Genevra Adams and John Donati? There was hardly a less likely pair, thought Helen Kallias as she watched the two of them leave Taverna together. They'd been at the bar for an hour, then moved to a cozy two-top at the back of the dining room where they'd sat drinking, sharing a plate of fried calamari, and chattering away like old chums until midnight.
Helen had approached their table a couple of times, discreetly, hoping to hear something of their conversation, but there was nothing they discussed that she hadn't known already: John was upset that his ex-wife had moved to San Francisco; Genevra was disgusted with her husband and children.
Genevra's kids weren't so bad--except maybe for Billy, who was just pitiable--but Helen could sure understand why Blake Adams was on Genevra's shit list. The guy was an idiot. Everyone in town knew he was screwing around with that trashy Jeni DuMont.
What was it about these men--Helen's husband, Nick, as well as Blake--that made them behave so badly? They strutted around, treated their wives like hired help, did a lousy job of parenting, then when the shit hit the fan, they acted like the messes in their lives were everyone else's fault.
Again tonight, Nick had left the restaurant before ten. Mr. Big Shot didn't have the stamina to make it though an entire day any more. It would have made Helen sad if she weren't so profoundly angry with him. The image of Selena's face, the crimson scar running from her left eye to her chin, dispelled any feelings of pity Helen might have had for her husband. He'd brought on misery when he'd tried to outsmart Fate.
The last of the diners headed to the door. The busboys swarmed in to clear up and re-set tables for the next day. Gus closed out the bar, and Helen went to her office.
Long after everyone else had left, she locked up and headed home in the calming blue light before dawn.
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