“I haven’t even had a beer since Sunday,” he’d told her last night.
He’d learned his lesson, he’d said. He’d go to therapy with her as she’d asked him to do in Houston. He’d do whatever it took to have her back in his life. Looking into his brown eyes, she really believed him.
But this morning Jake seemed different, jumpy and preoccupied. He’d gone to the window and peeked out several times while he prepared the frittata. At one point he’d carried the mixing bowl with chilies, red peppers, and cheese to the window, stirring as he walked.
She looked at him across the table, breathed the smell of warm tortillas. His face was tense. He’d drawn in his lower lip, ready to break some news. But what? After all this, was he dumping her? Not after last night, she thought. Maybe his talk at the expo didn’t go well. She decided not to ask, in case it was a sore spot.
“Is something wrong?” she asked him instead.
He flexed his fingers, a tension-relieving gesture she’d seen often. “Nah, I’m just rehashing that Liverpool jump I didn’t make a couple of weeks ago.”
The stadium jump over a small pool of water, she remembered. MC knew Jake was evading the truth, but she wasn’t going to push him. “You got a second-place ribbon though, right?”
“Yeah. That has to do.”
MC knew how important winning was to Jake Powers, the only son of L. Edward Powers of big oil fame. The limos in MC’s childhood carried grieving families to and from Holy Family Cemetery; the limos in Jake’s young life were his regular transportation to school and riding lessons, to the airport for trips to Paris and London. He’d told MC how hard it was for his father to accept Jake’s decision to be “just a scientist.” He was still on Jake’s case, nagging him to use his science simply as a stepping stone to taking over the company one day.
“Want to hear a horse story?” Jake asked.
“Sure,” MC said. She loved watching Jake and Spartan Q perform, and had often videotaped the shows, but she’d made a personal vow never to get up on a horse. Too scary.
“Remember that old guy you met—Andy Hunter?”
“The one who owns all those European horses?”
“Right. He owns, maybe, ten Hannoverians. Well, he killed one of them for the insurance money. The horse was not performing to expectations, and these guys are ruthless. He gave the horse an electric shock, which looks like a heart attack.” Jack used his butter knife to mime a stab in the heart. “Awful. The guy’s in jail, which is where people who hurt animals belong.”
“How did they find out about it?”
“Some kid who works for him was rolling around in the hay with his girlfriend and saw the whole thing.”
Jake’s eyes darted to the window all during the story, and he’d hardly touched his frittata.
“Jake, these horse stories are fascinating, but tell me what’s making you nervous.”
He breathed heavily. “I’m not sure. But something’s up, MC, something illegal or immoral or … something. I have to do a little more investigating before I start pointing fingers.”
MC put down her fork, which was filled with what would have been her first bite of potato and sour cream. “You must know more than that, Jake. And why do you keep looking out the window?”
MC hadn’t told Jake about either of the Wayne Gallen incidents, not the knocking on her basement window and certainly not the near-attack in the parking lot. She figured Wayne had been served the restraining order by now, and it was likely that he’d have headed back to Texas rather than be embarrassed by police action again.
Now she wondered if Jake’s nervousness had anything to do with whatever Wayne had warned her about. She thought about showing Jake the email from Alex Simpson.
“I’ve had this creepy feeling that someone’s following me ever since I started looking into this,” Jake said.
Now MC’s eyes darted toward the window. Was this all part of Wayne’s campaign of fear? Was he now harassing her boyfriend? “Have you by any chance seen Wayne Gallen around?” she asked.
Jake started, frowned. “Don’t tell me Gallen followed you to Revere?” He banged the table with his fist, startling MC. “He implied as much to me a week or so ago, you know. Said he’d heard a certain Massachusetts girl was now single again.” He pounded the table again, setting the plates rattling, and MC worried that the old Jake Powers was making a comeback.
MC played with her fork, twirling the stringy melted cheese around the tines. “Jake, don’t worry about Wayne. It’s not as if I’m the slightest bit attracted to him. Except for his mustache, of course.”