The Echo of Old Books(125)
“And what did you decide?”
“We never said goodbye.”
My throat aches as I look up at him. “Is that what you want? To say goodbye?”
“I never wanted to say it.”
“Then . . . what?”
“I don’t want to be angry anymore, Belle. I have been for so long. Because I thought it was a way to insulate myself from the memories. It never worked, though. It just made me too proud to do what I should have a long time ago.”
Belle, not Marian. I drop my gaze, afraid to hope. “Which was?”
“To swallow my bloody pride and come find you. If I had, I would have known Zachary. Been a part of his life—and yours. Instead, I wallowed and drank too much and wrote books that turned out the way I wish we had.” He wanders away then, hands pushed deep into his pockets.
“Hemi . . .”
When he turns back to face me, his eyes are red-rimmed and raw. “We’ve lost so much time, spent so many years blaming each other for things other people did. I’m still angry that they took so much from us, the time we can’t get back. I’ll always be angry about that. But I’m through being angry with you. And with myself. But I’m scared blind about what comes next. I don’t want to be the only one . . .” His words trail off and he clears his throat. “Anyway, that’s why I showed up last night. Because I had to know if there was a chance. I hoped that there would be. Then I saw you in the ballroom. I knew the exact instant you spotted me. One minute you were all smiles; the next you looked like you were going to throw up. That’s when I knew I’d made a mistake.”
The anguish in his voice brings tears to my eyes. “I was afraid,” I say softly. “Because of Zachary. I wasn’t prepared to have that conversation yet. But coming last night wasn’t a mistake, Hemi. I’m the one who made the mistake. What I did was unforgivable and I deserved everything you said.”
“It wasn’t unforgivable. I just . . . when you told me about Zachary, it was like I’d been kicked in the gut. I never thought anything could hurt worse than you not showing up that day, but I was wrong. All I could think about when you told me about Zachary was what I’d lost, not what I’d gained—a son and perhaps a second chance. I never imagined that kind of ending, but here I am, Belle. Here we are.”
We.
My heart is suddenly thrumming so loudly, I can scarcely hear myself think, and yet I’m afraid to let myself hope. “Is this about Zachary? About being part of his life?”
“It’s about everything, Belle. About Zachary, and you, and me. About finally having a life. Because up to now, I haven’t. Everything—the war stuff, the books, the awards—it was all just killing time. Until I could get back to you. We’re different people now. Older. Changed. But some things are the same. At least for me. And I thought . . . hoped . . . that maybe there was room for me in your life.”
There’s no mistaking the plea in his voice, and suddenly I’m afraid. That it’s moving too fast. That what we feel in this moment isn’t enough. That after everything we’ve lost, nothing will ever be enough. “We don’t know each other anymore, Hemi. You said it yourself—we’re different people now. We could be making a huge mistake.”
He nods. “You’re right. We could. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take. However slowly you need to take it. You were Belle then and you’ll always be Belle, but you’re someone else now too. We both are. And I’d like the chance to know who you turned out to be. I know we’ve left it a bit late, but I think it’s worth finding out if there’s a future for us.” He reaches for my hand then, searching my eyes. “Is it asking too much?”
I look down at our joined hands, those warm, familiar fingers winding through mine, and recall the advice I gave Dickey all those years ago—the same advice I gave Ethan a few nights ago—to let nothing come between them and love. Can I do this? Risk my heart again? I’ve made a good life for myself, a full life by almost any standard. I’ve raised good children and done good work. It should be enough. But I’ve always known there was a piece missing—and that that missing piece is Hemi.
“No,” I say at last. “It isn’t asking too much. It’s asking just enough.”
I open a bottle of wine and put together a makeshift supper of fruit and cheese, then carry it all to the parlor. Hemi builds a fire and we sit on the sofa to begin the business of picking up the loose threads of our lives.
Now and then, his hand wanders to mine, as if to reassure himself that I’m real, just as mine wanders to his cheek for the same reason. The connection we once felt is still there, like a current running between us, and each touch brings with it the temptation to abandon our stories and tumble into bed. How easy it would be to give in to those temptations, to consummate our reunion in the safe and wordless dark. But there are still too many years yawning between us, too many blank spaces that need to be filled. And so we keep talking.
He tells me about the war and the things he saw—some too horrifying to write about—and about his mother’s death. How he went home when she got sick and was there when they buried her beside his father, on what would have been their thirty-third anniversary. How, in his grief, he had married a woman who reminded him of me, only to realize on the night of their wedding that he’d made a terrible mistake.