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He'd allowed his mind to wander a long way afield while he waited for the hostess to seat him. " "Sure," the short, rotund waitress shot back cheerfully.
"Let's go..this way." Ryan followed her to a sunlight booth against the rear wall beyond the big group of regular customers and separated from them by a chest-high partition. " she asked while Ryan folded his 6 feet, 1inch frame into the constricted space between the tabletop and unmoving bench seat. Not that they had any of the designer brews here, but she didn't even like being asked for a "cappuccino" or the like.
They'd grown close over lunches and during long, boring interludes of little activity.
It wasn't a big stretch to understand Carrie would be unfaithful to Ryan again with another supervisor.
Gradually, Carrie's adultery burned away his love for her. "Oh...whatever," he replied, not caring in the least if he sat in a café booth or at a table.
When he couldn't find a trace of love for her inside him--even in the lonely hours of the night--he knew he was ready. " The friendly woman's voice brought Ryan back to his senses. "How about some place near a window where I can see out, but where it's quiet too?
They all included references to someone named "Sean." The last conversation on the recording, partially cut off by the end of the tape, confirmed Ryan's suspicion the man they were talking about was Sean Michaels, Carrie's immediate supervisor in the main offices of the big downtown bank. Carrie's first adultery had been with a co-worker at the bank where she'd worked at the time.
"Marshall" had been the supervising teller on Carrie's shift.
The smells of cooking eggs, bacon and sausage, biscuits, and cinnamon rolls emanating from the kitchen was making him salivate. He liked it here, and he was beginning to like the cheerful, pleasant waitress a lot.
In the absence of any really good reason to change, they kept on as they always had.
Only fifty miles or so outside of San Antonio...a metropolitan area with 1.5 million citizens..small town hadn't changed that much from the way it was in the late nineteenth century.
It was tight for a big man getting in, but once there, the table was at a convenient height and a good distance from his body for eating or working on his laptop. It made her wonder just how much of a man a guy could be to want to drink something with a name like that. While she filled the insulated pitcher back at the counter, she let her eyes rest on the big man who'd begun coming in every morning and evening last Thursday.
He owned a small construction company, she'd learned--one that specialized in minor renovations, interior remodeling, and some building restorations.
Oh, the big slab of concrete that was Interstate 10 ran east and west just a couple hundred yards from the front door of the café, but the regulars hardly noticed.