“Oh,” I say, taking a step back. “I…”
He laughs. “I’m only kidding. Obviously, I don’t care at all that you’re divorced, or rather, almost-divorced.”
I exhale, giving his shoulder a playful punch. “You know, I actually believed you for a second.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it. I’m actually divorced, too.”
“You are?”
“Indeed. Her name was April and we were both twenty-one. Turns out, she had a thing for my best man.”
“No!”
“Yes,” he continues. “Of course, I was devastated at the time. I felt as if she’d taken a bulldozer to my heart.” He presses his hand to his chest and shakes his head solemnly. “I never thought I’d get over it, but you know what’s funny? The other day, I realized that I’d completely forgotten her eye color.”
I laugh.
“Were they green? Blue?” He shakes his head. “Maybe brown? I’m absolutely serious. I have no idea, and nor, of course, do I care. But it reminded me that the human heart has an incredible capacity to heal.” He slowly reaches down for my hand, and when he does, I feel a tingle that creeps up my arm. “And to love again.”
“I like that,” I say, smiling. “Hey, you know what’s funny? We haven’t talked at all about The Last Winter.”
He stops in front of a lamppost and looks at me for a long moment, the light’s reflection adding a bit of glimmer to his gaze. “We’ll have all the time in the world to talk about the past. All our lives even, if we’re so lucky. What do you say we stay in the present for now?”
“Deal,” I say, but I can’t help but wonder if Daniel’s literary foray ended with that college course. What if he isn’t the voracious reader that, say, Eric is? Would we be compatible?
“I’d love to see you again, Valentina,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine as my hesitations slip away. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
I tell him about the fundraiser for the bookstore. “Wait, why don’t you come?”
“I’d love to,” he says quickly.
And just like that, Daniel Davenport jumped out of a book’s pages and into my life.
June 1990
After dinner, I went upstairs to dress, then stopped into Val’s room, where I found her reading, of course.
“Mummy, why are you all dressed up?” she asked, her eyes awash with concern when she saw me. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Just into town for a little while, honey. I’ll be home soon.”
She smiled and turned back to her book as I kissed her head.
Frank was in the living room when I reached for my keys. “I’m heading out for a bit,” I told him as he looked up.
“What on earth are you doing dressed to the nines on a Thursday night, may I ask?”
“I thought I’d check out the art walk, down on Abbot Kinney,” I reply casually. If he could have his private world, I could have mine.
He eyed me curiously. “An art walk?”
As long as we’d been married, he’d never remarked on my comings and goings, but lately, he seemed interested. Perhaps, too interested.
“There’ll be rows of galleries, all kinds of emerging artists. You mentioned wanting to replace that Impressionist oil in the living room with a more modern work. I thought I’d have a look.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I know you love the nineteenth century, but this house needs something more modern. Why don’t you pick something out to my taste this time?”
Val appeared on the stairs before I could reply that I’d pick out what I wanted to, thank you very much.
“Mummy and Daddy, what do we think of a pink-and-white striped birthday cake next year?” she asks. I couldn’t help but smile—my daughter, with her effervescent zest for life. Barely two months had passed since she turned twelve and blew out the candles on her cake （adorned with candied violets—her idea）， but that didn’t stop her from dreaming about next year’s party.
“I think that sounds perfect,” I tell her.
Frank sat in silence as Val and I discussed the merits of fondant frosting, finally agreeing that buttercream was a better option. I gave her a kiss before she ran back to her room. She had homework to do, but I knew she’d spend at least as much time thinking about next year’s guest list, as well as the cake.
In the entryway, I slipped on a sweater, applied a bit of pink lipstick before checking my reflection in the mirror by the door.
“You look awfully beautiful tonight,” Frank said, startling me from behind.
“Thank you,” I said, catching my breath. His comment felt less like a compliment and more like an accusation.
“Is everything all right?” he continued. “You don’t seem like yourself tonight.”
“That’s funny,” I said, reaching for the keys to the Volvo, “because I’ve never felt more like myself.”
* * *
—
At the art walk that night, I perused vendor booths, stopping when something caught my eye. I was alone, of course, as I so often was in California, but for the first time in so long, I didn’t feel lonely.
I paused to take in a landscape painting, which reminded me of the English countryside where my mother took me once as a child, but my mind was still on Frank—his troubles, his need to control the narrative and me. I sighed, walking ahead, stopping to look at a modern painting on a table to my right. The scene immediately resonated—oil on canvas, depicting a little girl jumping into a pool, with a mid-century modern home in the background. It was small, but I knew Frank would love it, and surprisingly, so did I.
The intersection of two worlds, two hearts, I thought as I reached into my purse, pulling out the money I’d made from selling a few of my old dresses from Harrods at a consignment store recently. I paid the artist and tucked the painting—a gift to Frank—into my bag. A peace offering.
I started walking back to my car when I heard my name echoing in the night.
“Eloise?”
I turned around to find a man standing a few feet behind me. It was dark, so it took me a moment recognize him and connect the dots, but I did.
“It’s Peter,” he said, smiling. “We met down by the beach. You were having parking issues. Do you remember?”
I remembered.
“Yes, of course. Hi…Peter.”
“How are you?”
“Fine, thank you,” I said, walking ahead, sideswiping a man with a heavy camera strapped to his shoulder as Peter followed.
“The paparazzi are out in full force tonight,” he said. “Rumor has it that Goldie Hawn and her daughter are here.”
“I may have my own problems,” I said with a smile, “but I’m grateful that lack of privacy isn’t one.”
“I know,” he added, catching up to me. “I wouldn’t trade my freedom for anything.”
Freedom. I thought about what Peter just said, though I could only partly agree. While he might live the life he chose, I would never have my American dream. Land of the free, home of the brave, they say, but I felt neither free nor brave—just…invisible.