Doyle’s face tightened. He thought about Tyler and Wilma. He knew he could never tell Ralph, or anyone else, about him and Cindy Chesney without potentially screwing up her already terribly difficult life. He hated the sponging of horses she had done, but he could not bring himself to hate her or to hurt her.
Ralph sat back in his chair, patting his belly, a look of satisfaction on his face. “What a meal, hey, Jack?”
“Outstanding.”
“Rosa’s her old self again. We’re back where we should be,” Tenuta said.
“Some of us are,” Doyle said softly to himself. “Some of us.”
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