Read Online This Doesn't Happen in the Movies by Renee Pawlish - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Renee Pawlish
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fingers to stock a jewelry store.
“Excuse me. Emergency,” I mumbled as I picked up the receiver that Amanda was using moments before.
“Asshole,” the girl said and walked off.
“Once a day and twice on Sundays,” I said, with a curt nod. She looked fiercely at me.
I looked for a redial button, but there wasn’t one. Obviously, I thought, not on a pay phone.
“Damn,” I said, and received a glare from an elderly lady who could’ve added diamonds to the teenager’s jewelry store. I smiled at her and walked off.
So I hadn’t found out who Amanda called, and now I didn’t know where she was. Great.
CHAPTER TEN
A calculated guess took me back to Lone Tree, where I found Amanda’s car, parked in a space close to the building. After a couple of hours, I was rewarded with only sore muscles and an intense case of boredom. I left her car there and spent the rest of my evening shooting pool with the Goofball Brothers.
I followed Amanda back to the club on Sunday, where she stayed for the entire day. Monday morning found me again parked near her house, hoping this time for a day more exciting than the daily sabbatical to the country club.
A storm front moving over the mountains made it colder, and the forecast called for more snow. I waited with the engine running, hoping nosy neighbors wouldn’t notice me. At twelve o’clock on the nose Amanda’s Lexus came into view. She seemed to be a creature of habit. I followed her to the club, dreading another day sitting in the 4-Runner. But after a few bored, slow hours, Amanda finally emerged, retrieved her car, and drove off.
The Lexus barreled onto I-25 and continued north. I barely had time to wonder where Amanda was headed before she turned into a gas station, the kind that also had a convenience store with it. She parked near the entrance and dashed inside, returning a few minutes later with a magazine. She got back in her car and drove out of the lot, with me still tagging along.
I puzzled over this development as I followed the Lexus to the Washington Park neighborhood, known for expensive homes near a spacious park. Amanda drove around a couple of blocks, to a posh little Italian restaurant on Clarkson Street called Patini’s.
I parked across and down the street from her, and watched as she left her car near the restaurant and went in, the magazine rolled up in her hand. It was early, just after five, but it looked like the restaurant already had quite a crowd, especially for a Monday evening. I got out, crossed the street, and walked by the front window. I could see her through the glass, smiling in a cute way to a twenty-something looking waiter as he showed her to a two-seater table near the bar. She sat down, and I saw that she was carrying a comic book, not a magazine. She placed it in the middle of the table.
I looked on as she ordered not only a meal, but two drinks as well, chatting with the waiter each time he came to the table. He was tall and thin, wearing tight black jeans with a spotless white apron tied around his waist. But his rear end was at her eye level, so each time he walked away, she paid attention to it. Her husband didn’t seem to be on her mind right now, but then he really hadn’t been all along.
The bill finally arrived, and she paid with a credit card. After she signed the receipt, she took one copy for herself, turned the other over and wrote something on it, then got up and pulled on her coat. She lifted a hand in a coy wave at her waiter and walked out. The waiter waved back at her, came to the table and took the receipt, immediately reading the message on it. Amanda came out the door. I turned toward the window, staring at the waiter inside, with my back toward Amanda. An elderly couple seated by the window stared back at me in surprise. I ignored them as I waited for Amanda to discover me. But she walked quickly to her car, not
“Excuse me. Emergency,” I mumbled as I picked up the receiver that Amanda was using moments before.
“Asshole,” the girl said and walked off.
“Once a day and twice on Sundays,” I said, with a curt nod. She looked fiercely at me.
I looked for a redial button, but there wasn’t one. Obviously, I thought, not on a pay phone.
“Damn,” I said, and received a glare from an elderly lady who could’ve added diamonds to the teenager’s jewelry store. I smiled at her and walked off.
So I hadn’t found out who Amanda called, and now I didn’t know where she was. Great.
CHAPTER TEN
A calculated guess took me back to Lone Tree, where I found Amanda’s car, parked in a space close to the building. After a couple of hours, I was rewarded with only sore muscles and an intense case of boredom. I left her car there and spent the rest of my evening shooting pool with the Goofball Brothers.
I followed Amanda back to the club on Sunday, where she stayed for the entire day. Monday morning found me again parked near her house, hoping this time for a day more exciting than the daily sabbatical to the country club.
A storm front moving over the mountains made it colder, and the forecast called for more snow. I waited with the engine running, hoping nosy neighbors wouldn’t notice me. At twelve o’clock on the nose Amanda’s Lexus came into view. She seemed to be a creature of habit. I followed her to the club, dreading another day sitting in the 4-Runner. But after a few bored, slow hours, Amanda finally emerged, retrieved her car, and drove off.
The Lexus barreled onto I-25 and continued north. I barely had time to wonder where Amanda was headed before she turned into a gas station, the kind that also had a convenience store with it. She parked near the entrance and dashed inside, returning a few minutes later with a magazine. She got back in her car and drove out of the lot, with me still tagging along.
I puzzled over this development as I followed the Lexus to the Washington Park neighborhood, known for expensive homes near a spacious park. Amanda drove around a couple of blocks, to a posh little Italian restaurant on Clarkson Street called Patini’s.
I parked across and down the street from her, and watched as she left her car near the restaurant and went in, the magazine rolled up in her hand. It was early, just after five, but it looked like the restaurant already had quite a crowd, especially for a Monday evening. I got out, crossed the street, and walked by the front window. I could see her through the glass, smiling in a cute way to a twenty-something looking waiter as he showed her to a two-seater table near the bar. She sat down, and I saw that she was carrying a comic book, not a magazine. She placed it in the middle of the table.
I looked on as she ordered not only a meal, but two drinks as well, chatting with the waiter each time he came to the table. He was tall and thin, wearing tight black jeans with a spotless white apron tied around his waist. But his rear end was at her eye level, so each time he walked away, she paid attention to it. Her husband didn’t seem to be on her mind right now, but then he really hadn’t been all along.
The bill finally arrived, and she paid with a credit card. After she signed the receipt, she took one copy for herself, turned the other over and wrote something on it, then got up and pulled on her coat. She lifted a hand in a coy wave at her waiter and walked out. The waiter waved back at her, came to the table and took the receipt, immediately reading the message on it. Amanda came out the door. I turned toward the window, staring at the waiter inside, with my back toward Amanda. An elderly couple seated by the window stared back at me in surprise. I ignored them as I waited for Amanda to discover me. But she walked quickly to her car, not
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