“But—”
He shakes his head, cutting me off again. “I know I love you. And you love me. Nothing else matters.” He opens his palm, showing me Maman’s beads. “I’ll give these back when I get home. And then you can tell me your secret. Deal?”
“All right, then. When you get home.”
He pushes the beads into his pocket, acknowledging the pact we’ve just made. I place the shaving kit into the dress box and refasten the cord. We’ve said what we need to, promised what we can. And now it’s time to go.
My contact is waiting as promised, the ambulance idling out behind the hospital mess, a Pole with a thin mustache and sharp, dark eyes, who gives his name as Henryk. He wears a uniform like Anson’s, with the familiar AFS patch on his shoulder, but I’m certain I’ve never seen him before.
He says nothing as he opens the back door and helps me in. Anson stands off in the shadows, watching. I can feel his eyes in the darkened yard and will him to come to me, to say one last farewell, but I know he won’t. We’ve done that part already. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, refusing to cry.
Henryk slams the door, and I find myself shut in. I feel a frisson of panic in that abrupt moment of blackness, the realization that I am now at the mercy of strangers. Everything I know, my home, Anson, even my name, has been stripped away.
And then we’re moving, gears grinding noisily as the ambulance gathers speed. I fix my eyes on the back window in time to see Anson step from the shadows, legs apart, shoulders squared, and with Maman’s words echoing in my head, I will the image to burn itself into my brain as he recedes, then disappears from sight.
As long as you keep his beautiful face in your heart, he will never truly be lost.
TWENTY-THREE
RORY
July 12, 1985—Boston
Rory was already regretting her decision to venture across town in lunch-hour traffic. She eyed the orange leftover container on the passenger seat and briefly considered turning around. Her mother owned every piece of Tupperware they made. She wasn’t likely to miss this one anytime soon. So why had she suddenly felt the need to return it now—on a Friday afternoon?
Nearly three weeks had passed since that prickly afternoon at her apartment, but things between them remained strained. Neither had mentioned the incident, but the few phone conversations they’d had since had been stilted and cool. Because that’s how their relationship worked. They’d simply gloss over the episode as if it never happened. One of them would make the first move, some small gesture of conciliation, and the other would follow. Advance, retreat, advance again.
And this time, she would make the gesture. Because she’d glimpsed something that day in her kitchen that made her wonder if it might be possible to break the cycle. And because she’d spent the better part of the morning making her usual Friday calls about Hux, working her way down her list of contacts, hoping there’d been word, a sighting or rumor, some new trail being pursued. As usual, she’d come up empty.
Nothing new to relay. Doing everything we can. So very sorry.
She wasn’t sure how it had become a Friday thing. She only knew that with each week that passed, the outcome was beginning to feel more and more inevitable. She wouldn’t be the first to lose a fiancé. Women had been doing it for centuries, waiting for news that never came, weeping over news that did. Which would she be? How long could she keep hoping, when there wasn’t a scrap of news to cling to? When did she move on? And what did that look like? Was she already doing it? Was that what the gallery was about? A stand-in for Hux? Camilla had once suggested it was. Now, with all her heart, she needed to hear that it wasn’t true, that she was doing the right thing for the right reason—and that she shouldn’t feel guilty.
She wouldn’t stay long. Just long enough to return the Tupperware and maybe a cup of coffee.
The front door was unlocked. She slipped off her shoes in the foyer, then headed for the kitchen. By the time she heard the voices, it was too late. Her mother’s high, tinkling laugh, Vicky Foster’s nasal drone, and one more she couldn’t quite place. She should have called first. She wasn’t in the mood for chitchat with her mother’s friends.
She was about to turn and leave when Camilla appeared in the doorway. “Aurora. I thought I heard the front door. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. I just came by to return this.” Rory held up the Tupperware container. “I didn’t know you had company or I wouldn’t have come.”