Vodka Espresso

17. sunday

July, 2017

Sunday presented a dress code dilemma. Sienna had told Ingrid that the roast would, in fact, be a barbecue, because the weather had been too nice to pass up the opportunity. Hence their time would be spent mostly outdoors, grilling meat and vegetables. However, outdoors still meant the back garden of a manor, so how casual could one get?

Edgar went for grey jeans and a green-grey shirt, both of which light enough not to absorb the heat, but dark enough to be impervious to stains. Ingrid chose an olive-green polo shirt, tucked into khaki jodhpurs, which she'd purchased just the day before, after Sienna had suggested they could go riding. She packed her boots to-go, though, and matched her equestrian outfit to a pair of Converses.

With rolled-up sleeves and an unbuttoned collar, Edgar hung his aviator sunglasses in his improvised V-neck and fastened his watch on his wrist. Ingrid couldn't help noticing the wedding ring on his finger. She smiled to herself. In the real world, appearances had to be kept up at all costs.

That train of thought made her wonder how much of a good husband Patrick would pretend to be. Not much, she figured, because pricks like him did not feel the need to pretend. They felt entitled and made others around them experience the acute desire of acting like nothing was wrong, even though everything was.

Because if a member of his audience acknowledged the problem, they'd have to step in and solve it and nobody ever wanted to bother with something like that.

"Ready?" Edgar asked and Ingrid sighed as she stood up from tying her shoelaces.

She slung her purse on her shoulder, picked up the paper bag with her boots and grabbed her sunglasses. "Yeah. Let's go."

He unlocked the front door and held it open for her. Outside, Murphy was waiting for them in the same black suit he always wore and Ingrid felt sorry for him.

"Goodness gracious, Murphy," Ingrid said, "you must be boiling hot in that getup."

He only smiled. "I've been through worse."

She remembered his military past. The Afghanistan sun must have been much harder to bear, in army gear, no less.

"I have no doubt."

She slid into the backseat and Edgar soon joined her. The tension between them had reached its peak the other night, like a volcano that had erupted and now quietly steamed in the distance. They were civil to each other, cooperating like old friends, neither tiptoeing around the other anymore. If either of them wanted something, he or she would just have to ask.

No more panic. No more propriety. Sheer pleasure only, wild and incandescent and no longer guilty. It became a secret they safeguarded just so they wouldn't have to share it, like some miraculous drug that would be ruined by the masses because they couldn't understand it.

"Just to be clear we're on the same page," Ingrid began, "Patrick Evans is an asshole and we just want his family's money."

"Agreed."

"Please don't let me drink too much or I might just punch him in the face."

Edgar laughed. "I've thought about it myself several times."

"I couldn't stand the guy before, but now I just downright hate him. With Sienna there, I don't think I'll be able to hold it in."

He frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"He's controlling her. I know it too well because I used to have my strings pulled like that and I would have never been able to figure it out on my own. At least I didn't have any kids."