you and Ethan.”

Her lips part, then close as she searches for what she wants to say. “How come, uh… you never had kids?” she asks.

“ Never? ” I return with a blithe smile. “I’m only forty-five, kleine Hexe.”

“Oh—of course…” The abashed words tumble out.

I lift a hand to reassure her. “I’m joking. The truth is, we tried for many years.”

“Ah.” She nods gravely. “Fertility treatments and all that?”

“No. I wish I’d insisted upon it, because we learned later— too late—that our lack of success was due to a very slow-growing cancer.

Endometrial. But Sofia wanted things to be ‘natural.’ She had many superstitions.

A bowl of pine cones under the bed—silly things like that.

It seemed harmless.” I tip back the last of the cognac. “Until it killed her, of course.”

I’ve flown the conversational plane into the side of a mountain with the comment and know it immediately.

Curse my bitterness. It would have been lovely to talk more, but her next sentence will surely be a comforting platitude followed by an “Oh, look at the time—I must get some sleep” exit. Dammit, I can’t be trusted even with simple friendship, to say nothing of the cratered ruin of love…

My thoughts are pulled back by the touch of Natalia’s hand on mine. In the half second before my eyes meet hers, I’ve already accepted what I’ll find there: pity . A dart of concern between her brows, a benevolent head tilt…

God, I dread that look.

It isn’t there.

Instead, her expression is fierce. “ Fuck cancer,” she says plainly.

It spreads inside me with a sensation like a long-empty well filling with pure water: the recognition that it’s what a friend would say.

A stranger would feel the need for more words.