He roared with laughter. “Only a Southern girl would know that a Southern boy calls his maternal unit ‘Mama.’ Thanks for the flowers that you, Henry, and Griffin sent.” I accepted the thanks and texted Griffin, remembering the flowers he sent Elliott and me on opening night of the restaurant.

He texted me back: “Mac is a good ole boy who loves his mama. Just glad you two aren’t opening a restaurant in Atlanta.” This was our first real exchange in months. I smiled, wanting desperately to text him back. For once, my cleverness escaped me.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

For five weeks in a row, Elliott remained in bed. His moods deepened with his pain. Our conversations dwindled down to one-word answers to questions. I made him go see his doctor. It was the same day I was to meet Mac. I watched Elliott get dressed in noticeable anguish. “Call me when you’re done,” I said, putting on another dress that Elliott had bought me along with the peridot earrings to match.

“Bailey, where the hell are you going dressed like that?”

“Meeting a client.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Elliott pulled me to him, demanding more, as if resurrecting some long-forgotten ardor. “I have to go,” I said, pulling away. It would’ve been easy to surrender. It’d been so long.

“My doctor’s appointment isn’t for another hour,” Elliott said inching closer to me. I continued to back away.

“To be continued. I have an appointment in thirty minutes,” I said, combing my hair with my hands, scooping up my purse, and leaving before I changed my mind.

Mac Whitney greeted me with a cappuccino sitting in the chair next to mine. I noticed the circle of white skin on his left ring finger. I wondered if getting rid of a pesky wife had been part of his unfinished business. “Go ahead. Taste it. But be warned, I’ve consulted Griffin,” he said, very proud of himself. Grinning from ear to ear, that dangerous smile either got him out of trouble or into trouble, I couldn’t decide which.

“Better.” It was improved but still not as good as Griffin’s, who had apparently reserved a few secrets for himself. It reminded me that the restaurant business could be a very small world. “Did you make your mama a happy lady?”

“My mama is never going to be happy until I truly settle down,” he said.

I laughed. Considering the rascal before me, it might be a while before his mom was truly happy. “Let’s talk about the restaurant scene in New York. What are your thoughts?”

“This may sound crazy to you. I would really like to create the kind of establishment that’s a cross between The Four Seasons Restaurant and the Ralph Lauren store on Madison.”

“You don’t have lofty ambitions or anything, do you?” I let my thoughts trail off, reconsidering this man.