“What are you doing here, Belle?”
“I called . . . They said you weren’t . . . I had to see you.”
“I thought we agreed—”
“I don’t care what we agreed. They said you moved out this morning.”
“Who’s they?”
“Whoever answered the phone. What happened?”
You pull off your hat, rake a hand through your hair. For the first time, I notice how tired you look, as if you haven’t slept or showered. You study me through narrowed eyes. “How long have you been here? Your lips are blue.”
I look away, my throat tight. “I don’t know. A couple hours. We need to talk about last night, Hemi. Please.”
“We can’t sit here. Start the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
Regretting Belle
（pgs. 55–65）
5 November 1941
New York, New York
You say nothing as you maneuver your father’s Chrysler through lunch-hour traffic, turning when I tell you to, parking where I tell you to.
I feed the meter, then point to a six-story brick walk-up crouched between its taller neighbors on Thirty-Seventh Street. After a furtive glance in both directions, you follow me into the building, past a bank of metal mailboxes and a scattering of weary chairs and tables. I wonder what you’re thinking as you follow me up the narrow flight of stairs, your hand hovering slightly above the banister, so as not to soil your gloves.
I stop in front of apartment 2-B and fumble for the key, still loose in my pocket. The door groans as I push it open and stand aside. You enter tentatively, wary of the dim and vaguely stale interior. There’s an uncomfortable moment when I flip on the living room lamp and you take in the handful of sparsely furnished rooms. It isn’t bad, but it isn’t much either. Certainly a far cry from your father’s study with its mahogany-paneled walls and sumptuous leather chairs.
There’s a couch covered in some plain, serviceable material; a matching armchair; and a pair of low end tables. The kitchen is at the back, compact, like a ship’s galley, with red-and-white curtains and a table built into the wall. Down a short hall, the bedroom is visible, starkly furnished with a bureau, a small desk, and a double bed with a faded chenille spread. My suitcases sit in the doorway, along with my typewriter case and a handful of battered books.
You run your eyes around the place, then turn and blink at me. “This is . . . yours?”
“As of nine thirty this morning, yes. Goldie and I have been experiencing . . . a little friction, so I thought it was time I strike out on my own. It’s not a palace, but it’s a place to write and sleep, which is all I need.”
I watch as your eyes fill with tears. You try to blink them away, but it’s too late. They spill down your cheeks. I’m startled when you fall against me with a sob.
“I thought you were going home . . . ,” you whisper hoarsely, then tip your head back to look at me. “When I heard you left Goldie’s this morning, I thought you were going back to England.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Last night, when you left . . .” You look away, then drop your eyes to the floor. “Why did you leave Goldie’s?”
I step away then, needing to put distance between us, and find myself wishing I’d taken up smoking. I could do with a distraction just now, a stall tactic, something to do with my hands. I shove them into my pockets instead. “We had words,” I say, clipped, grudging.
“About me?”
“Among other things.”
“She knows about us.”
There’s a hint of accusation in your tone. Deserved, I suppose. “Yes.”
Your face goes hard, your tears forgotten. “How could you? Of all the people on earth, how could you tell her? The things she said to me on the phone . . .”
“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?”