Bird the riot act just now?”
Bloom waved his hand. “It’s completely unrelated. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to speak to what’s left of the press and make sure they understand that this won’t slow us down.” A great shout rose from the remaining press corps as he ascended the steps to the stage.
THERE WAS SOMETHING off about this whole situation, but Ethan couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It felt like theater, not like real life. Yet why would Bloom disrupt his own ceremony?
A woman engrossed in her iPhone walked past him, and he jumped a little, momentarily thinking it was Rachel. There was a definite resemblance in this woman’s body shape and the way she moved. But when she paused in mid-step to listen to something on her Bluetooth, he realized who she was: Rebecca Matre. He’d seen her picture at Rachel’s apartment.
For an instant, no more than a nanosecond, he pondered approaching her as a replacement for Rachel. Then he mentally kicked himself for even considering such a thing. Men were scum.
PATTY CAME DOWN the steps from the stage, pushed through the people milling there, and rushed up to Rachel. Her pale décolletage was flushed pink. “Wow, did you see that guy?”
“I think everybody saw him,” Rachel said.
“Was he as gorgeous up close as he was from the stage?”
“He was easy on the eyes,” Rachel agreed.
“The wives of all the big shots were looking at him the way a dog looks at a steak,” Patty said. Then she noticed Rachel’s distraction. “Are you all right?”
Rachel shook her head slightly. “Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s just …”
“What?”
Rachel looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard, then leaned close to Patty. “Do you remember what I told you about the lake spirits?”
Patty nodded. “He mentioned them, didn’t he?”
“Like he knows about them,” Rachel said. Like he knows them , she wanted to add.
“Maybe he was just being poetic,” Patty said. “ ‘Spirits,’ you know, like a nature religion, like paganism.”
“Maybe,” Rachel said. Then, gathering herself with an effort, she added, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll get my guitar,” Patty said, and scurried off.
Rachel wrapped her arms around herself. She felt different—wrong, somehow—as if the encounter with the strange man had upset her internal bearings. But she hadn’t touched him or even spoken to him; all they had shared was a momentary glance.
In that moment, though, she felt as if she’d been laid bare for him. And perhaps the discomfort swirling in her now was because he had seen her for what she was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
R ACHEL AND PATTY parted at Duncan Street. Patty walked up the tree-lined avenue to her student apartment, blithely whistling “Indian Reservation,” and Rachel headed back to the diner. By the time she got there, Helena and Roya had already cleaned up and prepared for the next day, and Jimmy was just locking up. There was too much competition for the dinner crowd, so the diner served only breakfast and lunch. Rachel took a cursory look at the register receipts, saw no problems, and went upstairs.
After carefully locking her door, checking her blinds, and feeding Tainter so he’d stay off her lap, she took the computer from her closet and got online. The Lady posted a quick recap of the events at the park, and she was careful to phrase it so that it sounded like it might have come from someone involved, not just a spectator.
When she finished, she reread what she’d written and yawned. Then she deleted most of the adjectives, leaving only “handsome” and “scantily clad” to describe Kyle Stillwater. Otherwise it read like the overheated writing in a romance novel.
Yet even as she did this, she felt her own body shimmer with attentiveness. Just the memory of the way he’d walked across the grass, his body gleaming, his white hair billowing behind him, got her blood racing. She wondered if all the other women
Bloom waved his hand. “It’s completely unrelated. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to speak to what’s left of the press and make sure they understand that this won’t slow us down.” A great shout rose from the remaining press corps as he ascended the steps to the stage.
THERE WAS SOMETHING off about this whole situation, but Ethan couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It felt like theater, not like real life. Yet why would Bloom disrupt his own ceremony?
A woman engrossed in her iPhone walked past him, and he jumped a little, momentarily thinking it was Rachel. There was a definite resemblance in this woman’s body shape and the way she moved. But when she paused in mid-step to listen to something on her Bluetooth, he realized who she was: Rebecca Matre. He’d seen her picture at Rachel’s apartment.
For an instant, no more than a nanosecond, he pondered approaching her as a replacement for Rachel. Then he mentally kicked himself for even considering such a thing. Men were scum.
PATTY CAME DOWN the steps from the stage, pushed through the people milling there, and rushed up to Rachel. Her pale décolletage was flushed pink. “Wow, did you see that guy?”
“I think everybody saw him,” Rachel said.
“Was he as gorgeous up close as he was from the stage?”
“He was easy on the eyes,” Rachel agreed.
“The wives of all the big shots were looking at him the way a dog looks at a steak,” Patty said. Then she noticed Rachel’s distraction. “Are you all right?”
Rachel shook her head slightly. “Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s just …”
“What?”
Rachel looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard, then leaned close to Patty. “Do you remember what I told you about the lake spirits?”
Patty nodded. “He mentioned them, didn’t he?”
“Like he knows about them,” Rachel said. Like he knows them , she wanted to add.
“Maybe he was just being poetic,” Patty said. “ ‘Spirits,’ you know, like a nature religion, like paganism.”
“Maybe,” Rachel said. Then, gathering herself with an effort, she added, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll get my guitar,” Patty said, and scurried off.
Rachel wrapped her arms around herself. She felt different—wrong, somehow—as if the encounter with the strange man had upset her internal bearings. But she hadn’t touched him or even spoken to him; all they had shared was a momentary glance.
In that moment, though, she felt as if she’d been laid bare for him. And perhaps the discomfort swirling in her now was because he had seen her for what she was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
R ACHEL AND PATTY parted at Duncan Street. Patty walked up the tree-lined avenue to her student apartment, blithely whistling “Indian Reservation,” and Rachel headed back to the diner. By the time she got there, Helena and Roya had already cleaned up and prepared for the next day, and Jimmy was just locking up. There was too much competition for the dinner crowd, so the diner served only breakfast and lunch. Rachel took a cursory look at the register receipts, saw no problems, and went upstairs.
After carefully locking her door, checking her blinds, and feeding Tainter so he’d stay off her lap, she took the computer from her closet and got online. The Lady posted a quick recap of the events at the park, and she was careful to phrase it so that it sounded like it might have come from someone involved, not just a spectator.
When she finished, she reread what she’d written and yawned. Then she deleted most of the adjectives, leaving only “handsome” and “scantily clad” to describe Kyle Stillwater. Otherwise it read like the overheated writing in a romance novel.
Yet even as she did this, she felt her own body shimmer with attentiveness. Just the memory of the way he’d walked across the grass, his body gleaming, his white hair billowing behind him, got her blood racing. She wondered if all the other women
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