“You stood me up the last time we were in Boston.”
“I didn’t stand you up. I stood Dickey up. We didn’t have anything to talk about then and we don’t have anything to talk about now.” I step to my left then and try to push past him.
He blocks my path. “I think we do. I think it’s time we hash it out once and for all. You owe me that, don’t you think? Forty years is a long time to keep a man in the dark—no matter what you believe him guilty of.”
I can only nod. Forty years is a long time. Long enough to actually trick myself into believing my own carefully crafted narrative, to convince myself I could keep such a secret without consequence.
“So . . . the bar,” Hemi suggests again.
I nod, because there seems no way out of it. “I’ll need a minute to ring my daughter’s room so she doesn’t worry.”
“Here,” he says. “Let me free up your hands.” Before I can protest, he relieves me of the glass globe, assuring my return. “Shall I order you a drink?”
“I won’t be staying that long.”
I step past him then, out into the hallway, and head for the alcove where the house phone is located. I don’t have to call Ilese. I just need a moment to compose myself and I know the ladies’ room is here. I step inside, then sag against the closed door. I’ve dreaded this moment for so long, and yet I’ve never once thought how I might handle it, what excuse I might offer for what I’ve done. Probably because there isn’t one. Not for something like this.
It occurs to me, as I stand trembling at one of the black marble sinks, that Ashlyn might be behind Hemi’s sudden appearance tonight, that she may have taken it into her head to try to broker a truce between us—like Dickey did. I want it not to be true, but the timing is suspect. Particularly after last night’s heartfelt speech about forgiveness. And she knew exactly where I’d be tonight.
Another ambush. Only this time I walked straight into it.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the sink. Dressed to the nines and perfectly coiffed for my big night, an elegant updo and flawless makeup. I wonder what he made of me when he walked into the ballroom tonight. Whether he thought the years had been cruel or kind. As if any of that matters now. Still, I fish around in my evening bag for my lipstick and, with shaking hands, touch up my mouth, then dab a bit of powder on my nose. I stand there another moment and study my handiwork.
This is how he will remember me, I think. And then I think, No . . . this is not what he will remember. He will remember what I did—and what I didn’t do.
I find him at the bar, already sipping a gin and tonic. There’s a glass of white wine on the black marble bar top and an empty stool beside him. I slide up onto the gray velvet seat and immediately reach for the glass. I look around the bar, wishing there were more people, wishing there were music. It’s so terribly empty, so terribly quiet.
“You look wonderful, Belle.” He says it in that low, faintly feline tone that used to make my pulse rush. “Still beautiful.”
Don’t! I want to scream at him. Don’t sit there and toy with me.
“Don’t call me that,” I say instead. “I haven’t been Belle for a long time now. And you were never quite as charming as you thought you were.”
“I seem to remember you finding me a little charming. Not for long, I’ll grant, but for a while. Surely you haven’t forgotten.”
My face flames. I reach for my wine again, my eyes fixed on the rows of liquor bottles lined up shoulder to shoulder, like jewel-colored soldiers behind the bar. “Say what you came to say.”
“I didn’t come to say anything. I came to listen. I thought you might have something you’d like to say to me, something you’d like to explain.”
I hide behind my wineglass, watching his face out of the corner of my eye. I have no idea how to make such a confession, which words to use, what order to put them in. Instead, I decide to start with why. “I couldn’t trust you. After what you did . . . I could never trust you again. It didn’t matter that I was alone. I did what I had to do. I got on with my life.”
“Because of the story?”
“Because of everything. But yes, mostly because of the story.”
The ice tinkles in his drink as he upends it. He sets down the empty glass and signals the bartender for another. “After all these years, you still blame me.”
“Who should I blame?”
“I went to that bloody station two hours early, dragged both suitcases down there, and waited for you to show. Do you know what it felt like standing on the platform watching that train pull away?”
I stare at him, stunned that he can sit there and talk about hurt—to me. Has he forgotten his part in all of it? The promise he made and the breaking of it? His disappearance from my life without a word? “I imagine it felt a lot like walking into your apartment the next day and finding it empty.”
“I went to the station as agreed. You didn’t come.”
“I sent you a note.”
“Yes. Your note was quite clear. I’m sorry your wedding plans fell through, by the way. Though I still say you dodged a bullet. Teddy was never good enough for you.”
Teddy?
I haven’t thought of my ex-fiancé in years and the name catches me off guard. “Why bring up Teddy now?”
He shrugs. “If you must know, it’s a question of pride. It still baffles me that you could have chosen that buffoon over me. Even now, I can’t quite wrap my head around your words. Or the fact that you thought I could be pacified by such unmitigated tripe.”
I put down my glass and look at him squarely. Either I’ve lost the thread of the conversation or he has. “Which words are we talking about? We wrote so many.”
“I’m referring to the letter you had Dickey deliver to my apartment.”
The letter. That’s what he’s talking about. Relief prickles through me. None of this has been about Zachary. But what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. “I never mentioned Teddy in my letter.”
The bartender appears with a fresh gin and tonic and takes the empty glass away. Hemi nods his thanks and turns back to me. “No, you didn’t mention him by name, but I got the gist.”
“What gist? What are you talking about?”
He studies me a moment, his blue gaze so intent I’m almost relieved when he finally speaks. “Why the gaslighting? When we both know what the letter said? Why does it even matter now?”
“I’m not gaslighting you,” I snap, annoyed with whatever game it is he thinks he’s playing. The bartender’s eyes slide in our direction. I throw him an awkward smile and lower my voice. “I know what I wrote.”