At Cecilia’s apartment in Queens, David walked her to the door with the umbrella tilted completely over her.
He returned smiling like a man coming back from a first date.
The smile faded when he saw my face in the mirror.
“You’re still mad?” he said. “Grow up, Cat.”
For the first time in twelve years, I did not answer.
That frightened him more than shouting would have.
Three nights later, I found the perfume bottle under the passenger seat.
Pink Fantasy.
Cheap. Sweet. Young.
The seat had been reclined almost flat. My Chanel had been erased by hers.
David had told me he was flying to Chicago for an emergency inspection.
But a winery in the Hamptons posted a photo that afternoon.