“Well, I know him a little. He doesn’t seem like a thief. He’s a reporter.”
“Ah yes, an honorable bunch.” He pulls his mouth down into an ironic frown that also seems almost like a grin. “It’s just something to think about, that’s all. That man, he’s around a lot when all these . . . things seem to be happening.”
The bottle of table red has worked a number on me. I’ve drunk the bottle alone while Henry nursed a glass of Pomerol he brought up from the cellar. Henry leans back in his chair, his lips lifted at the corners. His hair uncharacteristically mussed, flopping down over one eye. He looks boyish. Henry never looks boyish.
He holds up one finger, like he’s forgotten something. He pushes himself up and comes around to my side of the table. He perches one leg up, smoothly sliding my dinner plate to the side. From his pants pocket, he retrieves a small velvet box and sets it gently in front of me with a wry smile. On top of the box sits a small card, no envelope. I flip it open.
As you are woman, so be lovely:
As you are lovely, so be various,
Merciful as constant, constant as various.
So be mine, as I yours for ever.
“Henry.” I can’t stop the smile, it’s all so unlike him. “Poetry? Did you write this?”
“Of course not. It’s part of a Robert Graves poem. I’ve always loved it.”
He touches his finger to his lips, his thumb poised under his chin, and gives me a look of reflection. I open the lid and nestled inside the pink velvet folds is a bracelet. The chain is intricately braided yellow and white gold and it sparkles in the candlelight. At first blush, I think it is a charm bracelet, which seems uncharacteristically trendy of Henry, and I give him a questioning look. The chain threads through three beads. I unclasp the hooks on either end and delicately hold the jewelry in my palm.
“It’s pretty,” I say, feeling like I probably don’t understand the significance. I’m not lying, it is pretty. It’s just not Henry’s style: too simple, too trendy. It’s more my style. Then again, Henry is often thoughtful in ways I am not.
I study the beads. The first one is engraved with a small, squat tree, its branches reaching up and wrapping around the gold. The etching is delicate and fine, and the detail takes my breath away. The second bead is carved with a simple flower, what looks to be a gladiolus. The third bead contains a set of wings, each feather intricately scored.
“Very beautiful.” I nod my head, as though I understand it.
Henry watches me with amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh stop. I’m not fooled. I can read you, you know.”
“Well then explain it.” I laugh.
He fastens the bracelet around my wrist, his hair tickles my cheek. “I had these made. The tree is because you give me roots. I want to do the same for you. The tree is actually a bonsai. The Japanese believe that when left in nature the bonsai grows wild and unruly and ugly. That only when carefully cultivated by people is it beautiful.”
“Am I the bonsai?” I have always felt like Henry’s pet project, to some extent Lydia wasn’t far off. I’ve been groomed to fit into his life, among his friends and colleagues.
He laughs and kisses my nose. “I am the bonsai, Zoe. Without you, I am an angry, singly driven man. A man with one purpose. I become one of those loveless rich men. I become Krable.”
I lean back and study Henry as he speaks. It’s surprising how well vulnerability suits him. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever worn.
“Go on.” I tilt my head.
“The wings are easier to explain.” He touches the bead on the end, his thumb massages my palm. “I’m sorry. I have no desire to hold you back. I fell in love with your grit. These past few months I’ve been afraid of losing you. I’ve clipped you too much and I’m sorry.”
“We’re both . . . damaged.” I run my index fingernail over the veins in the top of his hand, his smooth large-knuckled hands. I love his hands.
He clears his throat and holds the center bead between his thumb and index finger, his hands cool on my wrist. “The middle bead is a gladiolus.”
“The flower of infatuation.” My voice hitches.
“Yes, technically ‘love at first sight.’ Which is us, don’t you think?” He stands up, tugs on my hands until I stand with him. “It’s also a symbol of character and strength. It reminded me of you.” He steps back, rubs his forehead and gives me a sideways smile.
“It’s beautiful, Henry.” Which is clichéd and stupid but I’m speechless.