Inferno by Cara Bristol
Chapter Four
She should choose the salad with grilled chicken, but the lunch specials scrawled on the whiteboard were tempting. Her mouth watered at the suggestion of chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes smothered in white gravy. Maybe she could splurge this once; comfort food would fortify her for the meeting with her ex.
Speak of the devil. The door opened, and he strolled in.
Although he had changed his appearance—he had grown a long straggly beard and had his neck inked—she’d recognize that shit-eating grin and swagger anywhere. He made a beeline for her table.
“You said this afternoon.” She’d purposely slipped away for lunch early.
“My business in Spokane finished sooner than expected.”
“You were supposed to call.” She scowled.
He straddled a chair and set a manila envelope on the table. “I did call. Nobody answered at the church.”
She’d spent the morning in the nave swapping out the hymnals, so she hadn’t heard the phone. Uncle Mike had been called away; a parishioner had gotten hit with a family crisis. She’d planned to tell him about the note but hadn’t had a chance. “You should have called my cell.”
He picked up the menu.
“What are you doing?” Her annoyance was out of proportion to the offense, but she disliked surprises—at least the kind Trenton delivered.
Before he could respond, Millie approached with pad in hand. “Did you decide what you want?”
“I’ll have the chicken-fried steak lunch special,” she said.
“How about you?” Millie looked at Trenton.
“He’s not staying,” Geneva said.
“I’ll have what she’s having.” He handed over the menu.
The diner owner’s penciled brows arched then leveled. “Anything to drink?”
“Iced tea,” Geneva said.
“Water will be fine for me,” Trenton replied.
After Millie had delivered their order to the cook, she brought their drinks, and then they were alone.
Trenton appraised her with an approving gaze. “You’re looking good.”
“You’re not. What the hell did you do to yourself? This”—she waved disparagingly at the messy beard—“is okay at the bank?” He was a loan officer! Banking was still a conservative institution. Previously clean-shaven, Trenton wore button-down shirts to work and khakis and a polo shirt on his days off. Not holey jeans, a distressed leather jacket, and a T-shirt with a rock band on the chest.
“I don’t work at the bank anymore. I’m in real estate now. I’m flipping properties.”
“Speaking of which, I assume those are the escrow papers?” She eyed the manila envelope.
“Yes.” He removed a sheaf of papers from the envelope and handed them to her.
The documents were pretty much boilerplate, but she paid close attention to the terms that had been filled in. She didn’t think Trenton would outright cheat her, but she wouldn’t put anything past him at this point.
“You’re being very careful,” he observed.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I’m sorry for the way things worked out. For how I handled things. You deserved better.”
“You’re damn right I did,” she retorted. The papers appeared to be on the up-and-up, so she snagged her purse to find something to write with.
Trenton produced a pen and passed it to her.
She signed and initialed on the lines as marked by colored flags. “Don’t our signatures have to be notarized?”
Trenton pursed his lips. “You’re right. I don’t suppose you’ve got a notary in this town?”
“I’m a notary public!” Millie chimed in, confirming Geneva’s hunch the diner owner eavesdropped on customer conversations.
“There you go!” he said.
After wiping her hands on her apron, Millie unearthed her notary book and stamp from under the counter, bustled over, and settled at their table.
She and Trenton produced their ID, Millie dutifully eyed their driver licenses, stamped next to their signatures on the escrow document, and then recorded in her book.
Millie left, and Trenton handed Geneva a set of papers, which she folded and put in her purse, and then he tucked his back into the envelope.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I think I was having a premature midlife crisis. I felt stifled, and I lost sight of what was important.”
“I stifled you?” If she hadn’t handed him back the papers, she would have thrown them in his face.
“No! You were the important part.” He plucked at his T-shirt. “I hated my job, and I allowed my dissatisfaction to infect other parts of my life.” He reached across the table to cover her fist, resting on the table. “I deeply regret the way I acted. We had something good, and I threw it all away.”
She extracted her hand and laced her fingers on her lap. The conversation had taken a bad turn. “There’s no going back. I’ve moved on,” she said to head off any potential misunderstanding.
He twisted his mouth. “My loss.”
Millie delivered lunch. “Getcha anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Geneva answered.
He shook his head, and Millie moved on to another table. “The old Trenton would have forged your signature again.”
“And kept the money.”
“And kept the money,” he agreed. “When escrow closes, you’ll get a check. You can have it sooner if you do direct deposit.”
Call her wary, but no way would she give him bank account numbers. “I’ll wait by the mailbox.”
His lips quirked in a familiar smile set in a face she hardly recognized. Old Trenton, new Trenton—she didn’t know who the heck he was, but then she never had. She’d been married for ten years to a stranger. He’d done her a favor by dumping her.
With nothing left to say, she dug into chicken-fried steak smothered in thick, creamy gravy. It came with a mound of fluffy mashed potatoes and a serving of carrots sautéed in butter. Basically, a heart attack on a plate, but damn it tasted good.
“This isn’t bad,” Trenton said after sampling his.
“For a diner in a little town that isn’t much to speak of, you mean.”
“I never understood the attraction for this place.”
Obviously. In ten years of marriage, he’d accompanied her to Argent once. “Aside from my family living here, the town is quaint and charming. The people are good-hearted.”
“Can’t offer much of a social life.”
“You’d be surprised,” she prevaricated, unwilling to admit to him the town was Deadsville as far as dating went. The only two “eligible” bachelors in Argent were eighty-year-old widowed Gus from the bait shop and the resident gay guy, who, while unmarried, was seeing somebody.
“Does that mean you’re seeing someone?”
“Yes.” She saw a lot of someones. Millie. Her friends from yoga class. Her uncle. Parishioners. The landlord. Mandy who’d opened the Inner Journey health and wellness center across the street.
“Been seeing him long?”
“A while.” She lied without any qualms. She didn’t owe Trenton Walker anything. Besides, not for a second would she allow him to entertain the notion the town or her life might be lacking.
“Good. I’m glad. That relieves a lot of my guilt.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said sarcastically.
Trenton studied her with a somber gaze. “Do you hate me, Geneva?”
She sighed. Her reply had been snarky, but she didn’t mean it. She had recovered from the hurt and betrayal and the resulting bitterness, too. While she’d be wise to remember how he’d treated her, she’d forgiven him. “No, I don’t hate you, Trenton. I hope you’ve found what you’re searching for. I do wish the best for you.”