“Right,” Ashlyn conceded grimly. “We know they don’t. Anyway, good luck with your writing.” She was halfway down the drive when she turned back. “Is it really illegal to open someone’s mailbox?”
“I have no idea. But it sounded good.”
“Would you have actually called the police and had me arrested?”
His laugh drifted down the drive. “No. I can’t speak for Mrs. Warren, though.”
As Ashlyn pulled out of the driveway and headed down Harbor Road, her thoughts were already on Belle and Hemi and the argument they’d had about Belle’s reluctance to stand up to her father. Had it been the beginning of the end for them, the first fraying of their doomed romance? Or had they made up only to separate again later? The only way to know was to keep reading. Only this time she’d have a face to go with the words.
Regretting Belle
（pgs. 66–72）
21 November 1941
New York, New York
I’ve just finished making coffee when I hear your key slide into the lock. I reach for a second cup, set it on the table next to this morning’s paper—and wait.
I must say I was surprised when you called to say you were on your way over. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to look me in the eye. But then maybe that was the plan all along, a way to tell me without actually telling me. Perhaps you were afraid I’d make a scene, plead and rail that I’d never let you go. You needn’t have worried. I won’t chase after you. If you’re determined to sell yourself to a man who isn’t worthy of you—and it appears you are—then go.
You’re nearly perfect when you finally walk into the kitchen, looking like a fashion plate in your smart tweed suit and new hat. It’s been snowing on and off all morning and a few flakes still cling to your collar, leaving dark flecks of moisture as they melt. As usual, you’re flawless.
For a moment, I regret not putting on a shirt or shoes. What must I look like, standing here in nothing but trousers and an undershirt, my hair still wet from the shower? Then I think—no. It’s fitting that this is how you’ll remember me, proof that you made the right choice after all.
You stop just inside the doorway and stand very still, as if perplexed by my lack of greeting. I’ve been rehearsing my first words to you for more than an hour, but somehow I can’t make myself say them. I’ve been dreading this day for so long, since the first time I kissed you, and now that it’s come, I’m not prepared.
“Say something,” I manage finally.
You frown. “What?”
“Presumably, you’ve come here to say something to me. Say it.”
“I don’t . . . What?”
“In fact, you could have just told me over the phone and saved yourself the cost of the meter.”
You look me up and down, as if I’m a stranger. “Hemi, what’s the matter with you?”
I cross to the table and pick up this morning’s paper. Your photo—and Teddy’s—looks up at me from the page, along with the headline: WEDDING OF THE SEASON SET FOR JUNE. I’ve committed the particulars to memory by now. Church of St. Paul and St. Andrew . . . Waldorf Astoria . . . in a gown designed by English-American couturier Charles James.
“Congratulations,” I say, pushing the paper into your hands. “A June bride. And a reception at the Waldorf. How nice for you.”
You stare at it and then at me. “I didn’t . . . Hemi, I had nothing to do with this.”
Your cheeks have gone a hot, splotchy pink, though I suspect that has more to do with the shame of being caught than with any real outrage. “You’re saying the New York Times ran a story about your upcoming nuptials without your say-so?”
“Yes!”
“They just made up a date? And a venue?”
Your mouth works silently as you fumble for a response, your face growing more flushed by the minute. “It wasn’t me, Hemi. I swear to you.” You stare at the headline again, then finally look up at me. “This has Cee-Cee’s fingerprints all over it. She’s been nagging me for weeks. She obviously thought she could just give them a date and once they printed it, I wouldn’t be able to back out. I’ll kill her.”
I eye you with folded arms, skeptical of your outrage. “What business is it of your sister’s when you get married?”
“You still don’t understand. None of this is about me. It’s about a merger my father’s trying to engineer with Teddy’s father. But Teddy’s parents are getting antsy. Apparently they’ve made some comments about me dragging my feet.”
“And Teddy? Is he getting antsy?”
“Teddy?”
You seem confused by the question, as if you’ve forgotten him in all of this. “Your fiancé,” I remind you coolly.
You close your eyes, sighing wearily. “We’ve barely seen each other since he and his father got back. His choice as much as mine. He’s never said so, but I don’t think he’s any more eager to say ‘I do’ than I am. It’s our fathers who are hell-bent on getting us down the aisle.”
“And apparently they’re going to get their way.”
You glance at the article once more, then toss the paper on the table. “No, they’re not.”
“So you’ve been saying.”
“Hemi . . .”
“Do you have any idea what it felt like to open up the paper this morning and see that headline? To realize you’ve just been stringing me along?”
“Hemi, I promise you—”
“You’re always full of promises, Belle.”
“Because I mean them.”
“Then call the paper. Right now.”
“What?”
“Call the Times and tell them they’ve got it wrong. Demand that they print a retraction. One that quotes you.”
You stare at me as if I’ve just asked you to walk down Fifth Avenue without your clothes. “I can’t do that. Not yet. I need more time.”
“Time for what?” The words erupt before I can check them, ringing off the kitchen walls. “When will it be time? When you’re halfway down the aisle?”
“That isn’t fair!”
“Who isn’t it fair for? For Teddy? Your father? What about me, Belle? How long am I supposed to wait? I’m tired of playing the fool. I’ve tried to walk away, to give you an out, but you keep reeling me back in. How many times am I supposed to fall for it?”
Your eyes pool with tears. You look away, your voice suddenly ragged. “What do you want from me?”
And suddenly I see it, the toll all this has been taking on you. You’ve become the prize in a game of emotional tug-of-war, and I’ve been too busy nursing my own ego to see just how badly you’ve begun to fray.
I reach for you, pulling you into my arms. “I want you to marry me, Belle. I want you to walk away from everything—I want us both to walk away—to live in a tent if that’s all we can afford and subsist on hamburgers and scrambled eggs. But most of all, I don’t want you to be afraid anymore.”
You’re weeping softly now, all your weight against me. “It isn’t that simple.”