A silent standoff, both incredulous.
“He’s my friend,” Marian said. “He’s always been my friend. Am I not allowed to have friends?” Her voice rose. “Do you want me to be completely alone except for you?”
He sat down heavily, the anger going out of him. “Yes,” he said. “If I’m being honest.”
“You want to know what we did—we talked.” She gathered herself, said as though making an accusation, “I told Caleb I loved you.”
He looked up. “You did?”
“When did you start having me followed?”
“Say it again. Tell me what you told him.”
He was radiating thrilled pleasure. She felt only hopelessness. “Not now.”
“Tell me you love me.”
Louder, she said, “When did you start having me followed?”
“After you flew to Vancouver. Only because I was so afraid of losing you.”
Thank god Caleb had stopped their trysts when he had.
“I thought you would do something foolish and get yourself into another bad situation,” Barclay said. “It was for your protection. I wasn’t looking to trap you, only to keep you safe.”
“We don’t trust each other. We should admit it.”
“I’ll stop if we’re married.” Vehemently: “Because when we’re married, I’ll take your vows as your promise not to run away. Because I know you’re honorable.” He stood again, came around the table, and knelt at her feet. “Say it now. Please. Tell me what you told him. It should be between us, not you and him.”
She did as he asked. As the words left her, they caused a strange sensation, as though a knife had been in her gut and pulling it out was both a relief and a new wound, a fatal breach. She had known she would have to admit, eventually, that she loved him, and now she had, and now she could let it be true. He pressed his face into her thighs. She touched his head. He looked up and said, “I love you so much, Marian, but I have to tell you something. And before I tell you, you have to know that I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known—I should have waited.”
She was frozen. She was in the cockpit over the crevasse.
“There’s something—I set something in motion when I was angry, but I can undo it.” His eyes were full of tears. “Marian, I’ve done a terrible thing. But you have to understand—you made me wait too long.”
The Cosmic Whoosh of the Expanding Universe
Eleven
I’d once heard a costume designer say the best actresses didn’t even look in the mirror; they felt a costume. At fittings for Marian, I kept my face turned away from my reflection as though it would turn me to stone. I walked around in a heavy coverall flight suit thing and sheepskin boots feeling as burdened and out of my element as an astronaut marooned on earth. On one wall, a patchwork of photos of female pilots and random era-appropriate people had been pinned up along with costume sketches and pretty much every photo of Marian in existence, and I wallowed slowly over to look.
I’d seen her wedding photo before, online, where she and the gangster Barclay Macqueen are standing outside a handsome courthouse, leaves blowing around their feet. Marian is holding her hat on her head and smiling wanly, as though at an unfunny joke. Her new husband looks elated.
Next to it was a printout of a portrait in charcoal I hadn’t seen before. Marian was very young in it, almost but not quite a child, her hair cut very short, a look on her face like she was about to contradict whatever you’d just said. “What’s this?” I asked.
The costume designer had followed me across the room and was fussing with a strap at my waist. “Her brother drew it. It’s in a private collection somewhere. Isn’t it lovely? So much personality.” She was tugging me backward, turning me to face her assistants. They studied me.
“She looks like a flying squirrel,” one said. He held up an arm and gestured to the space under it. “All webbed in here.”
“It’s authentic,” the designer said defensively, “a real-deal Sidcot suit, but I think we can tailor it so her shape isn’t quite so lost.”
My resolve cracked. I glanced in the mirror. They’d already cut my hair down to a severe sort of pixie and bleached it. I was a small pale head atop a huge brown body, puffy and fungus-like.
“Don’t worry,” the designer said. “We’ll make it more flattering.”
“I don’t care about that,” I lied.