Chapter 7: Two A.M.

"Vanderveer," Claire said.

She read the card again, and then she looked at the man beside her.

"That's Preston's father."

"Yes."

"He's invited us. By hand. Twenty minutes after I told a room full of people I was your wife."

"He has a very fast way of finding things out."

"Are we going?"

Weston folded the card in half and put it in his inside pocket.

His face was still, but a muscle moved in his jaw.

"We're going," he said. "It's the one room Preston can't leave."

"You said your father's side."

"I did."

"Is this your father's side?"

"Not tonight," Weston said. "Ask me on Saturday."

She almost pushed.

She saw how tightly he held the pocket closed with his hand, and she let it go.

The call from the front desk came at ten past two that night.

Claire was awake already, in the white bed, with a book she was not reading.

She heard the house phone in the hall, and Weston's low voice, and then his feet.

She was out of the door before she had decided to be.

He stood in the hall in a gray T-shirt and dark trousers, with his phone in his hand.

"Go back to bed."

"Who is it?"

"Preston."

"I'm coming."

"Claire."

"It's my ex," she said. "I'll be the one who tells him to go home."

He looked at her for a moment, and nodded.

The lobby was bright and silent.

Preston stood in the middle of the marble, swaying.

His tie was gone, his collar was open, and he held a bottle of champagne by the neck.

The night guard stood three feet away with his hands out, plainly hoping for a miracle.

"There she is," Preston said, and smiled.

It was a wet, terrible smile.

"Preston. Go home."

"I'm not going home to nothing. I'm not going anywhere. I want to talk to my wife."

"I'm not your wife."

"My fiancée. My, whatever. My Claire."

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