The Echo of Old Books(121)

He puts down his glass and studies me a moment, as if trying to read my thoughts as he weighs his next words. “In my life, I never thought I’d say these words, but god help me, here I am. Here we are. There has never been anyone but you, Belle. Before or since. When you didn’t come that day and I was left standing on that platform, I was devastated. And then that damned letter. When I read it and thought you’d gone back to Teddy, something in me died and I just stopped caring about anything. I had dreaded it for so long, and there it was in my hands—proof. Only it wasn’t. And now we’ve lost so much time. But I’ve never forgotten, Belle. I never stopped wishing . . .”

I should resist when he reaches for me, pull back before this goes any further. But I’ve waited so long to hear those words. The weight of his hand on my arm is achingly familiar, the stony mask he’s been hiding behind suddenly fallen away. Here is the Hemi I knew all those years ago, the man I’ve never stopped loving. The realization makes my throat ache. How can I deny what this moment means, to feel the years spooling backward, to remember how it was with him—how we were together.

When his lips touch mine, it’s as if no time at all has passed, like we never lost one another. It feels like coming home, I think, realizing with a shock just how much I’ve missed the taste of him, the feel of his arms around me. But how is that possible? How could I have forgotten this . . . heaven? An image flickers behind my closed eyes, of tangled limbs and rumpled blue sheets, of bodies fitted close, straining and sheened with sweat. It’s been so long. It’s been forever. And yet it’s been no time at all. Only yesterday.

I melt against him, surrendering to the familiar, aware that it’s a mistake, that in a moment it will all come apart. Again. And this time there will be no confusion about who’s responsible. The thought hits me like a dash of icy water and I push away from him.

“Hemi . . . wait.”

He steps back awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “Please don’t say that. I don’t want you to be sorry. And I’m afraid you will be. There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

He says nothing, his expression guarded as he waits for me to continue.

“Before, when you asked if Ethan knew about us, I said he knew everything—even things you don’t. You didn’t ask what things.”

I pick up his glass and put it back into his hand, then move to the piano. Zachary looks back at me from his heavy black frame. I wish there had been time to tell him this was happening, but I didn’t know myself. I trust he’ll forgive me.

Hemi is beside me now, his eyes full of questions as I turn to face him with the photo. I search for words to prepare him for what he’s about to hear, but there aren’t any words. Not for this. Instead, I put the frame into his hand and wait.

He stares at it, his face blank at first, uncomprehending. “What is this . . . Is this . . .”

“His name is Zachary,” I say quietly.

“Zachary.” He says the name slowly, rolling it around in his mouth, testing it for familiarity.

“He’s ours,” I say at last. “Yours and mine.”

The truth seems to dawn then, as if he’s just been shaken from a long sleep. “You’re saying . . .”

“I’m saying we have a son, Hemi. And that I kept him from you. I told everyone he was adopted, but he’s mine. And yours.”

I brace for the wave of outrage I know is coming. Instead, all expression drains from his face, replaced by the awful blankness of incomprehension. He says nothing, his eyes locked on me as he struggles to process my words. I square my shoulders, forcing myself to hold his gaze as I go on. “I didn’t know I was pregnant until I got to California, and by then I had no idea where you were or how to find you.”

His expression hardens, gelling into something smooth and impervious. “Did you even try?”

“How? You were off playing war correspondent.” The words leave my mouth before I can check them, an excuse I have no right to make. He’s not wrong. I could have found him if wanted to. I chose not to look.

“And later? After the war?” He’s bristling now, his words gathering force as he registers the enormity of my transgression. “Dickey knew how to find me. You had him send me a book, remember? One, I’d point out, that omitted any mention of my son.”

I nod, blinking back tears, the lump in my throat too large to allow a reply.

“And the day you and Dickey were meant to have lunch. I suppose we know why you bailed the minute you found out I was at the restaurant. And to top it all off, there’s the fact that for nearly two decades, my face has been in just about every bookstore window in the country. Please don’t tell me you didn’t know how to find me, Marian. You’ve had forty-three years to find me. All you had to do was pick up the phone.”

I’ve prepared myself for his anger, but not for the raw anguish I hear in his voice, the pooling of tears in his eyes. “Hemi . . .”

He turns away from me, stalking to the other side of the room, then wheels around to face me. “You really hated me that much?”

“I never hated you. I wanted to. I tried to, but I couldn’t.”

“You kept a child from me. Our son! How could you?”