The One In My Heart

Zelda’s tone was tentative. “So I guess you know about us now.”


“He gave the CliffsNotes version.”

Zelda smoothed the fabric of her long plaid skirt. “You must be wondering why I never told you anything.”

“I—I assumed it was because it hurt too much.”

“Well, he isn’t the easiest subject for me, but it isn’t as if I never talk about him. Sometimes Mrs. Asquith will have news about him for me, sometimes one of my cousins, or an old friend who knows both of us.”

I carefully folded my hands in my lap. “So it was only me you never told?”

“Only because I didn’t want you to think I didn’t give my all to my marriage with your father.”

“Oh,” I said. That had never occurred to me.

“I know I sometimes joke that it was an old-fashioned marriage of convenience—and in a way it was true: He wanted a good mother for you, and I wanted someone who didn’t try to fix me. But I did love him. And sometimes, knowing how badly the divorce affected him, I wish we hadn’t gone through with it. I thought there was no point sticking it out any longer, since we couldn’t make each other happy. Only later did I realize that it wasn’t in Hoyt’s nature to be happy—he just wanted to not be alone.”

My father, the misanthrope who desperately needed companionship. Or simply the presence of another.

“You shouldn’t think like that,” I said. “You shouldn’t need to be miserable for him to not be alone.”

“I know.” Zelda tucked a strand of her beautiful grey hair behind her ear. “But he took such good care of me while we were together—I’ve never met anyone else who was completely unfazed by my problems.”

That was Pater. He’d been the worst kind of pessimist—yet at times that pessimism turned into a stoic strength. Since he expected everything to end in tears, Zelda’s condition never bothered him.

We were silent for some time, me slowly sipping my coffee, Zelda drinking from her cup of green tea.

“So, Larry de Villiers called,” I said in the end, bringing the conversation back to the present.

“He was glad to have met you and Bennett. And we chatted a bit about everything—his children, Mrs. Asquith, my work, his work—just catching up.”

Part of me almost wished he’d spilled the beans about my interfering ways. I was used to concealing things from Zelda, but I’d never before kept my mouth shut about something that had a direct impact on her.

I set aside my coffee cup. “If he wanted to get back together with you, would you give him a chance?”

Zelda was nearly twice the age she’d been when she first came into my life. And—I realized with a jolt—it had been a very long time since she’d been in a significant relationship.

Not since her divorce from Pater. A longer drought than mine. Had she not met anyone, or was it also intentional?

“I don’t know,” answered Zelda, looking sincerely indecisive. “I really don’t know.”


AROUND EIGHT THIRTY THAT EVENING I was nearly comatose. But after I lay down in bed, the coffee kicked in. I turned one way, then the other, adjusted my pillow several times, peeled off a layer of blanket—but it was no use. I’d become thoroughly awake, the kind accompanied by throbbing temples and a faint ache behind the eyes.

Against the unruliness of Zelda’s illness, I’d fought long and hard for stability. But now that stability was under attack from all sides. There was Larry, still carrying a big, bright torch for Zelda after almost three decades. There was Bennett, who asked too many questions and perceived too many answers. Together they threatened to disrupt our quiet, orderly existence.

Together they were the barbarians at the gate.

I pushed my fingers along the ridges of my brows, trying to relieve the tension there. Several soft dings came from the direction of my nightstand. I grabbed my phone, hoping it was Bennett texting me.

It was the Material Girls.

The first text came from Lara, who was this year’s hostess for the roundup. OK, ladies, time to put our cards on the table. I’m bringing a hot, single congressman. He’s conservative in his politics, but a freak otherwise. What have you got?

Pfft, replied Carolyn. I’ve got a Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalist who just escaped from a Yemeni prison. The stories the man has.

Daff, of course, was not to be outdone. I will have you know that my man is a famous Olympic figure skater. A famous gay skater, but I’ve turned him bisexual.

Trust my friends to always bring a smile to my face.

I feel really lame, I tapped, for having bagged only a surgeon. But he’s actually a hotshot Silicon Valley investor with a net worth measured in shit-tons of dollars.

It’s going to be great, replied Carolyn. Filthy-rich doctor can pay for everything, and the skater can make out with the congressfreak while the journalist records it for posterity.

I chortled. Then I noticed that I had an unread e-mail. It was from Larry de Villiers.