Distant Shores by Kristin Hannah

So, really, it was his wife’s fault that Sally would be staying in a room right down the hall.
    He had barely hung up the phone when it rang again.
    This time it was Elizabeth. “Hey, honey. How was your flight?”
    He leaned back into the stack of pillows and put his feet up on the bed. “You should see my suite, Birdie, you’d love it.”
    â€œA suite, huh? Pretty cool, Jack.”
    He frowned. Amazingly, even on this day of days, she managed to sound unimpressed, a little distant.
    God, he was tired of this. Their relationship had become a sea of undercurrents and riptides with no shallow, placid water to be found. “Yeah, it’s great.”
    â€œThe dining room is really shaping up. I can’t wait for you to see it.”
    The house again. Christ. You’d think it was a mansion in Bel Air instead of a redone summer cottage in the butt-crack of nowheresville. “That’s great.”
    â€œHow long will you be there?”
    â€œTwo nights. The interview is tomorrow. I’ll be home late Wednesday.”
    â€œI’m jealous,” she said.
    She
should
be. She’d had every reason in the world to be here with him. If she’d really wanted to, she could have gotten one of her friends to watch the house.
    His second line buzzed. “Just a second, honey. I’m getting another call.” He put her on hold and answered line two. It was Sally, saying she’d meet him at the car in an hour. He felt a flash of guilt, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. But that was crazy; it was simply dinner with a colleague.
    â€œGreat.” He went back to line one. “Honey?” he said, “I’ve got to run. I’ve got dinner reservations.”
    â€œI’m proud of you, Jackson,” she said softly.
    That’s what he’d been waiting for—her pride in him—and he hadn’t even realized it. “I love you,” he said, wanting to mean it with a ferocity that surprised him.
    â€œI love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow after the interview.”
    â€œPerfect. Bye, honey.”
    He hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. By the time he’d taken a shower and dried his hair, he’d finished one drink and poured another. He dressed quickly in a pair of gray slacks and a black Calvin Klein sweater. Then he stood at the window, sipping his drink until it was time to leave.
    At seven-thirty, he went downstairs. The limousine was waiting for him. The uniformed driver got out and opened the passenger door. “Good evening, Mr. Shore.”
    Jack got into the car and settled back into the plush, dark seat. It was only a moment before the door opened again and Sally joined him.
    She was stunningly beautiful in a plain black dress with a round collar and barely-there sleeves. Her hair—how was it that he’d never noticed how blond it was, almost white—hung straight down the middle of her back. When she sat down beside him, he couldn’t help noticing her legs … or the sexy, spike-heeled sandals that Elizabeth wouldn’t have worn in the middle of summer, let alone in the middle of winter.
    â€œYou look beautiful.” He’d meant to say “nice.” He tried to loosen his collar. It felt too tight suddenly. “Is the heat on?” he asked the driver.
    She leaned toward him. “Here, let me.”
    He smelled her perfume, and the sweet, citrusy fragrance of her shampoo.
    She unbuttoned the top button of his sweater. “There. Now you look a little more hip.”
    He looked down at her. All he could see were red lips. “I’m too old to be hip,” he said, trying to put some distance between them. Years were a natural boundary.
    â€œHenry Kissinger is old. You’re … experienced.”
    The shimmering heat of possibility suddenly swirled between them.
    He looked at the driver. “Tagliacci Grill,” he said.