The Echo of Old Books(111)

He takes his hands out of his pockets and squares his shoulders as I approach, still lean but with a new brand of confidence, the kind born of success rather than hubris. I’m suddenly self-conscious, wondering if the blue velvet gown I chose for tonight makes me look frumpy. How is it possible that he hasn’t aged since that night in the St. Regis ballroom? He’s wearing a dark suit, impeccably cut with a faint chalk stripe, the kind he used to make fun of my father’s friends for wearing. In his sixties now, and still breathtakingly handsome.

Zachary will look just like this one day.

The thought nearly knocks the breath out of me.

“Congratulations,” he says when I’m standing in front of him.

His voice sends the years spooling backward, to that very first night. His eyes have lost none of their blue, but there are fine lines fanning out from the edges now, and his hair is threaded with silver at the temples. His mouth has changed too. Harder. Less generous. Less prone to smile, I think. He’s smiling now, though, if one can call it a smile. The expression doesn’t reach his eyes and sharpens his already sharp features.

“Come now. No need for modesty. I’ve been reading up on you since I saw the announcement about tonight’s event in the Globe. You’re rather impressive.”

“Why are you here?” I say, finally finding my tongue.

“How could I pass on the chance to have a drink with an old friend and talk over old times?”

I don’t know what to make of him. His words don’t match his flinty smile, as if he’s got a trick card up his sleeve. “We caught up, remember? You wrote me a book.”

“And you wrote one back.”

“Which about wraps things up, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would have . . . once. But I’ve had time to think about things since then, to reflect a bit, and it strikes me that you left a few things out of your version of events. Plot holes, we call them.”

I stare at him, my heart caught in my throat. How could he know? Did he see Zachary somewhere? On tour perhaps? Surely one look would give the game away. Or maybe he’s read something. Zachary is always turning up in this or that paper. Or perhaps he’s known all these years. I think of the words inscribed on the title page of Regretting Belle. How, Belle? After everything . . . how could you do it? Perhaps that’s what he’s come to ask. But in person this time.

“There’s a bar in the lobby,” he tells me smoothly. “What do you say we have that drink?”

“I don’t want a drink. It’s been a long day and I want to go to my room.”

“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.