CHAPTER EIGHTEEN WINNIE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WINNIE

Grace’s apartment is luxurious and chic. Everything is in either black or white. There are expensive throws everywhere and vases that were once stuffed with fresh flowers, I’m sure. I give myself a tour of the place while Arsène turns on the lights.

“And you keep paying rent on this place?” I glance around at the glass fireplace and custom-made curtains. Surely, it’s $15K a month minimum, before utility bills.

“Yeah,” he answers shortly, ambling to the kitchen and getting both of us bottles of water. It soothes me to see her apartment is still equipped with refreshments. It makes my Paul mania seem almost normal. Arsène is keeping this place livable too.

“Why?” I turn around to face him. “You always lecture everyone about smart investments. How’s paying rent for your dead fiancée’s old apartment a logical decision?”

“It’s not.” He leans a hip against a kitchen island, taking a sip of his water. “I don’t usually do irrational splurges. This is a rare indulgence, and I’m hoping after we’re done with each other, I’ll find it easier to terminate the lease.”

His words hit me somewhere deep, because a lot of the time, I wish I could hate Paul too. It’d be the easiest way to get over him.

Approaching Arsène, I grab the small water bottle he handed me and unscrew it. “And when do you expect us to be done with each other?”

“That depends on your cooperation, Bumpkin.”

“Stop calling me Bumpkin.”

“Stop being offended by it,” he fires back. “You shouldn’t care what anyone thinks of you. It never does a person any good. And, at any rate, people’s opinion of you is a reflection of themselves. Not you.”

“I always feel like you’re expecting me to be embarrassed about where I come from.”

“And what if I do?” He lingers on this point. “Why should you succumb to other people’s wants and expectations? You have free agency and an admirable mind. Keep shutting me down. Fight back. Never be ashamed of where you come from. A person has no future without first owning up to their past.”

“And you?” I tilt my head sideways. “Have you owned up to your past yet?”

His eyes meet mine. He looks pensive. “Next question.”

I grin. I got him there. It’s a small win, but a win, nonetheless. “You’re hiding something.”

“We’re all hiding something.” He rolls his eyes. “Some of us are just better at keeping secrets.”

He has a point.

“So .?.?. where should we start?” I look around us.

“Her bedroom.” Arsène pushes himself off the island and advances toward the hallway. “Where they probably spent most of their time together. The bastards.”

Not that it should surprise me, but I do find things that place Paul and Grace at the scene of the crime together.

There’s a stainless steel watch with a mother-of-pearl pink dial, identical to the one he gifted me for Christmas, in Grace’s jewelry box. Both watches are engraved, and with the same font. There is also a hoodie Paul used to wear that mysteriously disappeared on one of his business trips neatly tucked inside her closet, and a jar of a very particular type of moon cakes in her kitchen, which Paul was obsessed with, and I’d had to find for him even when it wasn’t Lunar New Year.

His DNA is all over this place. And they hadn’t even been here often. Arsène had keys to this apartment, which means Grace could only host Paul here when he was out of town.

“You know what? I actually expected to find more,” I murmur when Arsène and I both collapse on Grace’s couch. “Seeing as they’d had an affair for at least nine months.”

“But consider this,” he counters. “She knew I let myself in here whenever I pleased. The cookies are telling, Bumpkin. They show a level of intimacy. If this was a passing fling, they wouldn’t know each other’s culinary preferences.”

I fling my head against the couch, closing my eyes.

“Why didn’t they leave us?” I croak, opening my eyes. I find Arsène looking at me in a funny way. Something between annoyance and surprise.

“Well.” He smiles wryly. “Because I was too rich, and you were too good a catch to give up. I don’t think Paul and Grace planned to leave us for one another. They simply wanted to stick it to us. For Grace, it was about not belonging to me. This was her way of assuring herself she hadn’t given in to me completely. With Paul .?.?.” He trails off, giving me a sidelong glance. “Hmm, now I wonder. What did you do to piss him off? Burned your famous apple pie?”

If only .?.?.

I know exactly where I fell short for Paul.

Of course, I’d rather die than share this with Arsène.

“You don’t have to say.” He pats my knee. “The answer’s plain on your face. Poor Winnifred.”

I feel myself turning crimson, and I’m about to lash out at him, give him a piece of my mind. Then something occurs to me.

“You know, I think Paul was mad about who I was. I mean, I think he liked me as an idea, not a person. The wholesome little blonde wife with the cute accent who made cookies and volunteered in hospitals and knew how to throw an axe. But then he saw how his colleagues looked at me—Chip and Pablo and even Grace—and he was .?.?. I don’t know, disappointed.”

“Disappointed how?”

“They didn’t really see me as their equal. A worthy opponent. Oh.” I wave my hand, laughing through the pain. “It’s not that they didn’t like me. They did. But kind of how you like your pet dog. They saw me as adorable and disposable. And then after the plane crashed, when I called Chip and Pablo over and over again, asking, begging for answers, for them to shed some light on why Paul and Grace were together, neither of them took my calls. At first they were apologetic about it, but then soon I stopped even getting their awkward text messages and started getting their PAs’.”

“They treated you like you were garbage,” he says plainly.

I shake my head. “They treated me like I was powerless, because I was.”

“To them,” he highlights. “Never put yourself in a position where you let people think you’re powerless again, Winnifred. They’ll always take advantage of it. I know I did.”

I know he is talking about our exchange in Italy, and my stomach turns.

He stands up and saunters toward the door. “Let’s grab something to eat. All this talk about infidelity and betrayal’s making me hungry.”

I glance down at my phone. “It’s one in the morning.”

“Yes, it is, and neither of us had dinner. I know because I’ve had my eyes on you for the last six hours.”

This foreign feeling of flourishing under unexpected sunlight crashes into me. He did? He looked? He noticed? It is tempting to pretend he likes me, even if I know it can’t be true.

“I don’t think we have the same culinary preferences.” I try to dodge the offer.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Where do you want to go?” I’m on my feet before I know it, following him.

He waves me off. “You’ll see.”

Ten minutes later, we’re in a hole-in-the-wall type of restaurant, tucked in the back of a Cuban deli that’s open throughout the night. We pass through the actual bodega before descending the few steps into its basement, where there are a handful of round tables, loud Cuban music, and waiters and diners laughing and talking joyously. A thick cloud of cigar smoke hangs over the room. I’m surprised that Arsène frequents this place. It’s not gold plated and doesn’t have any Michelin stars.

We’re seen to a small table. I order the calamari in garlic sauce, and he orders the lechón asado. The food arrives in record time, served on plates you’d find in your auntie’s kitchen. They don’t even match, which I love. For the first time in months—maybe years—I feel at ease in Manhattan. This place feels like somebody’s home. It lacks the glamour and pretense that’s usually stapled to anything in this zip code.

“I like this place,” I admit.

“Figured.” He is concentrating deeply on his food.

I should be tired, but I’m not. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from the show, or seeing Ma, or maybe it’s going to Grace’s apartment and coming face to face with Paul’s wrongdoings. No matter what it is, I’m actually wide awake as we tuck into our food.

“So have you been going out with people regularly since Grace .?.?.??” I broach the subject while munching on a gummy piece of calamari.

“I haven’t dated since Grace passed. Nor do I wish to. I’ve never been a relationship kind of guy.”

“You’ve been engaged.” I spear another calamari with my fork, pointing it at him.

“Grace was a once-in-a-lifetime woman.” He takes a generous bite of his asado. “I only have one lifetime; therefore, I don’t expect to find someone like her.”

“So you never plan on moving on?” I ask, oddly sad, even though I shouldn’t care for him.

“Do you?” He looks up from his plate.

Biting down on my lip, I think about it. “I hope so. Logic dictates that I will, at some point. And to be honest, ever since I found out he really did cheat on me .?.?.”

“It should make things easier,” Arsène completes. “Emphasis on the should part.”

He gets it. Just because they didn’t deserve our love doesn’t mean that we can stop loving them.

“So what was Gwen all about?” I persist.

He waves a dismissive hand. “Gwen’s an old friend. We sometimes do each other solids. I didn’t want to be bothered by the Calypso Hall crew tonight, and she was a buffer between the little people and me.”

The way he says it, little people, like he is no mortal, reminds me that despite his surprising tenderness toward me, he is still a dangerous creature.

I lean back in my seat. “And look at you now. Sitting here with a southern bumpkin, no less. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“We both know why we’re here. No pretense. No illusions about who we are and what we want.” He finishes his last bite, and before he even swallows, a waiter jumps between us, handing him a hand-rolled cigar and lighting it for him.

“Want one?” Arsène points the lit cigar in my direction.

I shake my head. As if reading my mind, Arsène makes a face.

“C’mon, Bumpkin. Give it a try. Breaking the mold should be at the top of our priorities right now.”

The waiter lingers, staring down at me with open curiosity. I decide to comply, mainly because I’ve never smoked a cigar, and because Arsène, for all his many, glaring faults, is shaping up to be an enjoyable foe.

I take one, allowing the waiter to light it up for me.

“Don’t inhale,” Arsène instructs, his eyes studying me attentively. “You absorb the nicotine through the mucus membrane in your mouth.”

I do as I’m told, coughing a little anyway. “My gosh, it smells like socks on fire.”

“Oil and tar.” He laughs. “Neither is supposed to be consumed by the human body.”

“You’re a bad influence.” I side-eye him, holding the cigar away from my face. I’m done. I came, I saw, I coughed out a lung. No more.

Arsène leans forward, catching my gaze. “I wish someone had corrupted you long ago, and thoroughly enough for you to sniff out a weasel like Paul Ashcroft and never give him a chance. I could’ve spared you a lot of heartache, you know. If I’d met you first.”

“You were with Grace.”

“On and off.” He hitches a shoulder up. I’m confused as to why we’re talking about a hypothetical scenario where we could’ve dated. “Warning you off Wall Street wolves would’ve saved you from that asshole.”

“No one could’ve known.” I put the cigar out in an ashtray.

“Oh, I could.” He sits back. “Back in Italy, when I roasted you publicly and he turned a blind eye.”

“Well, what does that make you?” I flash my teeth angrily. “If not an even bigger asshole than Paul.”

He nods, unperturbed. “True, but my fiancée had known that about me all along. She never needed a prince. Only an interesting enemy to pass the time with.”

Whenever I think about these two’s relationship, I want to cry. There seemed to be so much hostility and sadness between them. Then I remind myself I shouldn’t pass judgment. At least Arsène and Grace knew one another for what they truly were. I never got to know the man who shared an apartment, a life, a bed with me.

After we’re done, we pour ourselves out into the night. I start walking in my apartment’s direction, and he follows. Our time is coming to an end, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. I’m not sure how I feel about this man. One moment, I find his presence comforting and uplifting. The other, I want to stab him in the neck.

“Are you really going to sell your family’s theater?” I ask as we make our way down the street.

“Yes.”

I wrap my arms around myself, feeling the night chill. “Good. Maybe the next owner will actually put some effort into it. Fix all the things that need to be fixed.”

“Don’t count on it.” He tsks. “No offense, but the place is a real money pit. Now, how about we get back to the matter at hand. Our transaction. More specifically—Paul’s office.” He stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, making me come to a halt too. We stand in front of one another. His face is grave, for the first time in a long time. I find myself wanting to smooth the creases between his eyebrows.

“I want you to let me inside it.”

“Is that why you let me into Grace’s apartment?”

Even though we’re not friends, I find it disappointing that everything he does to me, for me, with me, is always as a result of his obsession with Grace.

“Yes,” he says honestly. “And I’ve no issue with you coming to my apartment and going through it. Although, I should warn you, there are cameras everywhere in my building, and the chances Paul had ever been there are akin to my spontaneously giving birth to an eel.”

“I can’t let you into his office. That would be a breach of Paul’s trust in me,” I say slowly. “Even though he was a certified dirtbag, I hold myself to a higher standard.”

“But don’t you want to know?” His eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Know what?”

“What other cards I hold up my sleeve. I still have more info about him,” he coaxes. “So much more for you to explore, to learn, to hate.”

“I want to see the file first,” I say. “From the private investigator.”

“Knock yourself out.” He chuckles.

“And there’s a ground rule I wanna lay out right here and now, before we continue this journey toward detonating our loved ones’ privacy and our loyalties to them.”

“Lay it on me, Bumpkin.”

I bite down on my lower lip. “Never, ever kiss me again.”

There’s a beat of silence before he throws his head back and laughs blithely.

“I give you my word. I’ll keep my lips—and other organs—to myself.”

“It wasn’t so easy for you to do that at the gala.” I resume my walk, trying to keep the insulted bite out of my voice. He falls into my step, letting out a sexy, throaty laugh.

“Yes, well, as established, I was very drunk and very lonely. Not a good combination, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Spare me your excuses. Just never touch me again.”

“Why?” he asks, genuinely interested. “Forgive my honesty—not many people use it these days—but it’s not like you betrayed Paul. He is currently six feet under, in an advanced stage of decomposition—”

“Arsène!” I roar, stopping in place again.

“—after cheating on you, for the vast majority of your short marriage.” He ignores my outrage, soldiering through. “While I’m right here, very much alive, and dare I say—more attractive than that oatmeal with legs and a crew cut. And you can’t tell me you don’t find me attractive, either, because I might’ve been drunk during that kiss, but my ears were working fine. And I remember, Winnifred, your heartbeat slamming against my chest. How you moaned and trembled—”

“Stop!” I push at him desperately, jerking him away, my face hot with shame and something else. Something dark and depraved. Need? “Just stop! I don’t care that he cheated. I don’t care that he was a scumbag. He was still my husband.”

Arsène stares at me nonchalantly, waiting for the storm to be over.

“Now please leave me alone. I can walk home by myself.”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’ll see that you get there safely.”

I start moving in my apartment’s direction again. “Aww. You sound like a good southern boy.”

“No need to hurl insults my way.” He resumes his walk. “Going back to our original conversation—you’re welcome to see the private investigator’s file whenever you please, provided you’ll give me access to Paul’s office afterward. Furthermore, whenever we see each other, I promise not to kiss you.”

“Thank you,” I say primly.

He grins. “You’ll be the one to kiss me all on your own.”

“Dream on!” I cry out childishly.

We’re almost at my apartment, and the sun is beginning to peek from the rooftops. Where’d the night go? I’ve spent ten hours with this man without even realizing it.

I stop next to my front door and lift my chin up. “I’ll reach out when I’m ready to see the file.”

“One last question.” Arsène leans an arm close to my ear against my building. He is so nonchalant, so beautiful, it is maddening to think he is—was—one woman’s man.

“What’s that?”

“I overheard your mother saying you should go to the doctor. Are you okay?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m too scared to check.

Laughing carelessly, I say, “Goodbye, Arsène.”

I fling the entrance door open and slam it in his face.

After all, for him, this would be another exotic tidbit to laugh about on his way home.

For me, it is my life. My destiny. My heartbreak.

I wake up to the sound of my phone, alarm clock, and doorbell all chiming simultaneously. Groaning into Paul’s pillow—I still like to sniff it at night, pretending his scent lingers on—I unplaster myself from the warm sheets.

I bang the alarm clock on its head. By the time I reach for my phone, the call dies. I squint at it, the screen too bright for my sleepy eyes. A chain of text messages rolls in quick succession.

Lucas: TELL ME YOU READ THE TIMES. TELL ME YOU DID. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. YOU ARE FAMOUS, BABY.

Rahim: We need to ask for a $$$ raise after this, LOL.

Rahim: BTW, did u get home OK?

Ma: Hey, Sugar Plum. Made it back home safe. Flight was blissfully uneventful. Everyone says hi. We love you and are so proud of you!

Chrissy: Sure you don’t want to think about Hollywood? This is shaping up to be Winnie Ashcroft’s year. You’re hot right now, boo.

The doorbell chimes again, and I jump out of bed, bumping my toe against the bed frame on my way to get it. “Mothertrucker .?.?.?,” I mutter as I fling the door open. I expect to see Chrissy on the other end, but instead, it’s a delivery guy in a purple-and-yellow uniform. He thrusts an iPad with a touch screen pen into my hands. “Winnifred Ashcroft? Sign here, please.”

I do. After I’m done, he passes me a thick stack of newspapers and magazines.

“Wait, who sent me this?”

The guy shrugs. “I’m just here to deliver stuff, ma’am.”

He turns around and walks away.

I splay all the magazines on my dining table and open the theater section in each of them. There are four new reviews for The Seagull.

“In an ensemble full of relatively seasoned actors, Ashcroft shines as the tragic heroine of the play, with her silken, dreamy look and coquettish fragility.”

“Broadway has a lot to answer for. It is unheard of, almost criminal, that Winnifred Ashcroft has yet to grace any of its stages.”

Even the less eager reviews are still somewhat favorable.

“While Calypso Hall cannot be accused of producing high-quality, thought-provoking work in recent years (or at all), Lucas Morton’s take on one of Chekhov’s more famous plays may not be a reinvention of the wheel, but provides a solid, riveting escape from reality.”

I put the newspapers down and dig my palms into my eye sockets. Of course I looked tragic up there onstage. That’s because I am tragic.

The first sprouts of true resentment spring inside me whenever I see the last name Ashcroft next to my name. It seems all wrong. I’m not an Ashcroft. Paul’s parents barely take my calls anymore, whenever I try to reach out and check on them. I’m a Towles. Always have been.

And it’s not just that. The true meaning of what Paul has done is finally beginning to sink in. He burdened me with his last name when I should’ve always been Winnifred Towles. The starry-eyed girl from Mulberry Creek who dreamed big, and finally—accomplished it.

Arsène is right. Paul and Grace don’t deserve our sympathy, our loyalty, our devotion. He’s right about a lot of things. I should never feel powerless. And it is okay to have a bit of an ego. It’s better than cancelling yourself just to be “the Wife of.”

And there’s one more thing he is right about .?.?.

Call your doctor.

I pick up my phone and make the call.

“Sullivan OB-GYN Medical Group, how can I help?” a chirpy voice answers. I open my mouth to make an appointment, but no words come out.

I need to see my doctor.

There are tests I need to have run.

I’m not okay, I may never be okay, and I’m scared of what it might mean.

“Hello? Hello?” the receptionist asks on the other line.

I hang up, shoot up to my feet, and storm into the bathroom. I grip the edges of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. “You’re such a coward, Winnie Ashcroft. Such a darn coward. I want Winnie Towles back.”

For the first time in a long time, I recognize the face staring back at me. I see the girl from Mulberry Creek. Her freckles. Defiance. Hopes. Dreams. The laughter in her eyes.

“Winnie!” I bracket the mirror with my hands. Wonder and relief swirling inside me. I see the girl who visits kids at the hospital to make them happy. The girl who snuck around with Rhys Hartnett, captain of the football team, during prom night and lost her virginity in the boys’ locker room while he apologetically muffled her moans with his kisses. The very same girl who showed up at the Nashville airport with half the town behind her when she bid Tennessee farewell and moved to New York.

The girl who taught the neighbors’ kids to do cartwheels on her dewy front lawn. Who secretly enjoyed going to church every Sunday, because it gave her a sense of community, of grounding. Who read the classics and dreamed big, imagining herself in the shoes of Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennet.

I love this girl. She is still here, and she was the one who saved me on that stage last night.

“It’s good to have you back.” I finger the mirror, smiling. “Now, can you please tell your new self you need to get checked?”

I blink, and in a heartbeat, it’s all gone. It’s me again. Winnie Ashcroft. Sunken cheeked and beaten up by life. Betrayed and unsure.

Only this time, I know exactly who I need to be to get my life in order.

Winnie Towles.