Page 7

As we pull out of the driveway in Este’s electric Mercedes SUV, I open the Find My app and search for Will’s location. After watching the “loading” wheel spin as we drive a few blocks, I look over at Este.

“Does your cellphone service suck? I’m trying to find Will, and it’s taking forever to load.”

“Want me to ask Beau to jailbreak your phone? If you want to start a bar fight in Silicon Valley, ask them about jailbreaking devices. But he swears it improves processing speed.”

I stare down at my screen, watching the hash marks illuminate and dim as absolutely nothing loads. “No. It’s fine.”

“Last night, he was talking to Beau about some big trial coming up. Do you think he work-widowed you again?”

Work-widowed. This is what Este calls it anytime Will has a trial to prepare for and he basically falls off the grid.

Holing up in a room at the Ritz-Carlton—somewhere out of the Winter Park bubble to avoid distractions—he works twenty-two-hour days and survives on room service while he storyboards opening statements and talks to his experts and witnesses.

“Despite his inability to document anything in our shared calendar, usually he has the decency to tell me before he fucking disappears.”

We pull onto Park Avenue, a street at the heart of Winter Park.

The shopping hub—with its oak-shaded walks and brick-paved roads—spans less than a few blocks.

It’s about as old as the city itself, dating back to the late 1800s, when the train station that ran parallel to Park Avenue served as the arrival point for travelers.

The influence of the New Englanders who settled here can be seen in the architectural style and street names in the Park Avenue district.

There’s even a miniature Central Park, an eleven-acre green space that’s home to art and jazz festivals, which sits between Park Avenue and the train tracks.

The quaint provision shops from Winter Park’s founding era have given way to Rolex dealers, but the shopping district has withstood the pressure of big-box stores, shopping malls, and supercenters.

Small businesses line the shopping strip—independent restaurants, including Marcus’s, and the charming local shops and boutiques that sell high-end clothes, books, and home goods.

Like a lot of Winter Park’s history, Park Avenue is fiercely protected by people who believe the community stands a cut above.

Este parallel-parks her car next to the fountain in the center of the park, and we walk to our favorite yoga studio, tucked down a narrow redbrick pathway.

Hoping my phone will pick up a better signal on the studio’s Wi-Fi, I outpace Este slightly to grab a mat and sit down.

When I open my phone, the network connection seems stronger, but when I try again to search for Will’s location by way of his phone, the processing wheel spins for what feels like an eternity.

I know his work can be all-consuming, but I’ll feel better if I know where exactly he’s disappeared to.

“Just call the Ritz after we’re done,” Este offers, setting up her mat next to mine.

“Yeah.” I lay out a towel over my yoga mat to keep from slipping when we start to sweat. “Good idea.”

When Aliyah comes in, dims the lights, and starts the gonging spa music, Este doesn’t seem to notice that I’m getting concerned about Will’s whereabouts.

—

“I’m sorry, but we are not able to share any information about the guests staying on the property without a confirmation number for your stay,” the front desk employee at the Ritz-Carlton advises when I call from Este’s car on the drive home.

Este rolls her eyes at my phone, which is on speaker.

“Ma’am,” she says to the phone. “We just want to know if my friend’s husband is Beautiful-Minding his way through some legal prep in one of your suites.

You don’t even have to tell us the room number.

Is there a guest that keeps ordering, like, an alarming amount of coffee?

Someone you might describe as ‘Howard-Hughes–level sequestered’? ”

“I’m very sorry. But I’m not able to discuss guest activity.”

“Don’t you know someone there? Can you be transferred to the concierge or something?” Este says to me.

“All of our ladies and gentlemen follow the same protocol for the safety of our guests,” the desk employee chimes in, her voice firmer than before. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” I say, biting at my thumbnail. “Thank you.”

Este pulls into her driveway. “You want to drive up there? I’m pretty sure if one of us flashed the right bellman, we could have a master key in about fifteen minutes. The traffic to get there will take longer than the actual grift.”

She’s not kidding. If I asked, Este would beeline it to the hotel and lift her shirt in the name of getting more information about where Will is.

But I just sigh. “It’s okay. We’d still be looking for a needle in a haystack.

We can’t exactly knock on every door.” I press the Ritz number again.

“Hang on a minute,” I say. The same front desk employee answers, and in a fit of panic, I choose a weird hackneyed English accent to say, “Mr. William Somerset’s room please.

” I sound so ridiculous that Este can’t stifle her laugh.

I hear the front desk employee clacking away on a keyboard.

“I’m sorry, there is no guest here by that name.”

My “thank you, goodbye” comes out with a full-blown Southern twang, and Este almost does a spit take with her chai latte.

“You should talk like that all the time. What accent was that? Liverpool by way of the Floribama coast? Christ, you are clearly not destined to be an actor.”

I crack up for a second before trying Find My again.

“Want to try any of the hotels downtown?” she asks.

“He wouldn’t go anywhere but the Ritz. Everyone else’s sheets are ‘like sandpaper and make too much noise.’ I didn’t know sheets made noise.”

“What about his assistant? She might know what’s on the docket.”

I shake my head. “It’s Sunday. I’m not going to bother Lenore just because Will is forgetful.”

Although it might be closer to the truth to say that I don’t want to shoulder the humiliation of telling Lenore he regularly disappears into his job—this time, he up and vanished without a courtesy call to his wife, the town’s favorite punch line.

Lenore might tell Fritz, and Fritz could tell Gianna, and Gianna would be all too eager to let Constance know.

The Winter Park gossip mill rules more in my life than I’d ever care to admit.

“You know Will.” Este’s voice softens, and we climb out of the car. “He’s going to come walking through the door at any minute, telling you about some amazing settlement. And when he does, you’ll make him buy you something shiny to repent for leaving you without an explanation.”

This is entirely possible. Half of Will’s work seems like a professional game of chicken.

Will and the opposing counsel run full speed toward each other with all manner of threats, legal motions, and dismissed proposals for settlement.

And then the night before a trial—even after weeks of prep—someone floats the right amount of money for a settlement, and a deal is done.

“You think that’s how Gianna got that new ring she was flashing last night?” Este asks. “The way they packed so many precious stones onto that bony-ass finger of hers is a modern feat of science.”

I pull a disgusted face. “Neither one of us wants to know what Gianna does for her jewelry.”

Este laughs and then encircles me in a warm hug. “Go shower and then come over for dinner.”

This is our usual routine when I’m work-widowed. I third-wheel it with Beau and Este at their house, marveling at the life they’ve made together.

“That sounds nice,” I say, swallowing how lonely I suddenly feel.

We part ways in her driveway with me promising to head back over around five, and I take an hour-long bath, soaking until my fingers and toes wrinkle. Every now and then I text Will.

3:00 p.m.

Going to Este and Beau’s for dinner. Should we set a place for you?

4:30 p.m.

What time do you think you’ll be home?

4:45 p.m.

Are you mad at me?

By dinnertime, I eagerly accept the glass of Chablis Este hands me, and I don’t even bother putting my phone on the table as I sit down—my worry now boiling over into anger.

I understand Will is driven, but he can’t find thirty seconds to be considerate? I tried to track him down. If Will wants to find me now, let him work for it.