Camila makes us a lunch of turkey sandwiches.
I wait at the large wooden table that seats eight in our dining room, feeling slightly preposterous to be sitting here all alone. I thought Camila would make me a sandwich and leave, but instead, she makes two sandwiches and puts her plate down next to mine. She brushes a stray lock of her glossy dark hair behind one ear as she joins me at the dining table.
“This is turkey a la Camila,” she says. “You’ll love it.”
I look down at the fairly ordinary appearing turkey sandwich on the table. It’s cut in half diagonally, the same way my mother used to cut sandwiches when she was still alive. I pick up the half and take a nibble.
“Wow,” I say. “This is delicious. What’s your secret?”
Camila gives another of her throaty laughs. “Actually, it’s this spread that Graham introduced me to. It’s like this crazy pesto guacamole sun-dried tomato thing. It’s amazing. Your husband has excellent taste. Even if he’s a crap cook.”
There’s an affectionate look on her face when she says his name. Even though I only really met Graham this morning, Camila has known him for an entire year. They know each other well.
And Camila is really beautiful.
I watch her chewing on her turkey sandwich out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if something ever happened between her and my husband. After all, I’m not exactly an ideal wife right now. Nobody would blame him if he had a moment of weakness…
No. I need to stop. I’ve got enough to worry about.
“Could we take Ziggy to the dog park after lunch?” I ask.
“Sure,” Camila says. “He loves it there.”
“Great.” I have to suppress my excitement. I certainly can’t tell Camila about the text messages I got this morning or give her any inkling that I’m meeting someone. “Thanks for taking us.”
“Hey, it’s my job.”
I take a nibble of my sandwich. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do I… ever remember Graham?”
Camila considers my question as she takes another bite of her turkey sandwich. She chews for what seems like an eternity. “Honestly? Almost never. Usually, you wake up thinking it’s about seven years ago.”
“Oh… That must be hard on him.”
She runs her tongue over her teeth. “The hardest part is when you talk about that guy Harry a lot.”
“He… Harry was my fiancé. I mean, before…” “Yeah. I know.”
I look into her big, brown eyes. What is the deal with those eyelashes? Does she have eyelash implants? “Do you know why we broke up?”
“I don’t know.” For the first time since I met her, Camila averts her eyes from mine. “Sorry, Tess.”
I can’t ignore the feeling that she’s lying to me. But there’s not much I can do. “It’s okay.”
“I know how hard this is.” She reaches out and places her hand on mine. Her palm is rough, which is a contrast with the silky smooth appearance of her skin. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to wake up and not know anyone around you. I mean, you must wonder if you can trust us.”
“A little,” I admit.
Camila thinks about it for a second, then she reaches for her purse, which is lying on the back of her chair. She rifles around until she comes up with her cell phone. It looks identical to mine, even though I am apparently very rich and
Camila can’t be nearly as affluent. Maybe these iPhones are more common than they used to be.
She messes with her phone for a few seconds, then she slides it across the table to me. The screen features a color photograph—a picture of me and Camila, which looks like she took it while holding the phone in the air. Her arm is slung around my shoulders, and we’re both smiling. And I look…
Happy. Actually happy. I can see it in my eyes.
“I took that a few months ago,” she tells me. “Just so you know I’m not lying about knowing you for a year.” Her plump lips twitch. “And so you believe that you don’t hate me usually.”
“I believe you.” “Sure.”
I do believe Camila. But that doesn’t change the fact that I need to shake her at the dog park.
I finish the last bites of my sandwich just as Camila finishes hers. She stands up to take our plates to the kitchen, but I beat her to it. I grab her plate and mine and bring them over to the sink. At least I can feel useful by clearing the table and loading the dishes in the dishwasher.
And while I’m at the sink, I reach into my pocket. I check the numbers written on my arm, then type them into my phone. I send off a quick text message:
Leaving soon for the dog park. The reply comes almost instantly: I’ll be there.
