Her pout would make any trout proud. “He usually calls to make excuses,” she says. “Dennis has endless excuses. He vould tell me some story: he is off meeting VIP investors, blah blah blah.” She waves a hand. “But this time . . .” Just for an instant, her bottom lip quivers. “No call. No text. Nothing.” She wags a single, glinting finger and leans closer. “But don’t vorry. I vill find him.”
CHAPTER 7 :
DINING A DEUX
L’Escargot D’Or is smaller than I expected, with a cozy, almost homely feel. There are little tables draped in crisp white tablecloths and tea lights shining from cut-glass holders. The walls are covered in old Mucha prints and black and white photos of Paris. Since we got here so early, Quinn and I snagged a window seat. The facades of the old downtown buildings glow jewel-toned under the street lamps while the last office-workers scurry homeward.
Settling across from my best friend I feel a wave of happiness. Since Abby’s birth two months ago we haven’t seen much of each other. While I love my new goddaughter and am thrilled for Quinn, I fear we’re drifting apart. Quinn seems distracted these days, too consumed by new motherhood to know what’s happening in my life. I miss her, my best friend since kindergarten.
As I shrug off my coat, Quinn meets my smile with her own. She looks tired, dark dents beneath her blue eyes, her blonde hair, so full and glossy when she was pregnant, now dry and ragged. I know her husband, Bruce, had to talk her into coming out tonight. Both of us are concerned: Quinn hasn’t seemed her upbeat, confident self since Abby was born. Not having had a baby myself, it’s hard to know whether this is normal postpartum tiredness or something darker. Shouldn’t this be the best time of her life? She seems so down lately.
Hopefully, tonight will be what she needs—a chance to dress up and relax, with no breastfeeding or poo-talk. In a loose black dress and low heels, she’s even dredged up some lipstick, the first cosmetic I’ve seen her wear since we went to prom, a million years ago. While she rifles through her purse for her phone, I study my oldest friend. Despite her efforts, Quinn looks wan, her dress unironed and a splotch of what might be baby puke near her left shoulder. Her citrusy perfume has a faint undertone of sour milk, with notes of wet wipes.
After checking her messages, Quinn spreads her napkin over her still slightly rounded belly. She glances around the near-empty restaurant. Her eyes meet mine. There’s a brief uncomfortable pause, like she doesn’t know what to say, or would rather be elsewhere. Then she gathers herself and manages a smile. “I’ve always wanted to come here, but burgers and pizza are more Bruce’s style. Wait, didn’t you just come here with Josh a couple nights ago?”
“We were supposed to,” I say, grateful she remembered. “But it didn’t happen.” I tell her about my mom showing up at my door, all aflutter, and our failed attempt to find her friend and client, Daphne Dane.
“The cookie lady?” says Quinn. She stifles a yawn.
“Yeah, she’s one of my mom’s best friends.”
“Mmm, I remember meeting her,” says Quinn. “Tall woman.” This is coming from Quinn, who’s five ten. But she’s right, Daphne Dane is an Amazon, or rather Glamazon, like an eighties supermodel. Everything from her hair to her smile to her jewelry is larger than life. I wonder where she’s gone. Despite Colin’s reassurance, my mom won’t stop fretting.
“So what’s new?” asks Quinn. She toys with her phone. “You still out on hot dates every other night?”
I shrug. Dating-wise, things have slowed since September, when my relationships with Josh and Colin started to simmer. Colin is flat out at work. And Josh . . . I swallow hard. He hasn’t called to reschedule our date. Has he lost interest in me? A guy that rich, charming, and good looking must spend his days wading through a sea of interested women. Maybe he’s found someone better—or at least easier.
Rather than share this self-pitying thought with Quinn, who’s definitely on Team Colin, I focus on work. “I have a new client,” I say. I describe Vonda Butts—Russia’s sexiest export since that hot blonde tennis star. This reminds me why I’m here. Vonda gave me a photo of her husband, Dennis, who looks surprisingly nondescript, given his bombshell wife. When I get the chance I’m going to quiz the staff. Someone might remember seeing him here, getting romantic with some other woman.
As if on cue, our server appears—a skinny, shifty-looking young guy with a ghost of a mustache. His name tag identifies him as “Jean-Luc” and his accent as Anglo-Canadian. I bet he’s called Dave and inherited the name tag from some long-departed Quebecois. He’s bearing a wine list and a wicker bread basket.
“Evening, ladies,” he says. Quinn practically rips the bread from his hands. She starts to toss chunks into her mouth. The waiter passes me the wine list.
Keeping a wary eye on Quinn as she tears into her second slice, Jean-Luc launches into tonight’s specials: Moules Marinieres made with local honey mussels. Confit de canard, which I actually recognize, and something called Flamiche that Quinn has him explain. She orders that, plus three more dishes, before Jean-Luc can put shaky pen to notepad. His eyes goggle.
“Ah, maybe we can share?” I suggest to Quinn.
She looks aghast. “I’m starving,” she says. “Breastfeeding does that.” TMI for the waiter.
After ordering a carafe of red (no need to go wild and get a bottle, as Quinn won’t drink much) and my own helpings of mussels and Flamiche—a kind of puff pastry quiche, stuffed with leek—I whip out my photo of Dennis Butts.
“One more thing, Jean-Luc.” I hold the picture aloft. “Any chance you recognize this guy? He ate here about a week back.”
Jean-Luc peers at the photo, as does Quinn.
“Who’s he?” she asks me.
“The husband of one of my clients.”
Jean-Luc wipes his fingers on his dark green apron before taking the photo. “Hmmm, I’m not sure.”
“He was with a woman,” I prompt.
“Ahhh. Ah!” He nods, his ghost-mustache twitching. “Yeah, I remember him.” He frowns. “Lousy tipper.”
“And the woman?”
“Older,” he says. “Like fifty-something? Attractive. Blonde.” His narrow forehead crinkles in concentration. “I recognized her from somewhere.”
I nod, hopefully. “You knew her?”
“No, I didn’t know her,” he says. “But she looked familiar. Like maybe from TV? An actress or a newsreader?” He peers toward the door, which has opened to emit a couple walking arm-in-arm. The smiling hostess leads them to a low-lit table near the back. “Or a politician? She looked,” he shrugs. “Important. Now, excuse me.” He nods toward his new table and hands me back Dennis’s photo.
Quinn pinches it out of my fingers and squints at it. “Why’re you asking about him? No wait, let me guess.” She shakes her head. “He’s cheating on his wife. Right? And you’re trying to find the other woman.”
I spread my own napkin across my lap and try to decide how much to tell Quinn. While I shouldn’t divulge details of my cases, she’s known me for so long she always knows what’s up anyway. Given how preoccupied she’s seemed of late, her nosiness is a relief. This is the Quinn I know and love: always chock full of questions and opinions.