CHAPTER TWELVE WINNIE

CHAPTER TWELVE

WINNIE

“It’s Elsa! Elsa’s here!” Little Sienna, only six years old and a resident in the pediatric rehabilitation unit at Saint John’s, calls out to me from her place in her bed. She reaches her arms, wriggling her fingers as I enter her room. I lean down to hug her, my fake, synthetic white-blonde wig tickling her face, making her giggle.

“You smell like plastic,” she says.

No matter how down I feel, there is one thing I never miss—my volunteer work at Saint John’s Children’s Hospital.

More than it helps the little warriors to pull through, it soothes me. There is nothing like watching an innocent child fighting a grown-up battle to put your own troubles in perspective. I thank the Lord every day I found Arya Roth-Miller and was able to jump on board with her charity. That we got talking at this random party three years ago, and when she said she’d call and give me the details of her charity—she truly did. I not only gained perspective and something to nourish the soul—I also gained a friend.

“Why, if it isn’t my favorite trooper.” I plop next to Sienna in a visitor’s chair, placing my makeup kit on her nightstand. A clear plastic box sits on it, consisting of dozens of small squares, pills inside them, along with half-finished bottles of water and some candy. “Where’s your momma and daddy?”

“It’s my little brother Cade’s birthday. So they took him to Chuck E.?Cheese to celebrate with his class. But don’t worry! They said they’ll get me something yummy.” She flashes me a half-toothless smile. My heart melts in my chest.

Oh, Sienna.

“Good. I’ll have you all for myself. So who do you want to be today?” I wiggle my brows. “Minnie Mouse? A butterfly? A dragon? I know! Maybe a rainbow?”

Sienna licks her lips, fixing the glasses atop her nose. She shuffles in her bed, reaching to scratch beneath the blanket covering her legs. Or, rather, her leg. Her left one was severed in a car accident three weeks ago. She has a case of phantom limb, and she keeps feeling the leg that isn’t there.

“I want to be Mirabel from Encanto!” she announces. “Because you don’t have to have a superpower to be a hero.”

“That’s the spirit, Si!” I’m already on my phone, looking for tutorials of how to draw Mirabel. “Superpowers are boring. They have no merit. It’s the power we find in ourselves that matters.”

Now if only I can listen to my own advice.

Sienna is a delight to put makeup on. Usually, I chat up the kids as I work on their faces. Sienna tells me she might get discharged at the end of the month and will return back to her class.

“And at first, they’ll give me a wheelchair, but after, they said they’ll fix me a supercool bionic leg and it’ll be just like before the accident!” she says excitedly. “I’ll just have to put it on every morning when I wake up.”

I pull away when I’m done, grinning back at her. “That sounds like the coolest thing ever!”

“Right?” Her eyes light up.

“For real. You could walk, dance, swim, do anything!”

After Sienna, it is Tom’s turn (spine surgery), and after Tom comes Mallory (cystic fibrosis). I make the round, and time passes by without the usual pain that accompanies breathing and operating in the world without Paul.

When I’m done, I call the elevator. It slides open, and out pops Arya Roth-Miller, the director of the foundation I’m working with on this project and the only other friend, other than Chrissy, who bothers to visit me once a month.

“Winnie.” She smiles, stepping back into the elevator. “Just who I was waiting to bump into. Let me see you out of here.”

I follow her into the elevator and hit the ground floor button, smiling at Arya. I love that she has her own PR business, a family—a baby!—but still finds time to do this work.

“Am I in trouble?” I laugh. “Why’d you want to speak to me?”

“Trouble?” she asks, frowning. “Do I already have a crabby-mom expression? Why would you think that?”

I shrug. “You normally like to catch up over coffee, not in the elevator.”

“Well, first, I wanted to congratulate you on getting the Nina part. Chrissy told me. I’m so proud of you!”

Blushing deeply, I nod.

“Second, I’m throwing a charity ball in a few weeks, and I would love for you to come. It’s a three-K-a-plate thing.”

Bless her heart. What’ll they be serving at this event, a steak made out of pure gold?

“Thank you so much for offerin’. I’m not .?.?. I mean, you know how I like to keep to myself .?.?.”

Translation: I’m so poor I might as well have a tumbleweed as a pet.

“Jesus, you won’t have to pay!” Arya waves her hand. I feel my ears pinking in shame. “But I do want you to be there. You’re one of our most dedicated volunteers. No one cares about those kids like you do, Winnie. And they always ask for you, specifically. Some of the parents are going to be there, and, well, I can’t afford not to have you there.”

“Then I’ll be there.”

It’ll be the first public event I attend since Paul passed away, but at least I have a good excuse. Charity. Plus .?.?. I kind of miss seeing people. Dancing. Puttin’ on a nice dress.

“Brilliant!” Arya claps just as the doors to the elevator slide open and I stumble outside. “I’ll tell Christian. He’s going to love seeing you again!”

I bet he would. Christian, her husband, approves of everything his wife loves, including her friends. I turn around, smiling weakly at her. “Well .?.?. see you later.”

“No way!” She shakes her head as the doors close. “Not later. Sooner. We’ll hang out soon. I’ll call you tonight. Hey, and Winnie?”

I turn to look at her.

“You’re loved. Remember that.”

Four weeks later

“Think of me sometimes?” I rest a hand over Rahim’s face, staring into his dark eyes.

He strokes my hand. I let out a soft gasp at his touch. A smile curls at his lips. “Of course I will. I’ll think of how you looked in sunlight—remember? In that wonderful dress .?.?.”

His lips draw closer. I feel their heat. The cinnamon gum on his breath. The afternoon whiskers adorning his cheeks. Can I do this? Can I really kiss another man? So soon?

With every inch he eats between us, my heart sinks lower. I feel it sliding down my body. Seeping to the floor, bleeding into the cracks of the worn-out wood. I can’t breathe. I can’t do this. His lips get closer, hotter.

Get me out of here.

I want to run. I can’t run. I’m paralyzed. Rahim’s lips nearly brush mine .?.?.

“Aaaaand, cut!” Lucas pops his gum, falling onto a burgundy seat in the first row of the theater.

“Saved by the bell,” Rahim whispers into my mouth, leaning down to kiss my cheek softly.

I jerk back like he just slapped me. He clasps my shoulders, righting me up.

Blush creeps over his tan cheeks. “Sorry, Winnie. I didn’t mean to make light of it. I mean .?.?. I’m not gonna kiss you during rehearsals if I can help it. I’m sure Lucas will understand.”

“Gosh, no! I was just .?.?. I blanked out.” Embarrassed I’ve been caught losing it over an onstage peck on the lips, I duck my head and pretend the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

“Okay, let’s run this scene one more time, this time with a smooch.” Lucas flips through the play’s pages, leaning sideways and saying something in his assistant’s ear.

“Hey, Winnie, remember the cookies you brought over on day one of the rehearsal?” Rahim asks.

“Memaw’s kitchen-sink cookies, yes.” I smile. Whenever I go anywhere new, I always bring a fresh batch of cookies. A Towles woman tradition to sweeten every relationship.

“There was a secret ingredient there, I’m sure of it.” Rahim snaps his fingers. “What was it? The texture was amazing.”

“Add another yolk and extra brown sugar for moisture.” I wink. “I’ll send you the recipe if you promise not to show anyone.”

“The women at my felting club are going to be disappointed, but I’m sure they’ll understand,” he jokes.

Calypso Hall is otherwise empty. There are more people backstage, but here it’s just Rahim, who plays Trigorin; Lucas; his assistant; and me. And—of course—the golden-arched stage, sea of claret seats, mezzanines, and box balconies as our audience. It’s an old theater. Small and cozy and in need of repair. But it still feels like home.

“Same scene. From the top.” Lucas taps his beret. “Actually, no. Give me the resolution scene again. We need to nail it down, and right now you’re not sparkling for me. Sparkle, unicorns! Sparkle.”

I’ve memorized The Seagull by heart. Each word is carved into my brain. I daydream Nina’s aspirations every day. Feel her desperation at night, when I toss and turn in bed. It’s liberating, slipping into a fictional character’s mind. Experiencing the world through the eyes of a nineteenth-century troubled Russian girl.

We do as we’re told, diving right into the resolution scene. Rahim fires his lines at rapid speed, flourishing under the harsh lights. His charisma is addictive. I follow his lead, coming alive on this square, magic stage that offers me complete freedom to be someone else. Even though we’re at the changes, score, and blocking part of the rehearsals, I already feel like her. Like this naive, superficial girl who thinks she is in love with a novelist. I push at Rahim’s chest, fling my hands in the air, laugh like a maniac, and whirl around like a storm.

Nina.The hopeless, risk-taking, dream-chasing provincial girl.

The door to the theater flings open. From the corner of my eye, I can see a demon-like creature. Tall and dark, filling the frame like a black gaping hole.

The energy in the room shifts. The little hairs on my arm stand on end.

I force my attention back to Rahim.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

Trigorin and Nina are fighting. I spew out my lines. But I no longer shine under the theater lights. Cold sweat gathers at the back of my neck. Who is this person who just came inside? This is a dry rehearsal, closed to the public.

Lucas and his assistant still haven’t spotted the intruder. But I seem to be attuned to him as he descends the stairway toward the stage. He’s not alone. There’s someone trailing behind him. His movements are sleek and smooth, tigerlike.

Trigorin is on the verge of a breakdown. Nina soldiers ahead.

I tell Rahim that I loved him. That I gave him a child. My eyes scald with unshed tears. This part feels like digging into my own gut with a rusty spoon. It’s the part where Nina comes to terms with her shallow, artificial existence.

I’m in the middle of my monologue—that monologue—the one every aspiring actress finds herself reciting in front of her dorm mirror, using her hairbrush as a mic—when I see Lucas jumping to his feet from the corner of my eye. He rips his beret off his head and squeezes it like a beggar, waiting for the tall figure to approach.

“Cut .?.?. cut!” he coughs out manically. “Take ten, guys.”

Rahim and I stop. My gaze trails to the two men who entered the theater.

When I see his face, the sharp planes of his jaw, the black irises, no part of me is surprised.

He is the only person who has ever managed to make my skin crawl and my mouth dry with a simple stare. His mere existence turns me inside out.

Arsène Corbin.

He stands out like a coyote in a henhouse, wearing a pair of black slim-cut slacks, leather strap shoes, and a cashmere sweater. Maybe it’s too far away to tell, but he doesn’t look too heartbroken from where I’m standing. No obvious telltale signs of bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, or a five-o’clock shadow.

This man is dressed to the nines, has seen his barber recently, is closely shaven, and would fit right into a fancy gala.

I want to lash out at him. To scream in his face. To tell him that he’s a horrible human being for his behavior during the night we found out our loved ones were gone.

“Winnie?” Lucas curves an eyebrow impatiently. “Did you hear what I said?”

He wants me gone. Whatever’s happening here is private. But I can’t move. My feet are frozen on the worn-out stage.

“She heard. Her legs must be cramping from all the standing.” I hear Rahim chuckle good-naturedly. He laces his arm in mine and drags me backstage. My feet slog across the hardwood.

Through a toothy smile, Rahim hisses, “Please tell me you’re okay. I skipped the first aid tutorial they made us take when I temped as a lifeguard in the Hamptons. Not my proudest confession, but I haven’t the greenest clue what to do if you’re having a stroke.”

“I—I’m not having a stroke,” I manage to stutter.

“Thank God. We could all use more of your memaw’s cookies.”

Backstage, Renee, who plays Irina, hands me a plastic cup with water. Sloan, who plays Konstantin, ushers me to sit down in a folding chair by a rack full of costumes.

Sloan puts his hands on my shoulders. “Deep breaths now. Is she asthmatic? Allergic? Do we need an Epipen?” He turns to Rahim.

Rahim shrugs helplessly.

“I’m neither,” I answer, still shaky, even though I don’t think Arsène has even noticed me. “Just a little shell shocked. Sorry.”

“What was that all about?” Renee lifts an eyebrow.

“I just had this awful cramp in my foot. I couldn’t even move,” I lie brazenly, raising the plastic cup in thanks, taking a sip of water. “I feel better now.”

“I get that in the middle of the night sometimes.” Sloan nods sympathetically. “You should supplement with magnesium. Life changing, girl.”

“Who was that guy?” Rahim—young, striking, with one failed Broadway show under his belt—points at the stage. “He just walked right in there like he owns the place.”

“That’s because he does,” Sloan, who looks like every blond heartthrob you’ve seen in movies, deadpans. “Arsène Corbin. Wall Street hotshot by day, owner of half this city by night. Not sure what brought him here, though. He doesn’t give much damn about this little theater. He’s not the artsy type. Probably just came here to flex and remind Lucas who’s pulling the purse strings.”

“What purse strings?” Renee bites out bitterly. “The place is a dump, and he’s not spending a penny on it.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask Sloan.

Sloan shrugs. “People talk.”

“Well, do they say that he is an absolute, horrible prick?” I grind out, unable to stop myself.

“They do, actually, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I’d love some tea.” Sloan’s eyes brighten. “I’ve yet to hear you use foul language, little Winnie. He must be awful. What’s he done? More importantly—who’s he done? The man is delish.”

My colleagues know I’m a young widow, but they don’t know much about Paul. They don’t know about his maybe-affair with Grace. They don’t know Arsène and I are bound together by an awful tragedy.

My heart is still out of whack when Renee, Rahim, and Sloan all lift their eyes to glare at something behind me. Their mouths slacken collectively.

“What?” I sigh, turning around. And there he is again. Arsène Corbin, this time up close. Beautiful, yes. In the same way an active volcano is. Fascinating from a safe distance, but not anything I’d like to touch. And now I see it. The one and only sign of heartbreak. The same thing I see every day in the mirror. His eyes, once sharp, sultry, and full of sardonic laughter, are now dull and dim. He looks like the angel of death.

“Hi!” Sloan greets him brightly, as if he hadn’t just asked me to spill the goods on him. “Mr.?Corbin, it’s lovely to finally mee—”

“Mrs.?Ashcroft.” Arsène’s voice is velvety. “Follow me.”

I have no intention of giving him the drama he craves. I’ve seen this man’s smug smirk when he grilled me in Italy. I stand up and trail behind him, giving a little beats-me shrug on my way out. No need to raise the other actors’ suspicions.

“Where to?” I ask as we cross the stage and proceed toward the dressing rooms. “Hell?”

His back is muscular and lean. It is obvious he’s still active, athletic, working out. Heartbroken my foot. I bet he’s having the time of his life.

“Absolutely not. That’s my natural habitat, and you aren’t invited in my home.”

“In that case, leave me alone,” I bite out.

“Afraid I can’t do that either.”

He stops by one of the dressing rooms and pushes the door open. He motions for me to get inside first. I hesitate. Arsène doesn’t seem the type to physically assault a woman—doesn’t seem the kind to sully his precious zillionaire hands by touching a simpleton like me—but I know his words might be more lethal than fists.

He watches me with a mixture of impatience and curiosity. Now that we’re up close and alone, his indifferent mask falls a few inches. His jaw is clenched; his mouth is turned downward. The last months haven’t been easy for him, I realize. He keeps his emotions exceptionally close. It is the first time I consider us to be in the same crappy boat. What if we’re both miserable, and he is just better at hiding it?

“Would you like a special invitation?” Arsène inquires dryly when I don’t make a move to enter the room.

“Would you issue one?” I ask cheerfully, knowing just how much my accent grates on his nerves.

He sneers. “I suggest we get it over with as quickly as possible. Neither of us wants to prolong this, and at least one of us has better places to be in right now.”

I step into the dressing room. He closes the door. The place is tiny and jam packed. My back is pressed against a vanity table littered with makeup. Open tubs of setting powder, eye shadow, and brushes. Broken lipsticks are thrown about like crayons. Buried underneath them are batches of fan mail and greeting cards.

Arsène crowds me. I don’t know if he does that intentionally or if he is simply too physically imposing for this shoebox of a place. Nonetheless, he is standing close enough for me to smell his aftershave, the mint on his breath, the hair product that makes him look as sleek and shiny as a titan.

“You need to leave,” he says decisively.

“You asked me to come here.” I fold my arms, intentionally playing dumb.

“Nice try, Bumpkin.” He flicks invisible dirt from his cashmere sweater, as if his presence here is dirty. “You’re fired, effective immediately. You’ll be compensated for your ti—”

“You’re not the director, or the producer.” I let out a shriek, anger rising up through my chest. “You can’t do that.”

“I can and am.”

I thrust my palms forward, pushing him. He doesn’t budge. Simply stares at me, bored pity in his expression.

Gosh. I physically touched him. This is not assault, is it? I come from a place where a slap in the face, in the right context, is understandable, even warranted. New Yorkers, however, abide by different rules.

But Arsène doesn’t look like he is in danger of swooning or calling the police. He wipes down the lint where my hands have just been. “May I remind you, Mrs.?Ashcroft, I own Calypso Hall. I get to say who stays and who goes.”

“May I remind you, Mr.?Corbin, that your director, Lucas Morton, hired me. We signed a contract. I’ve done nothing wrong. The play premieres in two weeks. The backup actress hasn’t even learned the entire play yet. You won’t be able to find a sufficient replacement in time.”

“Everyone is replaceable.”

“Is that so?” I arch an eyebrow, knowing we’re both thinking about the same people. The people who left glaring holes in our hearts.

“Yes.” His nostrils flare. “Everyone.”

I can’t lose this job. For too many reasons to count.

“Not Nina, though.” My voice drops as I meet his gaze head-on. “Nina is a once-in-a-lifetime creature. I know you probably haven’t read The Seagull—”

“A lovestruck, ignorant country girl desperate to become a part of a world she doesn’t belong in?” he asks smoothly, his voice as dry as the Sahara Desert.

Well, then, I suppose he did read it.

He reaches to clasp my chin and closes my mouth with a movement so soft I can’t fully trust that he actually touched me. “Don’t look so surprised, Bumpkin. My former boarding school is the unofficial feeder of Harvard and Yale. I’d learned them all. The English, the Russians, the Greeks. Even the few Americans who managed to weasel their way into the world’s famous literature.”

I almost forgot how awful he is. Condescending, patronizing, and worst of all—gleeful about it. Then I remember the last thing he told me when we were at the morgue. How I was a gold digger who was probably happy to be rid of her rich husband.

I decided to use his jadedness against him.

“Fine.” I swat his hand away. “Fire me. See how that works out for you.”

He gives me a once-over, trying to read between the lines.

“Right, let me spell it out for you, in case your big ol’ brain can’t figure it out.” I put on my thickest accent, stubbing my chest with my finger. “This country bumpkin is gonna run to the nearest tabloid and sell her story. Don’t you know actresses? We’re a fame-seeking breed, Mr.?Corbin. And what’d Andy Warhol once say? Ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.” I wink at him. “Plus, my story fits into the current cultural narrative like a glove to a hand. A rich, white, billionaire male going after a helpless widow just tryin’ to make it in the cruel Big Apple.” I press my palms together, looking heavenward. “Think about it. Our story is so juicy. Tongues would waggle for months! My loving husband caught with your fiancée, red handed, heading toward a romantic vacation in Paris. Why, I bet neither of us will be able to leave our apartment without getting caught by the paps!”

There is absolutely no way I could ever bring myself to do such a thing, but he doesn’t know that. He thinks the worst of me.

He believes me. He is also a highly private person. I know, because when news broke about Paul and Grace, someone—from Arsène’s camp, I always assumed—sold the newspapers the same story. About a work trip gone wrong. A terrible accident that claimed two coworkers, endlessly devoted to their significant others, out to get an urgent merger deal signed. There was one article on TMI, an online gossip site, speculating Paul and Grace were more than colleagues, but it was taken down within minutes.

Corbin’s arm is long, powerful, and within reach of most things in this town. But he can’t be in charge of every tabloid, every newspaper, every TV channel. Someone would want to buy what I am willing to sell, and we both know that.

He inches forward. The scowl on his face makes him look like a pagan god. This man is used to scaring people. Well, he ain’t going to scare me.

“Your presumption, that anything—least of all you—can touch me, not to mention humiliate me, is endearing.” His gaze moves down my features like a blade, a sardonic smirk tugging at the side of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m a big fan of opportunists. They’re my favorite breed of people. Now, any other backup plan to stop me from giving you the boot? And drop the exaggerated accent. You’re fooling no one, Bumpkin.”

My stomach is full of venomous snakes. I hate Arsène for making me fight for my hard-earned job. I passed the audition on merit. He has no right to do this.

Suddenly, I remember this man’s love language—money.

“Sure. Other than the gossip part, there’s also the legal matter. I can blow up whatever’s left of this place and make it an even more expensive venture for you. Imagine the headline, Mr.?Corbin.” I frame my fingers in the air. “Actress Winnifred Ashcroft Sues for Wrongful Termination.”

“It’s not wrong to want the woman whose husband fucked my dead fiancée far away from me.”

“New York is mighty big, and as far as I’m aware, you haven’t set foot in Calypso Hall for decades before today.” I loop a curl that escaped through my ponytail along my finger. “Y’all never paid any attention to this place in the decades your family owned it. Didn’t spend a dime on restoring it either. It was only when I saw you here that I remembered what Grace had said in Italy—”

“Don’t speak her name!” he lashes out, baring his teeth like a monster.

Arsène’s neck flushes. It surprises me, and I realize I never considered him to be fully human. He is so formidable that the only thing that seems remotely mortal about him is that he apparently cared for his fiancée.

Bringing this man down a notch or two is soothing. I’d been at a point of disadvantage both times we’d met. While he’s still technically my employer, at least this time around I don’t have to deal with an immediate calamity like I had in Italy and at the morgue.

“Tell me, Arsène.” My voice softens. “Are you still on your trading ban?”

“No,” he says flatly.

“I see.” I pout, tapping my lips. “Wouldn’t want to rock the legal boat again, would you?”

“There’s absolutely no connection between Calypso Hall and my SEC ban.”

“No,” I agree. “But you know how slow and grinding the wheels of the law turn. Not to mention all those legal fees you’ll have to shell out on this failure of a theater.” I look around, fanning myself. “You’re going to be deep in the red if I sue. And I will. Because we both know you have no good reason to fire me.”

“If you stay .?.?.” He chooses his words carefully. My corroded heart beats wildly in my chest, reminding me for a change that it is here, that it’s still working. “I’m going to make your life so miserable you’re going to regret the day you were born.”

Leaning forward, I get so close to him our noses almost touch. He smells of sandalwood, moss, and spice. Like dark woods. Nothing like Rahim. Nothing like Paul. Nothing like anyone I’ve ever known.

“I understand, Mr.?Corbin, that you’re used to getting your way since people either fear you, loathe you, or are indebted to you. Well, we have a saying in the South. You look rode hard and put up wet.”

He frowns. “Sounds like a dirty pickup line.”

“Horses break a serious sweat when they run fast. Especially under the saddle. A good rider always takes care to walk their horse and let it cool down before they bring it back to the stable. Then brush it dry. You .?.?.” Now it is my turn to give him a cool once-over. I don’t know what comes over me. I’m usually the nice one, the dependable one, voted Most Likely to Run a Charity in high school. But Arsène forces me out of my restraints. He is wild and barely civilized. And so I decide to leave my God-fearing-gal persona at the door. “You look haggard. Sure, you still dress the part, and your haircut probably costs more than my entire outfit, but there’s no light behind those eyes. No one’s home. I can take you down, Mr.?Corbin. And you can bet your last dollar that I can hold my own.”

Since I know darn well this is the best monologue I’ve ever delivered that wasn’t written by a playwright, I decide to retire while I have the upper hand. I shoulder past him, knocking over a stack of sheet music on my way out, along with a vase of flowers. My hands are shaking. My knees bump together.

Pushing the door open, I tell myself it’s almost over. I’m almost out of harm’s way.

But then he opens his mouth, each of his words like a bullet through my back.

“It should’ve been you.”

I stop. My feet turn to marble.

Move,my brain instructs them desperately. Don’t listen to this awful man.

“I think about it every day.” His voice drifts along the room, like smoke, engulfing me. “If only you hadn’t been given that stupid role, she’d still be here. Everything would have been fine.”

Would it?

Would Grace still be his, even though she went to Paris with another man?

Would Paul still be mine? Even if I didn’t turn out to be the woman he’d wanted for himself when he married me? Did we really know the people we loved?

“Oh, Mr.?Corbin.” I let loose a bitter smile, glancing behind my shoulder. “Maybe you’d have been happy, but you can’t say the same for your fiancée. That’s why she was on that plane to Paris.” I deliver the final blow. “To be loved by someone who knows how to love.”

Finally, I manage to move my legs. I stalk off before the first tear falls.

But then I remember: I don’t have the simple pleasure of crying anymore.