The Echo of Old Books(50)

“I’m sorry. We had it out last night when I got back to her place. And then we picked it up again this morning. She means well—”

“Don’t make excuses for her.”

“She thinks I’ve crossed the line with you,” I reply, a response that’s both honest and not quite the truth. “That I’ve lost my sense of perspective.”

“Crossed whose line—hers?”

“No. Mine. But she isn’t wrong. And I realized it last night. At dinner.”

“What does that mean?”

I pull in a breath, as if bracing for the cauterization of a wound, and then I say it. “It means we have to stop this, Belle. Whatever this is. It has to end. Now.”

Your face goes slack. “Because of her?”

“Because of us. Because of you and me and what will happen if this . . .”

“Affair?” you supply in a voice I hardly recognize.

“Yes, all right. Let’s call it what it is. What do you suppose will happen if we’re found out? You’re the daughter of one of the richest men in the country, engaged to one of the most prominent young men in New York. And I’m . . .”

You tilt your chin up. “You’re what?”

“A fool,” I answer. “Involved with a woman who’s about to walk down the aisle with another man. One whose sole redeeming quality—beyond a pair of broad shoulders and a mantel full of polo trophies—is his inclusion in his father’s will. And you can stand there, glaring at me, as if I’m on the wrong side. Can you not see the irony?”

“I didn’t choose Teddy. I never wanted him.”

“You didn’t say no, though, did you? You put his ring on your finger and smiled when they toasted the happy couple. I was there, remember?”

“Don’t . . .” Your voice falters and your gaze slides to the diamond still glittering on your ring finger. “Please don’t talk about that night.”

I’ve struck a nerve and I’m glad. It feels good to have your fiancé out in the open at last, a flesh-and-bone man with a name, rather than a shadow we both pretend not to see. “Why shouldn’t I mention it? It was the high point of the season. A posh and unforgettable night, I believe the Times called it.”

“I wish I could forget it. Every minute of it.” You break off abruptly and shake your head. “No, that’s not true. Not every minute. Somewhere in the middle, there was you, studying me in your rented suit, smirking and seeing right through me.”

“Not quite through you,” I correct. “If I had, you’d hardly be standing here now. I would have known better—and we would have avoided a great deal of unpleasantness.”

“Unpleasantness?” You stare at me, stricken. “Of all the words in your writer’s repertoire, that’s the one you chose at this moment?”

I drop my hands to my sides, shaking my head. I thought I could make the moment easier by wounding you, but there’s no satisfaction in it. I soften my voice but make no move to comfort you. I don’t dare. “We both knew it would end, Belle. We never talked about it, but we knew.”

You swallow hard but manage a nod, acknowledging that much at least. “But why now? When we still have time?”

“When did you think it was going to end? Did you see us carrying on until the eve of your wedding? Perhaps even after?”

You stiffen at the suggestion. “Certainly not.”

“No. Certainly not. But you assumed you’d be the one to pull the plug. And until you did, I was supposed to be satisfied with seeing you on the quiet. Playing games like we did last night. Dangerous games for both of us. And once upon a time, I might have been fine with that. But it’s messier now. For a lot of reasons.”

“It’s always been messy, Hemi. Every walk, every picnic, every kiss has been messy. It never mattered—until now.”

“It’s always mattered. I just forgot.”

You stand there, so steely. “I see. And it took Goldie, of all people, to remind you. But why kick you out of the love nest? She’s getting what she wants. Me out of the picture.”

“She didn’t kick me out. I left. That’s what set off the row to begin with. Me telling her I’d gotten my own place. She thought it was a bad idea.”

“I’ll bet she did.”

“Not for the reasons you think. She thought I was making a mistake—with you. That this was all a game to you. And last night, I guess I finally saw it too. I’m trying to find my footing here, to do something worthwhile. It’s why I came to the States. And for the first time in my life, I’m working on something important. I thought I could keep the two separate, but I can’t. And I can’t afford to get distracted. Not on this story.”

“What’s it about?”

“Your father.”

You go still. “My . . . What about my father?”

“There are . . . stories.”

“Stories you heard from Goldie?”

“Some were from Goldie, but not all. You told me yourself, there’s been talk for years. Word is your father ran a proper racket back in the twenties. Whisky out of Canada. Rum from Bimini. Had some pretty unsavory friends in those days too. The kind who come in handy when you’re involved in rough trade.”