50 Harbor Street - Debbie Macomber [73]
Tears shone in her eyes as she sat in the chair just vacated by their daughter. “I—” She swallowed hard, fidgeting with a tissue.
“What is it?”
“You refused to listen. You refused to consider what I said, so I took matters into my own hands.” She was so pale, he felt suddenly terrified.
“What did you do?” he asked, frowning.
“I—you aren’t the only one in this family capable of doing detective work. I have my own resources.”
“Corrie? What did you do?” he repeated.
She finally met his gaze. “We had a daughter, Roy. I gave birth to a little girl.”
Roy came around from his side of the desk and placed his hand on her shoulder. Bending down, he looked into his wife’s eyes, loving her so intensely he felt a physical pull toward her. “I know,” he whispered.
“You know?”
“I found out, too.”
Twenty-Nine
Rachel tried, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d learned from Carol Greendale on Christmas Day. Nate was the son of a powerful East Coast politician. She was living in a dream world if she had any hopes for this relationship. The sooner she cut her losses, the better. And she decided to do just that, sending Nate a terse but perfectly polite e-mail. She hadn’t turned on her computer since.
Friday night, Bruce phoned her at the salon and suggested they get together. Rachel’s first inclination was to decline. She wasn’t in the mood to be sociable, but on second thought, she didn’t go out that often. Bruce was usually good company.
“What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t seem full of enthusiasm, either.
Half the time Rachel figured the only reason he called her was that he didn’t know any other women. But that wasn’t true; he knew plenty of women. She suspected he had an irrational fear of unmarried females trying to trap him into marriage. That wasn’t an issue with her and he knew he was safe.
“Want to go to a movie?” she asked.
“We could.”
“Where’s Jolene going to be?” She tried to think of something that might appeal to both of them.
“Slumber party.”
“Dinner?” Rachel suggested.
They didn’t even talk in full sentences anymore. They were like an old married couple so attuned to each other that their communication was a form of shorthand.
“Sure.”
That was fine with Rachel, too. “Where?”
“You choose.”
“Taco Shack.”
“Meet you there?”
“Fine. Six?”
“Great.”
By the time she left the salon and drove out to the Taco Shack, Bruce had arrived and scouted out a table. The Taco Shack was a popular Friday-night spot. The food was good and plentiful and, best of all, cheap.
“I already ordered for you,” he said when she joined him.
“How’d you know what I wanted?”
“Cheese enchiladas. That’s what you order every time.”
“I do?” Rachel hadn’t realized that. As a matter of fact, she read the entire wall-mounted menu on each visit. Apparently she was even more predictable than she’d known.
She got herself a Diet Coke—Bruce had a bottle of water—and their dinner was delivered two minutes later. If she ordered the same thing every time, then so did Bruce. Without instructions, the server set the cheese plate in front of her and the chicken enchiladas in front of Bruce.
As though synchronized, they both reached for their forks. “Do you want to watch a DVD later?” Rachel asked between bites.
“What have you got?”
She named a few movies that had been going around the salon. The girls at Get Nailed had a better system than most rental places, and if a DVD didn’t get returned in a timely manner, the teasing was ruthless. Rachel had borrowed several for the weekend, a couple of comedies and an emotional drama, reputedly a tear-jerker.
“I haven’t seen any of those.”
They decided on one of the comedies, then ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Have you heard from lover boy?” Bruce asked, picking up his water.
“If you mean Nate, then no, I haven’t.”
“No?” This seemed to surprise Bruce.