"That bastard," she said, looking away.

"You've got to give him a chance to explain."

"Right. Sure."

The waiter arrived with their food.

"I just lost my appetite," said Chris.

"Do you want to leave?"

She started doodling again on her napkin. "I don't know."

They'd driven separately. "Look, I can get this stuff wrapped for takeout and you can meet me at the station. We can eat lunch there. Maybe sticking around here isn't a good idea."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Lunch is on me, kiddo. Do you know how to get to WTWN?"

She shook her head.

Bram borrowed her pen and quickly drew a map on his napkin. "I'll meet you there. Are you okay to drive?"

"Fine."

But she wasn't fine, and they both knew it.

Bram watched her pick up her purse and leave the table. He wondered if she'd walk over and confront Phil, but instead, she skirted her way around the edge of the room and left without saying a word.

Bram felt immensely sorry for her. He called the waiter over and asked for the food to be boxed up. As he waited, he pulled Chris's napkin over in front of him. She'd drawn an X through "Mrs. Phil Banks." Underneath, she'd written the name "Del." And then the words "Stored on Old Mill Road." Bram wondered what that was all about. It was probably meaningless in the scheme of things, but all the same, he slipped the napkin into his pocket.

18.

Chris drove to the station in a fog of incomprehension. In her heart, she couldn't believe that Phil would cheat on her, but with her own two eyes she'd seen something else-something terrible but true. He was with another woman, and not just in a friendly way. To Chris, the woman looked hard and old, and most definitely cheap. Oh, she was wearing expensive clothes, but she seemed easy and even a little desperate, like Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate.

Chris sat in an uncomfortable chair waiting for Bram, but she just couldn't concentrate. She'd for sure make a mess of it if she met Victoria Svensvold today. She was already way beyond nervous to meet such an icon of the cooking world. Chris felt as if she might break into tears at any moment-and wouldn't that impress a potential employer. No, there was no use waiting around. She wrote Bram a note, telling him that she was still interested in the job, and maybe she could meet with Ms. Svensvold another time. She told him she was really sorry, but seeing Phil with another woman had upset her and she needed time to get herself together. She thanked him for lunch, and for being such a good friend, and said she'd be in touch.

What Chris needed to do was go back to the restaurant and wait for Phil to come out. And then, well, she'd play it by ear. Maybe she'd confront him, or maybe she wouldn't. What she wanted more than anything was to see them together again, to confirm in her mind what she'd just seen.

Once back at the Speakeasy Cafe, Chris quickly located Phil's black Corvette in the restaurant's lot. Parking her Escort across the street, and making sure she had a clear view of the front door, she waited. Forty minutes later, Phil and the woman emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight. Phil was chewing on a toothpick, his hand on the back of the woman's neck as they walked to his car. There was no more kissing or whispering in her ear, but they were obviously an intimate pair. Phil had placed his hand on Chris's neck in exactly the same way when they walked around. Sometimes he'd lay his arm across her shoulders and she'd put her hand in his back pocket. She loved the closeness, the feel of his body against hers, the way they fit together so perfectly. Tears welled up behind her eyes, but she refused to cry.

Phil rolled his car to the edge of the lot, then headed east down Alton Road. Chris followed at a distance, careful not to lose them, but careful also to avoid being seen. A few minutes later, Phil turned onto Standish, then left onto Poke Avenue. He stopped in front of a small, one-story house in the middle of the block. Chris drove on down Standish, quickly circling the block. By the time she got back to the house, they'd gone inside.

More waiting. Chris parked at the end of the block and turned off the motor. She wished she could turn off her imagination as easily. Were they making love? Was Phil undressing her, touching her the way he touched Chris? Did he love this woman? That seemed even more horrific than the idea that they were physically intimate. She knew men could separate sex and love. Was that what this was? Just a little afternoon roll in the hay? And if so, how long had it been going on? Did the woman know Phil was married now? Maybe Chris was supposed to put up with this kind of crap, but the idea that she could never trust Phil again, never truly believe him when he said he was going to work, made her sick to her stomach. She knew other women lived with men who cheated on them, but this wasn't the Hollywood romance Chris had envisioned. And she wasn't sure she could settle for anything less.

A little over an hour later, Phil came out of the house. She was too far away to see his expression, but at least the woman wasn't with him. He got into his Corvette, gunned the motor, and drove away.

Chris sat in her Escort, staring at the woman's house, deciding whether or not she should bang on the front door and demand to know what was going on. The hurt she'd felt just a short while ago had quickly changed to anger. If Phil was on his way home to feed her more lies, when he arrived she wouldn't be there. If he got mad, too freaking bad. She had somewhere else she wanted to go before she returned home.

Fifteen minutes later, Chris pulled into a gas station. She needed gas and a map. While talking to the guy behind the counter, she learned that Old Mill Road ran along the Mississippi River just across the Roberts Street Bridge in St. Paul. Checking the map, she saw that it wasn't a very long road. She scouted out the best way to get there, then got back on Highway 10, heading for downtown St. Paul.

Chris thought back to the conversation she'd had earlier in the day with the man named Del. He said that Phil was a "very very bad man." If Phil had secrets about the women in his life, maybe he had others. And that's what Chris intended to find out.

After crossing the bridge, she drove two blocks until she came to Old Mill Road. Hanging a quick right, she saw that she was heading into an industrial area. Del's message said that he knew what Phil had stored on Old Mill Road. But that could be anything. Phil's construction company owned lots of heavy equipment, and what they didn't own, they rented. This was exactly the kind of area where Banks Construction probably did a lot of business.

As she whizzed along, she glanced at the names of the businesses. And that's when she saw it. Old Mill Road Mini Storage. Could that be it? She hung a left and drove into the parking lot. The entire area was cordoned off with a high chain-link fence capped with razor wire. Two heavy gates, an entrance and an exit, flanked either side of the main building.

Chris got out of her car and looked around. She figured there must be over three or four hundred storage garages on the property. She'd heard about these personal storage places before, but she'd never seen one up close.

Entering the front office, she found a middle-aged man in jeans and a sweatshirt sitting at a beat-up desk behind a tall Formica counter. He was working at a computer. Everything in the office looked dusty and worn, as if nobody really cared about the appearance.

She cleared her throat to get him to look up. "Excuse me. Your name wouldn't be Del, would it?"

He squinted at her through the smoke from his cigarette. "Mike."

"Ah, hi. Does a guy named Del work here?" It was a guess, but she thought it was worth a try.

"Nope."

"Well, then, maybe you could help me."

"Maybe. What you need?"

"My husband, Philip Banks, gave me something he wants me to put in his storage unit. This is the right place, isn't it? He does rent a garage here?"

The guy turned back to the computer. "Repeat the name."

"Phil Banks."

"Phone number?"

"555-595-2098."

He tapped a few more times before turning back to her. "Yup-2298."

"How do I get in?"

"He give you the security code?"

"No. He said you would."

"Can't, lady. Against policy. It's all self-serve here. Out at the front gate, you type in the code, the gate swings back, and you're in. Same to get out. Everybody puts their own personal lock on the garage, so we got nothin' to do with that."

"I've got the key," she said, holding up the key she used on her locker at Phil's health club. "Just no access code."

"Sorry. You tell your husband he's got to give it to you personally. You wanna call him, you can use our phone." He nodded to the one on the counter.

Chris had to think fast. "He's in a meeting."

"Well, then, I'd say you're out of luck."

"You mean there's no way I can get in? My husband's going to be really pissed at me if I don't do what he says." She set her purse on the counter and took out her billfold.

"Save it," said the guy, tapping the ash off his cigarette. "If I gave it to you, I could lose my job."

"But you don't know my husband."

"Nope. And sounds like I should keep it that way."

Realizing there was nothing else she could do, she thanked him and left. On her way to her car, it occurred to her that, at the very least, she'd proved what Del had alluded to this morning was true. Phil did have something stored on Old Mill Road. She was learning fast that Phil was the kind of guy who liked to keep secrets. One way or another, she intended to find that security code. And when she did, she'd be back.

19.

Sophie spent the afternoon shopping at Manderbach's department store with her mother, hoping to find a baby gift for some friends who'd just had their first child. She returned to her office around five. Checking her voice mail, she found that Nathan had called. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she listened to the message: "Sophie, hi. It's me. Elaine and I met with Margie Baldric this afternoon. I thought I'd let you know that it went well. We're planning on doing the wedding in mid-December-over at the Rookery Club. I like that place. I understand you and Bram do, too. Anyway, Elaine wants this very formal affair, but I'm leaning toward something less grand. I thought maybe you could talk to Elaine and see if you can get her to back off on some of the formality. You know me, I'm just a country guy at heart. I'd get married in the woods if she'd agree to it, but hey, whatever makes her happy. Except, I don't want to wear a tux. I don't mean to put you in the middle between Elaine and me, but I could use the help. I'll keep you posted on how everything progresses. Great seeing you today, Soph. You looked fantastic in that outfit-very Jackie Kennedy. Very tailored and powerful. Oh, and sexy, too. Always that. What was the perfume you were wearing? I'd like to get some for Elaine. Later."

"Yuck," said Sophie, deleting the message. She had no intention of calling Elaine, and she wasn't interested in hearing Nathan's opinions of her. The whole situation was starting to make her uncomfortable. She was sick and tired of trying to spare Nathan's feelings. From now on, for his own good, she had to get tough with him. He needed to know that he was no longer welcome in her life on any level. Maybe he was the kind of guy who just had to hear it a few times-loudly-to get the point.

When she entered her apartment a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Ethel, her black mutt, lying on a pillow under the dining room table. Ethel was fast asleep, snoring audibly.

"Bram?" she called, wondering if he was home yet from the station.

"In here."

She followed his voice into the living room, finding him sprawled on the couch, reading a Newsweek. "How come Ethel's up here?" Normally, she stayed down in the lobby on her throne until early evening.

Flipping the magazine shut, he sat up. "There was an . . . incident."

"A what?"

He patted the seat next to him. "Come here." He narrowed his eyes and gave her a lecherous grin. "For a kiss you get the information you are seeking."

She matched his look. "You want a piece of me, huh?"

"We'll start with the kiss and then see what other pieces are available."

She sat down. After they'd said a proper hello, she asked the question again. "What incident?"

"Ethel barked."

"No."

"Yes. Wouldn't stop."

"Barked at what?"

"The bellboy who brought her up didn't really know. She just became terribly agitated and the concierge felt it was best to get her upstairs, away from the guests."

"But Ethel is the meekest, mildest, friendliest dog in the world."

"You mean she's generally too lazy to move anything other than her eyes, and she tolerates repetitive social interaction. Nice little doggy. Are you a good little doggy? Can you sit up? Can you shake hands?"

Ethel lurched her way into the room. She understood dog talk.

"Maybe it's her age," said Bram, watching her drop to the floor and begin to lick her paw.

"Meaning what?"

"Maybe she's becoming curmudgeonly."

"Not our Ethel."

"It happens."

Sophie couldn't believe it. If Ethel barked, she did so out of a sense of protection, of territoriality. "Someone frightened her. She has good instincts."

"She has terrible instincts. She adores your cousin Solo, who-forgive me for stating the obvious-is a sociopath with paranoid tendencies, and she won't go near your aunt Agnes, who is the dearest, sweetest woman in the world."

"Yes, well-"

"We may have to rethink our policy about having a hotel mascot."

"Look at her," said Sophie, her heart breaking.

Ethel's normally droopy eyes were even droopier. Her baleful expression bordered on melodrama. Ethel knew how to suffer. She was the Mildred Pierce of Dogdom.

"Not to change the subject," said Bram.

"No, please do."

"I'm not following that crisis at the Times Register as closely as I should. What was the name of the reporter who just got fired? Was it Del?"

She nodded. "Del Irazarian."

"I thought so."

"Why?"