Semi-Sweet Read Free

vertebrae, the sides of her hands chopped across his shoulder blades. She’d put on one of
     her salon CDs, all breathy panpipes and swishing waves, and he thought of the CDs arranged alphabetically on Hannah’s bookshelves—Michael
     Bublé and Lady Gaga and Kylie Minogue and Paolo Nutini. He thought of the two of them sprawled on Hannah’s deep red couch
     reading the Sunday papers, with Michael Bublé singing about stardust.
    Hannah’s bookshelves, Hannah’s couch. Even after sharing it with her for more than a year, he’d never regarded the house as
     theirs, always hers. It was officially hers, of course. She’d bought it three years before they’d met, and she’d taken in
     a housemate to share the costs. When Patrick replaced the housemate, he and Hannah had split the bills and mortgage repayments,
     and he’d repainted the entire downstairs, sorted out the garden, and bought the patio furniture she’d never gotten around
     to, but it was always Hannah’s house. Maybe on some level he’d known that it wasn’t his final destination.
    “Roll over.”
    It had been Hannah who’d led him to Leah. He’d complained of aches and pains after a longer-than-usual bout in the garden,
     digging up her ancient box hedge and replacing it with willow fencing, and Hannah had dropped in to Leah’s salon the following
     day and bought him a gift certificate for a massage.
    She hadn’t asked him about the woman he’d met, the woman he was leaving her for. He’d expected her to, he’d been ready to
     tell her the truth—it was the least she deserved—but she hadn’t asked. She’d find out soon enough, of course: Like most Irish
     towns, Clongarvin was too small, and he was too well known. How would she feel when she heard Leah’s name, knowing that she
     herself had been the one who’d brought them together?
    Leah moved from his chest to his legs, stroking from knee to thigh in strong upward movements. For such a petite creature,
     she gave a massage that was deep and satisfying. She eased his legs gently apart and began to knead his inner thighs, using
     slow, circular movements with her knuckles. As she inched toward his groin, he felt himself stiffening pleasantly in response.
    “Why, hello there,” she smiled, and Patrick reached for her, sliding the robe off her shoulders, and Hannah was forgotten.

    It was the longest two hours of her life, but she’d gotten through it with nobody having guessed. She smiled and thanked them
     all for their help—her parents and Adam, and Adam’s two cousins, and one of their girlfriends whom she’d met for the first
     time a week ago—and she drank the champagne when they toasted her success, and she ate enough Dover sole not to arouse anyone’s
     interest, although every mouthful of her favorite fish was an effort.
    She told them that Patrick was in bed with food poisoning, and they all accepted it—why wouldn’t they?
    “Oh, the poor thing,” her mother said. “I’ll never forget how awful I felt after those prawns that time—remember, Stephen?”
    “I certainly do,” Stephen answered, winking at Hannah. “Not one of your finer moments, I’d have to say.”
    Geraldine shot him a stern look. “Very funny.” She turned back to Hannah. “What did Patrick eat?”
    “Er, sausages, I think.” Hannah watched as Adam filled her glass, and willed the conversation to move on.
    Near the end of the meal, when she was doing her best with a slice of lemon cheesecake, Adam leaned across and said quietly,
     “You okay? Anything up?”
    She shook her head. “Just a bit stressed about the opening, that’s all.” Her face was rigid from smiling. She hated lying
     to him.
    Of course she’d have to tell him. She’d have to tell her parents. But not tonight, when she’d hardly taken it in herself.
     Maybe it was good that she had this distraction while Patrick’s bombshell was still so fresh and raw. Maybe by the time she
     got home, the first shock waves would