The Echo of Old Books(48)

A dozen years, one dead husband, and four children later, she has become the matriarch of our family, the arbiter of good taste and good behavior—and a kind of jailer where I’m concerned. She sees it as her duty to keep me properly aligned with my father’s wishes, and I generally do what’s expected of me. Because it’s easier. But not tonight.

I slip out into the hallway and head for the stairs. I have no idea how long my father will be entertaining in his study or what you’ll think when you’re set free and find I’ve gone up for the night and left you to fend for yourself. You’ve made plenty of new friends. Let one of them show you out. Or perhaps Cee-Cee will do the honors. She seems quite taken with you.

I’ve nearly reached the staircase when I hear muffled footsteps behind me. I turn and find you coming toward me, but you stop abruptly, maintaining an awkward distance.

“I’m going,” you say flatly.

“Going? But why?”

“I’ve had a bellyful of this night. Let’s just leave it at that.”

You’re so cool. So angry. “Has something happened? Has there been a quarrel?”

You smile one of your flinty smiles. “Quite the opposite. I’ve been welcomed into the fold with open arms. A few weeks more and I’ll have been taught the secret handshake.”

I frown, trying to make sense of your words, your tone. It’s our second argument in the space of a day and it frightens me. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that why you came?”

“I came for you, Belle. Because you asked me to, remember? You said . . . Did you ever think I might just want you there? So I came.”

“And the instant you got your foot in the door, I became invisible.”

You study me for what feels like a very long time, your mouth drawn down at the corners. Finally, you come a step closer. I expect you to touch me, to kiss me, since there’s no one around. Instead, you shake your head. “You parade me in front of your father and sister like some bloody trophy, pretending to barely know me, then get angry because I haven’t spent the entire evening pining for you from across the room.”

“I didn’t expect—”

You hold up a hand, cutting me off. “You seem to think this is some sort of game, Belle. You leave me hanging for days at a time, then tug my chain. And I’m supposed to jump when you call. I was happy to play along—for a while. But things are different now. I can’t play anymore.”

Your words are like little stones. They sting when they land. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that in the future, you should be more careful with your invitations.”

You turn then and retreat down the hall. I watch you walk away, your shoulders stiff as you pass through the parlor and slip from sight. Your heels echo against the marble tiles in the foyer, and then I hear the thud of the front door, firm and final.

Much too final.



The next morning, I try to phone you at Goldie’s apartment. A man answers—I don’t know who—but when I ask to speak to you, he tells me you’re no longer in residence, that you moved your things out just this morning. The news catches me off guard and sets off an irrational panic in me. I ask if he knows why you’ve left so abruptly and then if he knows where you’ve gone, but he’s of no help.

My hands feel shaky as I dial the number for the Review. We’ve agreed that I won’t call you at work, just as we’ve agreed that you won’t call me here. The woman who answers is brusque and efficient. She tells me over the background thrum of office activity that you haven’t shown up for work yet and that no one’s heard from you. She suggests I try again after lunch, then, as an afterthought, asks if I want to leave a message.

For a moment, I’m tempted to dictate some petulant remark about your brusque departure last night, to lash out at you in the only way currently available to me. But once you’ve read it, what then? I’ll only wind up apologizing for my petulance.

“No,” I say. “No message.” I’m about to hang up when I blurt out that I’d like to speak with Goldie.

“I’m afraid Miss Spencer is tied up at the moment. Would you care to leave—”

Her words cut off abruptly, followed by a muffled pause, as if a hand has been placed over the receiver. A moment later, Goldie’s voice comes over the line. “What is it you want?”

“I’m calling—”

“I know why you’re calling, honey. A little early, though, even for you. I thought yours was more of a lunchtime affair.”

Affair. The word stuns me. The transient nature of it, the impermanence. But then, that’s what this is, isn’t it? What we’re doing? Having an affair? Perhaps not in the completest sense—we’ve both managed to keep our clothes on—but in every way that matters. Slipping away to meet in secret. Lying about where we’ve been. Pretending it’s different from what other people do. Because we’re in love.

Except we’ve never actually said the word. Me, because I’m not allowed to say it. Not to you. And you, because . . . Well, I suppose it’s part of the bargain we’ve made, to tiptoe around the truth. To give a thing a name means missing it when you have to let it go. And I’m not sure I can bear the missing. Or the letting go.

Only now, you seem to be the one letting go.