CHAPTER ELEVEN WINNIE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WINNIE

Eight months later

Momma always tells me that the cutest thing I ever did as a child was bawl my eyes out every time “Space Oddity,” by David Bowie, came on the radio.

I’m talkin’ full-blown meltdown, peppered with hiccups and uncontrollable emotions.

“You were so moved by it, no matter how many times you listened to it. It touched your soul. This was how I knew you were an artist. You let art touch you. So it was obvious to me, one day you’d be able to touch others with it.”

These days, I can’t shed a tear to save my life. Super Bowl commercials. Cheesy Hallmark movies. Women pushing strollers on the street. People without housing. Wars, famines, humanitarian crises. Expired yogurts that belong to Paul in the fridge. “Mad World,” by Michael Andrews. The list of things that usually make me weep is long and tedious, but my body is all dried up. In an emotional coma, refusing to produce tears.

Cry. Feel something, darn you! Just one thing, I inwardly chide myself as I burst out of the theater, a blast of humid heat slapping my face.

New York wears her weather like a weapon. Summers are long and sticky, and winters are white and ruthless. These days, it seems like the entire city is melting into the ground like an ice cream. But for the first time in years, the heat doesn’t get to me. All I feel is a mild chill, thanks to the fifteen pounds I’ve lost since Paul.

My eyes are still dry.

“No, you shouldn’t cry. You’re happy,” I mumble to myself aloud. “Fine. Maybe happy’s not the right word .?.?. satisfied. Yes. You’re satisfied with your little accomplishment, Winnie Ashcroft.”

One good thing about New York is no one ever looks at you twice when you talk to yourself.

I stride along Times Square, oblivious to the sights, the scents, the festivity in the air. Putting one leg in front of the other requires enough effort these days.

My phone dances in my pocket. I withdraw it, swiping to answer my agent, Chrissy.

“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes. “I didn’t forget to attend the audition this time.”

I’ve been very forgetful these past few months. Understandable, everyone keeps reassuring me, but I can tell some people are at the end of their rope. I rarely show up to auditions, meetings, and social functions these days. Forget to eat, to exercise, to call relatives and friends back. My niece’s birthday came and went, and for the first time since she was born, there were no lavish gifts, no balloons, no surprise visit from Auntie Winnie. Most days I’m slumped on my couch, staring at the door, waiting for Paul to return.

Ma and Dad say I should cut my losses. Pack up and move back to Mulberry Creek.

There is a job with my name on it back home. Drama teacher for my former high school.

Ma says my childhood sweetheart, Rhys Hartnett, works there now as a football coach and can pull all kinds of strings. She claims it’s a done deal. A great, comfy position to fall into while I figure things out. But the idea of leaving the apartment Paul and I shared makes my skin crawl.

Plus, taking favors from Rhys Hartnett after our messy goodbye just seems .?.?. wrong.

“Yes, I know you decided to grace them with your presence—very charitable of you, by the way.” Chrissy chuckles on the other end of the line.

I shoulder past a flock of tourists taking selfies in front of billboards, giggling and squeaking, without a care in the world.

“How’d you know I showed up?” I toss my last few dollars into the open jaw of a violin case of a street performer without breaking stride. “You spying on me now, ma’am?”

“No, though sometimes I’m tempted, just to check that you’re okay. You know I’m a fierce worrier.”

Darn Chrissy and her heart of gold. I do know that. And, truth be told, she is one of the only people in New York who cares about me. She and Arya, the woman who runs the charity I volunteer for. Most of my social network is back in Mulberry Creek. Chrissy took me under her wing when I first signed up with her. I think she saw in me someone she once was. Young and impressionable, fresh off the bus. Easy prey to New York’s bloodthirsty sharks. She came from Oklahoma. I, from Tennessee. But it’s the same story all over again. Small-town girl trying to conquer the Big Apple.

“Well, missy, for your information, I’m fine and a half,” I announce. “Been eatin’ all my veggies and practicing self-care.”

“If you think I’m buying what you’re selling, you’re in for some disappointment. But we’ll revisit the subject later. Back to your audition,” Chrissy says decisively.

It was the first audition I attended since the plane crash and the only role I cared about since Paul passed away.

I want this role. I need this role.

“What about my audition?” I ask.

“I have some news.”

Oh, no. That was fast. Was I really that bad they couldn’t wait to pounce on their phone and call my agent? The woman doesn’t belong onstage.

“Listen, Chris. I tried. Sure did. I went in there and gave it my all. Maybe I—”

“You got the role, baby!” Chrissy announces.

I freeze midwalk. A couple of people crash into me from behind, muttering profanity. Making an unannounced stop on a sidewalk in Manhattan is a serious traffic offense.

Wait .?.?. I got the role?

I try to muster pleasure from the news. Some kind of contentment or something that imitates it. But my body is numb from the outside, empty from the inside. I feel paper thin. So light, so weightless, I could be carried with the next gust of wind.

Shed a tear, Winnie.

I’d always been such a good crier. Any occasion, good or bad, prompted the waterworks to start.

I’m going to work! Leave the house! Attend rehearsal! Memorize lines!

I’m going to have to be a fully functioning human being. But somehow, the only emotion I can muster is fear.

“You’re going to be Nina,” Chrissy wails, undeterred by my silence. “Can you believe it? Every actress’s wet dream.”

She isn’t wrong. Since my Juilliard days as an aspiring actress, playing the role of Nina has been a fantasy for most of my fellow students. The beautiful, tragic, fame-hungry girl from Chekhov’s play The Seagull. The woman who represents the loss of innocence, emotional damage, whose dreams were crushed into fairy dust.

So fitting. Of course I got the role. I am the role.

“Nina,” I breathe out, closing my eyes as herds of office folk rush past me, by me, through me. I’m caught in a wave of bodies. “I’m going to be Nina.”

To feel the stage under my feet, the bright lights pounding on my eyes, and their warmth. To smell the sweat of other people again. Steal bites of energy bars between rehearsals. All that I dreamed about when I packed a small suitcase and left Mulberry Creek.

“I know things have been difficult, honey.” Chrissy drops her voice. “But I think this is the beginning of the end. The caterpillar will soon become a butterfly. You earned it, baby girl. Spread those wings. Fly high.”

I nod as if she can see me. I need a hug. I wish someone were here to wrap their arms around me. I also need buttermilk biscuits. Lots and lots of Ma’s buttermilk biscuits.

“Tell me you’re at least a little bit happy.” The plea in Chrissy’s voice is unmistakable. “You sound like you’re attending your own funeral.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? I’m happy as a clam!” I swivel artfully to avoid stepping over a tiny Chihuahua rushing alongside its owner, lying through my teeth.

“Lucas, the director, was so impressed with your performance. He called it electric. They should get back to me with the schedule and contract in the next few days.” There is a pause. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m all about business today. Would you like me to come over tonight? We can Hallmark and chill.”

Chrissy and I both like our movies the same way we like our pizza—with extra cheese and cheap red wine on the side. Normally, I’d be all over the offer. But today, I’d like to be alone. This new job symbolizes my return to the outside world. I need to digest it all.

“I think I’ll have a quiet one in tonight, if you don’t mind.” I smile, out of habit, to people on the street as I make my journey to my apartment block. They never smile back, not in this zip code, but it’s a force of habit I find hard to break.

“You got it, Win. Just wanted to put the offer out there. Enjoy your night.”

I kill the call and scroll through my phone to keep my mind busy. I have one unread message from Pablo.

Hey, sorry I missed your call again. I’m available if you want to talk.

It was sent at four thirty in the morning.

Pablo has been avoiding me for the past eight months. So does the rest of the staff of Silver Arrow Capital. Chip, Dahlia from HR, and Phil, Paul’s best friend. They’ve all been cagey about what they know—or don’t know—regarding Paul and Grace’s relationship. I still have no clue what my husband and that woman were doing together that day when their lives ended.

It’s easy to speculate Paul and Grace had an affair, but something in me refuses to believe he’d so callously betray me.

Paul wasn’t an angel, but he wasn’t a villain either. Besides, he loved me—I know he did. And he’d never indicated Grace was someone he even liked. On the contrary. Many times I found myself chiding him when he accused her of being self-centered and high maintenance when he returned home from work.

Never met a bigger headache in my life. That Corbin guy must be a glutton for punishment. All she does is whine and make demands.

Over the last few months, I’ve been trying to piece together the reason why Paul got on that flight with Grace. Did he truly give her a ride? Or was this salacious? I think back to our conversations, go through his things in our apartment trying to spot clues.

I haven’t found any evidence of an affair so far. Nothing to raise my suspicion. Everything he owned and kept close was so innocent. Photo albums, knickknacks, his stamp collection, signed baseball tees.

Sometimes I toy with the idea of calling that pompous creature Arsène Corbin. I bet he holds all the answers to my questions. For all his many glaring faults, he seems like a resourceful man. The kind who is quick to play catch-up.

I have no doubt he found out everything there is to know about the circumstances that led Grace and Paul to be on the same plane that claimed their lives.

But I can’t bring myself to ask him for a favor. Now, if he were the one to approach me, that’d be a whole different ballgame. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?

A dull pain thuds behind my forehead. I stop scrolling and call Ma. Rita Towles always manages to lift my spirits, even when they’re in the dumpster.

“Sugar plum!” she yelps in delight. “Your daddy and I were just talking about you. He’s right here beside me. Were your ears burnin’? He asked if I remembered the time you tried to walk in my heels when you were a kid and broke your ankle. ’Course I remember. I was the one to drive you all the way to the hospital while you were screamin’ to the high heavens.”

I still have a little scar on my ankle to show for that.

“It was a lesson well learned. Never wore heels again,” I say with a wistful smile.

“Other than on your wedding day,” she reminds me. My mood wilts again. All roads always lead to Paul.

“They were platforms, not heels, Ma. And I only wore them for the membership.”

Paul and I had married in my local church in Mulberry Creek. We buried a bottle of bourbon upside down at the wedding venue and danced into the night, barefoot. When he whisked me off to my dream honeymoon in Thailand, I got on the plane in pj’s he’d packed and bought for me ahead of time, my feet still muddy from the wedding. He rubbed them in his lap until I fell asleep on the long flight. It was just another way Paul was amazing. Considerate and always thoughtful.

Other than the times he wasn’t.

“Lizzy’s coming over for dinner tonight. And you know Georgie’s always here. So I’m making peach cobbler,” she says about my sisters.

“Darn. I wish I could be there.”

“Oh, but you can! Just hop on a plane and come see us.”

“About that .?.?.” I trail off. “I’ve news of my own.”

“What is it, sugar plum?”

I gather oxygen in the pit of my lungs, preparing for my announcement. “I got a job! A new role. I’m going to be Nina from The Seagull.”

The line goes quiet. For a second, I think maybe I lost reception.

Dad is the first to recover. “That so? Broadway and all?”

I wince. “Not exactly Broadway. But it’s an established theater in Manhattan.”

“How long’s this gig gonna run for?” he continues.

“One year.”

“How nice.” Ma clears her throat, disappointment coating her voice. “This is .?.?. I mean, it’s what you wanted. I’m happy for you.”

I can see my Hell’s Kitchen brownstone from the corner of my eye. My feet feel like lead. I know I saddened my parents, who thought I was warming up to the idea of going back home. There’s still a part of me that wants to go home too. It’s not small either. But this role is important for so many reasons. One of them I can’t even utter aloud.

“Please, now. You’re making me blush with all your excitement,” I murmur, but there is no real bite in my voice. As much as it pains me to admit, I understand them. They want to nurture me, help get me back on my feet. Keep an eye on me while I’m close by.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea that you’re all alone out there,” Ma says with a heavy sigh. “Maybe I should come? Just for a couple weeks? Make you that peach cobbler? I won’t stand in your way at all. Don’t worry. This old lady can find entertainment all on her own.”

“Don’t, Ma,” I beg, panic taking over me. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Our apartment—I guess it is my apartment now—is a modern two bedroom. With an open kitchen, eastern view of the Manhattan skyline, and what Realtors like to call character. I love everything about it. The quilted leather stools by the black granite island in the kitchen, the art pieces Paul and I collected from small flea markets on our honeymoon, and most of all, the way the place is still soaked with his presence. Swollen with the promise and expectation he will be back any moment now.

That he’d push the door open with his daytime-show-host smile and announce, Honey, I’m hooooome!

Sweep me off my feet, kiss me hard, and ask me how his favorite girl is doing.

His running shoes are still by the door. His toothbrush is tucked in a cup by our Jack-and-Jill sink, the bristles bent out of shape like a ripe dandelion. Paul scrubbed his teeth to the point of bleeding.

It gives me strange comfort that his yogurts are still in the fridge, arranged by now-expired dates, though I know they shouldn’t be. That his spare contact lenses are still perched by the faucet of his sink, waiting expectantly to be put on.

It’s why I don’t want my parents to pay me a visit. I’m not supposed to keep these things. The everyday oddments he won’t be using anymore. His orange-bottled prescription pills, the reading glasses on his nightstand, complete with the open newspaper he’d been reading, the article he never finished glaring back at me. “Mining the Bottom of the Sea.”

The New Yorkeris to blame for the ugly way we parted.

The last time I saw him, we’d had an argument.

I’d been pestering him about canceling our newspaper subscription. He never touched it, and I’m allergic to world news and the anxiety it induces. I grew up frugal, and didn’t like how Paul threw money away for no reason other than he possessed it. He made a show of opening the paper that night, read half an article, put it aside, and promised he would read the rest when he returned from his Paris trip.

Don’t close the newspaper. I’ll get back to it,he’d warned. By God I will. The only reason I’m not taking it with me is because Phil always wants to talk baseball when we take flights together.

I never did. It stayed put. Each new paper I receive every day is rolled up and waiting in a pile in the pantry for Paul to arrive and read it. Like he might materialize one day, stride in here, and ask me what he missed these past eight months.

Pacing across the apartment, I run my fingers over the books on the shelves—a mixture of my favorite classics and his Jack Reacher—and the stainless steel appliances we chose together.

Reality nibbles its way into my gut. I can’t afford to keep this place. Even though Paul had paid off the mortgage before we got married (“Bad investment,” he argued, but I wanted to live in a place that was completely my own), and I inherited the property as his wife, there are too many bills piling up each month.

The property tax, parking, food, health care, and transportation make me dip into the insurance money I received every month since he passed.

Paul and I had signed an iron-clad prenup upon his parents’ request, which means I’m not as well off as people might suspect. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, because the idea of ever parting ways with Paul was crazy to me.

It’s going to suck to sell and move away and leave all his memories behind.

Maybe this new role as Nina in The Seagull will help keep me afloat, but I doubt it. It’s just a one-year contract, and not a Broadway gig. No big money to be made.

The doorbell chimes. I jump back, taken by surprise, before remembering I ordered Paul’s favorite. Banh xeo and cha ca. I hurry to the door, tip the DoorDasher, and crack open a cheap bottle of red wine. I set two plates in front of the TV on the coffee table. I pour Paul a glass, too, and mound food on his plate, taking all the baby corn out manually because he hated it. Even though I’m starving, I wait until Netflix loads before taking the first bite. It was a pet peeve of his.

At least have the manners to skip the intro, baby doll. The food’s not going to run away.

Am I being unhinged right now, serving a full plate to the ghost of my dead husband? Absolutely. Do I care very much? Nope. It’s one of the rare perks of living completely alone. I don’t have to tuck my crazy in.

“Tonight, my dear, we’re going to watch The Witcher. I know it’s not your cuppa, but Henry Cavill is mine, and there is nothing you can do about it,” I joke, starting up the first episode as I take a bite of the fluffy stuffed rice pancake. “Executive decision. Should’ve been more careful. That way you’d have a say in the matter.”

Wednesdays were our Vietnamese takeout and TV nights. Paul would pick up the food on his way back from work while I cleaned the apartment, got the groceries, and ironed his clothes. I keep the tradition alive, even though he isn’t here anymore. Well, minus ironing his clothes. That part, I don’t even pretend to miss.

I make idle conversation with Paul’s side of the sofa while I eat.

How was your day?

Mine was pretty good, actually. I went to an audition and got it! Thank you for always believing in me. For telling me I was going to make it.

My role as Belle died a swift death the night Paul passed away. The next morning, Chrissy called the theater and told them about my situation, and I dropped out of the show. The loss felt miniscule in the grand scheme of things, but months after, I sometimes wondered if it would have been possible to push through. Maybe if I’d had something to keep me going, I wouldn’t be so numb.

When the episode ends, I clear the coffee table and wash the plates. Double-lock and bolt the door.

In the kitchen, I fill myself three tall glasses of water and drink all of them. I like to wake up at least a couple of times each night. I do a little inspection around the apartment, making sure I’m really alone. I’ve always been scared of sleeping by myself. At Julliard, I had a bucketload of roommates, and before that, I shared a room with both my sisters. There’s no doubt I’m not good at being alone.

I turn the lights off on my way to the bedroom but stop in front of a door when I reach the hallway.

Paul’s office. The door is locked. I know where the key is, but I haven’t used it since he’s been gone.

Back when he was alive, Paul spent countless hours in his home office. I’ve seen it hundreds of times from the inside, when I came in to fetch him coffee, or water, or just to remind him it was time to take a break. It’s just another office, with piles of documents, an Apple screen, and an unholy amount of filing cabinets.

He had asked me not to open it whenever he locked it.

Trade secrets, baby doll. Plus, I kind of like the idea of having an island of my own. A private place that only belongs to me.

And me, blindly loyal, unreservedly faithful, decided to never break this rule. Even now, after all these months, the office is still closed.

Waiting for me to betray him, just like he allegedly betrayed me.