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.”“It was very last minute.No choice.The Realtor was very busy—”“Very busy,” added Amanda.She tied the sash of her coat while trying to remain hidden behind John.“You only said you were thinking about moving, not that you had decided.When are you coming back?”“No idea,” said John, ushering Amanda through the door.She headed for the car at a near-run.John followed with the suitcase.“And what are we supposed to do?” Fran cried from the porch.“Stay as long as you like,” said John.“Good-bye, Fran.Good-bye, Tim!”“See you at the wedding!” Amanda called over her shoulder.She climbed into the car and slammed the door.John glanced behind him.Fran was marching down the walkway, a one-woman armada, her bosom an impregnable force resting on a shelf of gut.By the time John hit the driver’s seat, Amanda had pulled down her sunshade and was pretending to search through her purse.“Gun it, baby,” she said, without looking up.John did, screeching backward into the road and then forward and out.Somewhere down the road, as he finally did up his seat belt, he asked Amanda, “What wedding? What are you talking about?”“My cousin Ariel is getting married in three weeks.”“That’s awfully fast.”“It’s of the shotgun variety, although officially we don’t know that.Are we really going to L.A.?”“No.We’re going to Kansas.”“Oh.”“But after that, you can go to L.A.If that’s what you really want.”“Oh God.” Amanda dropped her head back and stared out the windshield.They pulled up at a stoplight, and she was silent for the entire red.“Are you sure?” she said when the light finally changed.“As long as you’re really sure this is what you want.”John glanced at her a couple of times, the second time in alarm, because tears were streaming down her face.But when she reached over and laid a hand on the back of his neck, her expression became almost beatific.“I do.I really, really do.But are you sure you’re okay with this?”“Yes.”They were both reflective for a moment.Then John reached over and patted her thigh.“Yes.I am.”6John and Amanda’s one-hour layover in Cincinnati was extended first by twenty minutes, then by ten, and then by another fifteen, until eventually it stretched to six hours.Weather was the first excuse given, although the sky was perfectly clear.Traffic in O’Hare was blamed next, although John pointed out to the gate attendant that they were not at O’Hare.It did not matter—apparently the logjam of holiday fliers had a domino effect.John was apoplectic: he was now two full days behind in starting his investigation.As a final insult, Cat had somehow managed to arrive the night before even though John had booked the first available flight.She immediately informed Elizabeth of her coup, copying John on the email: “Here and settled.Will make contacts while awaiting John.” She must have flown standby on the red-eye.John had visions of some hapless salesman trussed and gagged in a maintenance closet at the airport, bereft of his boarding pass.Cat was leaning against the brick wall near the cozy fireplace in the lobby of the Residence Inn when John and Amanda arrived.It was the hotel’s “social hour,” and Cat was taking advantage of the free wine while emanating waves of unapproachability.It was as though she had an invisible cloaking device: other guests would wander too close and suddenly veer off, looking stunned.“Cat.”“John.”“You remember Amanda?”“Of course,” Cat said, examining Amanda and offering a limp hand.“So nice to see you again.Do you have family here?” She cocked her head slightly and smiled.“No,” said Amanda.Cat blinked a few times, inviting Amanda to elaborate.Amanda blinked back.Cat finally tore her gaze away.“Well, I should let you get checked in,” she said, and wandered off in search of a refill.John sighed.Undoubtedly Elizabeth would know of Amanda’s presence by nightfall, and his expense report would be examined accordingly.After a very quick discussion about whether to invite Cat, they went in search of a reasonably priced place to eat (Elizabeth had made it clear that since the hotel rooms had kitchenettes, the paper wouldn’t cover restaurant meals).“So,” Amanda declared over margaritas and wings, “do you know what my mother said to me last night?”John sawed his overdone steak.“That I’m a no-good lout and you should leave me?”“Quite the contrary.She told me I should get on with it because my eggs are getting past their sell-by date.Can you believe that?”“Yes.Absolutely.”Amanda’s eyes widened.“What?”John recognized his mistake instantly.“No,” he said emphatically.“No, of course not.I mean I believe your mother said that.She would, wouldn’t she?”Amanda sighed in agreement and reached into the basket of wings.She extracted one, holding it between two fingers like a miniature corncob.She surveyed it carefully and then took a bite.“So you don’t think they are?”“What, your eggs? No, I don’t.”She chewed for a second, looked far away, and dragged her glass toward her.It was absurdly huge, the size of a fishbowl.She ran the tiny red straw around and through the ice cubes.“When we have kids, do you suppose I’ll turn into my mother?”“You could never turn into your mother,” he said through a mouthful of steak.“Your mother is a horror.Your mother is Godzilla.And you, my dear, are perfection.” He pointed at her with his fork.It was the kind of establishment where you could do that [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]