How to Score (20 page)

“Actually,” Sammi said, “I called Mr. Gordon in his capacity as a member of the Preservation Commission.”

“You wouldn’t have known him if it weren’t for your job here. You misused your position.”

Oh, jeez. Ms. Arnette had a lot of weird ideas about hierarchy and who should talk to whom—kind of like who got to talk to the wizard. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Ms. Arnette, but I don’t lose my rights as a private citizen just because I work here.”

Mr. Landry took a step forward, his eyes narrow, his mouth tight. “And I don’t lose my rights as a homeowner just because you’re renting my property.”

Holy mackerel. The old guy’s eyes were practically spitting fire. “It’s not just a piece of property, Mr. Landry. It’s a rare example of a fine architect’s work, and a priceless interpretation of art deco style on a modest scale.”

“I don’t care what you call it; that house belongs to me.” His finger thumped against his plaid-shirt-covered chest. “Not to you, not to the city, and not to that danged commission. It’s my property. Mine.” He self-jabbed his chest again. “As the property owner, I have the right to dispose of it as I see fit.”

Great. Just great. “Well, Mr. Landry, the Preservation Commission will make that determination.”

His ruddy face reddened.

The sudden clink of breaking china made everyone jump. The catering service supplied the china for the weekly luncheons, so Sammi wasn’t too worried, but it gave her the out she needed. “Oh, dear—I need to go see what happened. If you’ll excuse me… ” She took a step back.

“That better not be one of the Phelpses’ possessions that just broke,” Ms. Arnette warned, as if it were in Sammi’s power to retroactively fix things.

“We’re not done here.” Mr. Landry scowled.

“I’m afraid we are,” Sammi said. She tried to soften the words with an apologetic smile. “It’s in the commission’s hands, and they’ll make a ruling on it at their next meeting.” She took another step back and lifted her hand in a little wave. “Nice seeing you, Mr. Landry.” And with that, she made her escape.

“She doesn’t back down easily, that’s for sure,” Walter mumbled as he followed Arlene to her office.

“I told you,” Arlene said, weaving slightly.

She never drank at lunch, but Walter had ordered one of the restaurant’s two-for-one margarita specials while she was in the ladies’ room. She’d intended to just take a sip, but the frozen concoction had been so delicious that she’d drained the entire glass. Walter had ordered another round, and before she knew it, she’d told Walter all of her problems with Sammi—how the girl wouldn’t leave well enough alone, how determined she was to change things, how she just wouldn’t take no for an answer. The only thing Arlene hadn’t vented was the way Sammi’s presence hurt her.

How could the board have replaced her so easily? The question gnawed at her like a rat with a wedge of cheddar. Between her time as Chandler’s assistant and her tenure as museum curator, she’d worked for the Phelpses’ interests for forty-seven years, yet they’d waited less than two weeks to bring in someone less than half her age. It was as if she were nothing more than a dirty oil filter: Disposable. Expendable. Worn-out and used up.

And every day, Sammi continued to make her feel that way. Oh, the girl didn’t do it deliberately; she was annoyingly kind and respectful, which made it all the harder, because it would be easier on Arlene if she could just outright dislike the young woman.

But she didn’t really dislike Sammi. She disliked the way the girl’s eager-beaver enthusiasm, irritating energy, and innovative ideas were destroying her legacy. Before too long, all of her work would be erased or so severely modified that it was no longer recognizable. After a while, it would be as if Arlene had never even been there.

As if she’d never existed.

And that was what Arlene feared most of all: that no one would know or care that she had ever lived. When she’d had her heart attack, that possibility had hurt more than the chest pain. Her last thought as she was wheeled into surgery wasn’t “Will I die?” but “Will anyone care that I ever lived?”

Only two things had ever really mattered to her: her work, and Chandler. With those gone, what did she have? What had she done? Who the hell was she? She didn’t have any children or family or any real friends. That had been brought glaringly home when she’d been released from the hospital and spent day after day alone, the phone calls and visits few and increasingly far apart.

Walter’s words brought her back to the present. “My wife was just like Sammi. Nutty as a pecan over that little igloo of a house.”

Arlene looked at him, trying to determine if he considered being like his wife a good thing or a bad thing. “Really.”

He nodded. “One of our worst arguments ever was over that place. I bought a beautiful big home in Country Club Estates, and she refused to move out of that squalid little box.”

Arlene sank into one of the armless chairs across from her desk. “Why?”

Walter sat down beside her. “At the time, I thought she was just mad that I’d bought the place without consulting her.”

Arlene raised her eyebrows. “You bought a house without consulting your wife?”

“Yeah.”

“Why on earth did you do that?” Too late, Arlene realized the question was both rude and none of her business. Drinking tequila at lunch had a bad effect on her manners.

Walter ran a hand through his hair and answered it anyway. “The place was a real steal. It wasn’t going to be on the market long, so I had to act fast.”

“Still, it seems like you could have discussed it with her.”

“Yeah, I probably could have.” He slumped in the chair. “I guess I just didn’t want to give her the chance to talk me out of it.” He gazed out the window, but he didn’t look like he was really seeing the mansion’s rose garden. “It was the type of house I’d always wanted—a real showplace.”

“And you didn’t think she’d like it?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t her style. She liked simple stuff.”

“And you bought it, knowing that?”

“Yeah.” He blew out a sigh. “Looking back, I can see it was wrong. I guess I just did what I wanted to do.”

Chandler had been the same way. He’d always done things his way, and to hell with anyone else’s feelings. An unexpected surge of anger welled up in her. “Isn’t that just like a man.”

“Oh, I don’t know that you can fault my whole gender. I was probably worse than most.” He fell silent for a moment. “Helen said she didn’t want to move because a bigger house meant she’d see less of me, because I’d be working all the harder to make the bigger mortgage. Of course, I wouldn’t listen. And darned if she wasn’t right.”

“Did you and Helen argue often?”

“No. Hardly ever.”

“Probably because you were never around.”

“Maybe so. I’d prefer to think it’s because we were happy together. At any rate,
I
was happy. I’m not so sure about her anymore.” He looked down at his hands. “I probably could have been a better husband.”

Anger flared in Arlene’s chest again, pulsing its way up her neck, heating her face. Men were all the same—if a man was happy and the woman in his life wasn’t making a fuss, then everything was just fine and dandy. She wondered how many times Walter had cheated on Helen.

He looked up at her. “How come you never married?”

“Because… ”
I never met the right man
. She started to give him the standard lie, but the words stuck in her throat. She’d met the right man, all right—just under the wrong circumstances. This philandering husband needed to hear the other side of the story. He’d probably never given any thought to what happened to the other woman.

She lifted her chin and stared him defiantly in the eye. “The man I loved already had a wife.”

Walter’s brown eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you?”

“Yes.” He straightened and leaned back in the chair, like a man edging away from a too-hot fire. “Yes, I think so.”

She leaned forward. “And what, exactly, do you see? Do you see that when a married man has an affair, it’s not just his wife he’s hurting?”

“I—I never thought of that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Men only think about themselves. They don’t stop to think what they’re putting the other woman through.”

His brow knit like a cabled sweater. “The truth is, I’ve never given it any thought at all. I-I never needed to.” His brown eyes settled on her. “I never cheated on my wife.”

“Oh.” Arlene’s mouth stayed stuck for a moment. “When you said you could have been a better husband… and that you always did what you wanted… I just thought… I thought… ” Shame heated her face. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry.”

He waved his hand. “No apology necessary.”

She looked down at her hands and folded them tightly together. Dear God in heaven—she’d never have another drink at lunch as long as she lived. “I-I guess you think I’m a terrible person.”

He lifted his shoulders. “Not up to me to judge. I’m sure you had your reasons.”

A soft knock sounded on the door. The museum receptionist, a mousy girl with stringy brown hair named Jillian, opened it a crack and tentatively poked her head into the office. “Excuse me, Ms. Arnette—the contractor is here about that leak in the basement bathroom.”

Thank God for a way out of this mortifying situation. “Tell him I’ll be right with him.”

Walter stood as Jillian retreated. Arlene rose, as well, and awkwardly stuck out her hand. “Well—thank you for lunch.”

His large, slightly calloused hand enfolded hers. It was warm and dry, and a little skitter of heat danced up her arm. “Thanks for joining me. We’ll have to do it again.”

Arlene nodded and watched him leave her office. He didn’t mean it; he was just being polite. A faithfully married man mourning his wife was not going to keep company with a homewrecker.

What on earth had possessed her to tell him that? It had always been her carefully guarded secret. Why had she just spilled it like that? And what was with that rush of anger? This wasn’t like her at all. It had to be the tequila.

It had certainly been an exercise in poor judgment. Maybe she was getting senile. Maybe the board was right; maybe she should consider permanent retirement.

But oh, dear lord—that was like considering death. During those three months at home after her heart attack, she’d felt like she was dead already—forgotten, invisible, useless. She’d had no purpose, no reason for getting up in the morning. She didn’t have a life outside of work. Years of sitting home waiting for Chandler to call had become a habit, and after his death, she’d just stuck to it.

Of course, she thought with an unexpected surge of irritation, he’d called only when it suited him. And truth be told, it hadn’t suited him all that often during the last years of his life.

“Enough,” she muttered under her breath, smoothing her jacket. No good would come from thinking along these lines. She wouldn’t tarnish Chandler’s memory by dwelling on his faults. She’d known she was walking a lonely path when she’d first taken up with him. There was no point in wallowing in regrets about it now.

And yet, lately the regrets had been seeping in anyway, unwanted, cold, and destructive, like water in a basement bathroom.

J
oe’s deep, someone’s-at-the-door bark reverberated through the house. Sammi took a last glance at herself in the bathroom mirror and smoothed her hair. She’d straightened it, curled it, then straightened it again in an uncharacteristic fit of indecisiveness. At least she’d had no trouble settling on her clothes; she was wearing her default, goes-anywhere black skirt, paired with a drapey white jersey blouse and high-heeled mules.

Why was she so concerned about the way she looked, anyway? She was only seeing Chase because her life coach had instructed her to.

At least, that was what she was trying to tell herself. She didn’t want to get involved with a law-enforcement officer, she reminded herself. She wanted a man with a safe, predictable job—not a man whose job could leave him shot and paralyzed, or worse. She was going out with Chase to get over her date-bashing disorder, not because she intended to pursue a romantic relationship.

All the same, a shiver of anticipation shot up her spine as the doorbell rang. Drawing a deep breath, Sammi grabbed her purse and went to the door.

Chase stood on the other side, wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt and khakis. His gaze ran over her, turning her knees to Jell-O. “You look great.”

Pleasure coursed through her. “Thanks.”

Joe shoved his head out the door beside her. Chase scratched his ear, causing the dog’s tail to wave like a stubby metronome. Sammi coaxed the animal back inside and ordered him to stay, then closed the door and walked beside Chase to his SUV. When he opened the passenger door, Sammi was surprised to see a burly man sitting in the backseat.

“This is my partner, Paul,” Chase said. “I thought it would be fun to have him and his wife join us.”

That shot the concept of a romantic dinner for two. Which was just as well, Sammi told herself sternly. Tamping down her disappointment, she stretched out her hand and smiled. “Great! It’s nice to meet you.”