“I can’t,” she argued. She would have gone to Europe with Harley, but not by herself. “The opening of my boutique is next week.”
Milton glanced at her kindly. He rubbed his brow, and his shoulders hunched over.
“Do you really think people will come to your opening while your husband’s name is splashed across every newsstand? I’ll continue to pay the rent; you can hold the opening when you return.”
Milton was right. Anyone who knew about the scandal would avoid her boutique. The full weight of Harley’s betrayal washed over her. All Pandora’s dreams, everything she had envisioned for their future, would be lost.
A disturbing thought came to her. If Pandora took Esme to Europe without Harley, wasn’t she behaving like her mother? Laura left when the doors to society closed to her, Pandora didn’t want to do the same. Yet she had to protect Esme. If she went to Europe, she and Esme would return to Harley, and they would be a family again.
Milton stood up and paced around the room.
“The RMS Olympic leaves for Southampton next week. You and Esme and Sally will be on it. Until then, stay inside and don’t talk to reporters.” He reached into his pocket. “Harley wrote you a letter; he wanted me to give it to you.”
Milton walked to the door; Pandora followed him.
“Whatever Harley says in the letter, don’t forget what he’s done.” Milton turned around. “It’s a sickness, Pandora. Harley can’t control his actions, and he’s never going to change.”
After Milton left, Pandora stuffed the letter into her purse. She had to get to Harley as soon as she could. No matter what Milton said, Harley was still her husband. She had to make sure he was all right.
The Yorkville Prison was in the basement of the courthouse on Fifty-Seventh Street at Lexington Avenue. Pandora was shocked to find it was on the same block as her boutique. She parked hurriedly and tried to make her way inside. But a crowd had gathered around the entrance. They carried signs pasted with the newspaper articles about Harley’s and Porter’s arrests.
Pandora scanned the words printed on the signs: “Protect our Children, Keep Homosexuals Locked Up and Throw Away the Key.”
The blood rushed to her cheeks, and she had to stop herself from ripping the signs from the protestors’ hands. Harley was a wonderful father. He would never hurt a child.
She managed to squeeze inside the courthouse and walked quickly to the desk.
“Can I help you?” a man asked. He wore a gray uniform and was poring over a black ledger.
“I need to see my husband, Harley Enright.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” He shook his head. “The jail cells are locked for the evening.”
“It’s urgent. I’ll only be a minute,” she pleaded.
“Those are the rules. You can come back on Monday.”
Pandora took a deep breath. She couldn’t leave without seeing Harley.
“Please,” she said desperately. She opened her purse and took out her wallet. “I have enough money to get him released.”
“The prisoner already refused bail.” He closed the ledger. “Go home and take a bath; let him sleep off his hangover. Your husband will be happy to leave on Monday.”
Two guards stood at the top of the basement steps; she couldn’t sneak past them. She had to think of some way to get to him. She couldn’t leave him here until Monday.
An acrid smell hit her as she walked outside. It reminded her of a pot that sat on the stove too long. She saw a flicker of orange and heard a loud popping sound. Flames erupted around her. She heard glass shattering and people shouting.
The crowd lurched forward, and then people scattered and ran. It all happened so quickly. The flames licked the windows of the jail, melting the glass and leaving the iron bars black and filthy. The buildings on each side of the jail caught fire, and more windows shattered from the heat.
Frantically, she turned back to the jail, but someone took her hand. He dragged her down the street, only stopping when they reached the corner.
The man’s shirt was torn, and his hair was covered in ashes.
“I can’t leave. My husband is in the jail.” She wiped the soot and sweat from her forehead.
“You’ll be killed if you go back there,” he said in warning. “Soon, there won’t be any of the courthouse left.”
The fire continued to spread. People ran in all directions. Harley was in the basement; there were bars on the windows. He had no way to escape.
Suddenly, an explosion ripped one wall of the courthouse open. She heard sirens and people screaming. Pandora watched in horror as the building crumbled like some great prehistoric animal that was too tired to keep standing.
Pandora glanced down the street and gasped. The fire had already spread to her boutique. One window was broken, and orange flames filled the interior.
She tried to run to it, but the swell of people moving toward her made it impossible. She stood frozen and watched everything she had worked for, the racks of bright dresses, the elegant furniture, and the cases of cardigans and sweaters, become a mess of charred remains. The walls caved in like a house of cards.
When there was nothing left to see, Pandora started walking. She walked down Fifty-Seventh Street and turned onto Lexington Avenue. She walked past Bloomingdale’s with its smart window displays, past apartment buildings with uniformed doormen, past a skyscraper under construction.
She walked until her calves ached, her head throbbed, and her back felt like it would break. Why had it all seemed so important? The money, the success, the social standing. Wasn’t love the only important thing? But now he was gone. He couldn’t possibly have survived. He had been trapped in the basement, and she had seen the explosion.
After she was too tired to walk anymore, she made her way back to her car and drove slowly back to Summerhill. Her hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly she could barely feel her fingers. She had to keep pushing away the tears to see the road.
Finally, she pulled into Summerhill’s gates and dragged herself up the front steps. Harley’s letter was still in her purse. She had forgotten about it! What had Harley written, and how could she bear to read it when he was surely dead?
First, she poured herself a shot of brandy from the decanter in the living room. Then she unfolded the paper.
My dearest Pandora,
If you are reading this, you know what I’ve done. It’s all my fault, Pandora. I should never have married you in the first place. You’ve been the ideal wife. You supported me and you brought me such happiness: your love, our home, and our precious daughter. I could never be a good husband because only half of me wanted those things, the other half wanted something else. Something you could never give me.
I can’t fight who I am, Pandora. It’s as impossible as expecting the moon to turn into the sun. And I can’t live without being the real me. To try and do so again would only cause more pain.
I have decided to take matters into my own hands and end things now. My parents have suffered enough. They would never recover from the ongoing shame of their son being a homosexual. What kind of life will Esme have with me as a father? And you deserve much more; I want you to be happy.
It’s better if I’m remembered fondly, one of those people who float through the world for a while, before making his departure.