Chapter 45 Willow Morrow
Willow Morrow
“I’ve been Sara’s house manager for eight years, so I’d heard of Willow, and of course, we’d gossiped over her leaving.
One of the theories going around the neighborhood was that David and Willow had run off together, but that was less likely than a cat volunteering for bath time.
I mean, Willow did seem a little like the free-love, cheat-on-your-husband kind of woman, but David .
. . David wasn’t romantic enough, or organized enough, to run off with someone.
He needed Sara to function. I honestly think, if he’d been ready to leave, that he would have needed her help to pack the bag and book the flights. ”
After two hours of drinking, the outdoor cabana was beginning to spin.
It was a new phenomenon for Willow, who had been the queen of drinking everyone in Bottleburr, Montana, under the table.
The bar there had engraved a stool with her name—not that she’d ever make it back to that sleepy town or that delicious bartender with the dimples and the hick accent.
She looked across the table at Sara, who was currently leaning in to Maggie’s shoulder and laughing.
Sara wasn’t conventionally pretty, but there was something attractive about her.
It was like a bunch of broken pieces that fit together to make a mosaic.
To be honest, it was refreshing, in a neighborhood full of plastic faces, to see a woman with a nose that was crooked and a narrow gap in between her two front teeth.
“Okay, new discussion point,” Willow said, lifting the tequila and pouring them each a shot. They’d finished off the first bottle and moved on to Don Julio, which was already half gone. “Biggest regret romantically.”
Silence fell. Sara blew out a breath and stared at the grooved ceiling. Maggie made a face, started to say something, then stopped. Willow held her tongue, waiting to see what the other two women would say.
Sara sighed. “I would say . . . marrying David. That’s horrible to say, isn’t it? I mean, given the timing.”
“Who would you have married instead?” Willow leaned forward and selected a cracker from the platter Maggie had prepared, then dug it through the fish dip. The tray had three dips in total, but so far only the pimento and brie had been destroyed. No one had touched the artichoke.
“Oh my God, Jackson Bloom. Gorgeous man, with . . .” She held her palms an impressive distance apart from each other, and they all giggled like they were in high school.
“Jackson Bloom . . .” Willow intoned. “Sounds like a cowboy.”
“Oh my God, no. He was a lifeguard from Santa Monica. You know what, take that back. I couldn’t have married him. My parents would have disowned me.”
“Why was David a mistake?” Maggie asked, turning to Sara. “You guys always seemed like the golden couple.”
The golden couple. Willow had a sudden memory of David, looking down at her, his eyes gleaming, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. “Your husband told me you like it rough.”
They hadn’t been a golden couple. David had been a train wreck, one who never missed an opportunity to share his attraction to Willow.
Mark had always blown off his behavior, blamed it on alcohol, but Willow .
. . she knew. She’d had a father like David, and men like him didn’t make great husbands.
She watched Sara’s face, curious how she would respond.
“He started to resent me, I think. For my company’s success.
He was okay with my family’s money, but when InkRose started to blow up, he got .
. .” She shook her head and pinched her lips together.
“Nasty. Bitter. Started going out after work and staying at the condo more. For all I know, he started sleeping around.”
That had been the one thing Willow had never had to worry about with Mark. He had the opposite of a wandering eye. Rather, he had been fixated on her.
Dangerously so.
Had that faded with time? She cradled her drink and thought of tonight, him reaching for her as she had passed by, the look in his eyes. I thought maybe we’d talk a little. Catch up.
She was both afraid and exhilarated by the idea that his obsession—his need—was still there.