“They didn’t accost him, Phil. It was Revvy, and he just asked him a question. I already told him to drop it.”

“I didn’t even know you invited them.”

She took a deep breath. “I told you I did.”

“Oh.” He looked away and waved at someone she couldn’t see. “I wish you hadn’t told them about the buyer at my company. That was information they just didn’t need.”

“I’m sorry, Phil. I told them before you told me about the client privilege. I’m sorry. Now go have fun.”

“I am having fun,” he said, but his mouth was straight and his chin set.

She kissed her husband on the cheek, then turned to take his advice: find Carol Anne and have another glass of champagne.

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-three

Candles flickered in buckets on the railing of Amy’s front porch. Cars lined the street on both sides and a few people arrived while other guests trickled out. Icicle lights hung from the eaves. A small holly bush at the bottom of the stairs flashed with colored bulbs; oversize Christmas balls hung from the branches.

Each time Nick drove by the house, he noticed these details one by one. He held one hand on the wheel, the other on the disintegrating notes of legal paper he’d once scribbled on for Mr. Carreira to translate into telegrams. Mr. Lawyer had obviously given this menial task to the cute college girl helping him free Nick Lowry. Eliza had then apparently used her manipulative powers of persuasion to convince both Mr. Carreira and Nick that she was the perfect one, the helpful one, the goddess of freedom from jail; she would take care of everything.

He found he now felt an underlying disrespect for his wife. No, he didn’t hate her. But he’d never understood the below-the-belly anger he felt for her; the best he’d been able to do was admit rage’s presence and ignore it. What had once been subtle, under the radar, was now obvious—he was now able to identify what caused his anger: her manipulation.

He, independent and strong Nick Lowry, had allowed his life to be controlled by guilt and obligation, always believing he owed Eliza something: his life, his job, his children, his home. But in reality he’d kept one thing—his heart. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been saving it for Amy.

Now it was too late. Look at her house, her family. She had forged a life from the raw materials of love, not obligation. The unsent, scribbled and desperate telegrams might change that, but . . . only maybe.