Page 42 of Remember Me
Maddie, who was thrilled to stay home and have dinner with Scarlet, translated it for me. The Little Bit. A fitting name. I glance down at my plate of artfully arranged baby-sized samples of dishes I can’t even pronounce. Kayla tells me it’s a special gourmet dinner—from the chef-selected tasting menu. Trust me, I’m going to want an In-N-Out burger after we leave this joint. This frou-frou meal is strictly for the birds. I’m a man with a big appetite and this ain’t gonna cut it.
“Merci, chérie,”replies the beaming proprietor, a slight, dark-suited man with a handlebar mustache. “Can I get you something else?”
“Another Bellini would be wonderful.”
It’s her third. He turns to me. “And you,monsieur?”
“I’m fine.” I take a sip of my sparkling water.
The restaurateur’s eyes zoom in on Kayla’s ring as she lifts her flute to her lips.
“Ah, chérie, mes félications!”The sparkling three-carat diamond captures the light of the blazing fireplace we’re seated by. The restaurant’s most coveted table, which, of course, my fiancée had no problem snagging. For Kayla, the world is her oyster.
A wide toothy smile flashes on Kayla’s face. “Merci, Jacques!”
“And wheneezthe special day?”
My stomach knots. Kayla’s been pressuring me to lock a date, but for some reason I’ve procrastinated. Something I excel at.
We’ve only been engaged for a short time. A month. Our relationship was purely professional and platonic until one night four years after my wife’s passing Kayla seduced me. While the sex wasn’t great, it made me realize what I was missing. That Ihad needs. We began to have regular sex—appointment sex as Kayla calls it—at her place once a week. Afterward, she takes a hot bath alone and gets her beauty sleep while I go home to my daughter. Which is fine by me.
The art world began to perceive us as a couple. It was Kayla who proposed. Or should I say made a proposal. To get married and become the next powerhouse couple to take the art world by storm. To join the long list of others including, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, Jackson Pollack and Lee Krasner, Man Ray and Lee Miller. And to knock the reigning king and queen—John Currin and Rachel Feinstein—off their pedestals. Kayla wanted not only to conquer the art world... she wanted to rule it. She convinced me that we were perfect for each other. Me, the ruggedly handsome, mysteriously widowed abstract painter; she, the stunning golden girl promoter who can wrap anyone around her finger. Including me.
I thought about her proposal. While my relationship with her was nothing like my passionate relationship with my late wife, it made sense. Moreover, I thought my daughter, now entering her formative wonder years, could use a strong female role model. Someone with ambition. Class. Power. Culture. And taste. So, I said yes.
And now as I approach the biggest moment of my career—my first solo show at a major art gallery—a cloud of regret hangs over me. Kayla has failed to embrace the single most important thing in my life—my precious daughter. As much as I’ve tried to get my new fiancée to warm up to her—including inviting Maddie to all our glamorous dinners including tonight’s—Kayla wants nothing to do with her. She treats her like an annoying puppy that jumps up against your legs for affection, and constantly shoos her away. Whenever she’s at my house, she insists on Rosita taking my daughter up to her room or outside to play. I’ve more than once seen her do her signature eye rollwhenever Maddie’s needs have come before hers. She has failed to understand that no one comes before my daughter. Not her. Not me. Plain and simple. I’d kill for Maddie. And die for her.
Hijacking my thoughts, Kayla answers the mustached man’s question. “Darling, we haven’t set a date yet, but you can be sure you’ll be invited.”
Grinning, the restaurateur leaves us to enjoy our meal.Bon appétit. Easier said than done. After a heated argument about me moving back into town—something I’ll never do as I relish the privacy and protection our secluded Malibu house offers us... the ocean views which inspire me... and the fresh, clean air given Maddie’s asthma—Kayla drains her drink and then slams the flute on the table. Not getting her way, she leaps up from her chair and stalks out of the restaurant. I pay the three hundred dollar bill and curse under my breath. Damn Kayla and her champagne taste.
Trust me, we won’t be setting a wedding date soon.
And there’s another reason why.
Though she avoids me, I’m inexplicably attracted to my daughter’s new teacher.
I leave the restaurant on an empty stomach. And with an empty heart.
A juicy cheeseburger would be good, but what I really hunger for is love.
Even apetit peu.
On the drive home, Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart” plays in the car.
CHAPTER 26
Skye
Right after purging my old life, I sat against the bathroom door, my legs curled to my chest and thought about my new life. I had one option: Love it or leave it. My tears gave me strength to go forward—to stay here with my beloved husband and daughter. Each day I’ve grown stronger, more attached to my amazing Maddie.
Tonight I had dinner with her—a first—and every minute was special. Full of chatter and laughter. Questions and answers. Joy. In conjunction with her unit on food and nutrition, I taught her how to say all of the things we were eating in French. My brilliant girl soaked in the words like a sponge. After dinner, I put her to bed and at last read herMadeline, with the two of us alternating pages. Now, with Maddie fast asleep upstairs, I’m back at the kitchen island, my laptop open on the counter. My fingertips dancing across the keyboard, I google her: Kayla Phillips. Know your nemesis, I learned in a grad course on crime reporting. For all I know, she is the one who tried to kill me. Take me away from Finn and Maddie so she could move in.
The first few entries confirm her privileged upbringing, impeccable education, and illustrious career. That doesn’t stop me. People aren’t always who they say they are. I, of all people, should know that. The investigative journalist in me surfaces.Dig deep, then dig deeper.
On a hunch, I google:Yale University, Class of 2006. An alphabetical list of graduates comes up. I scan it quickly. KaylaPhillips isn’t listed. Already I feel adrenaline rising in me like I used to when I uncovered a story. My fingers are itching.
Following my instincts, I type:Kayla Phillips/Yalein the search bar.