CHAPTER NINETEEN ARSÈNE

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ARSèNE

Two weeks later, I sit in front of Archie Caldwell at a restaurant. Archie is an old acquaintance from Andrew Dexter Academy. He lives in London, and whenever he’s in New York, he drags me to the most awful establishments. Michelin starred, with extra-white tablecloths, minimal designs, and food that looks like Costco samples served on oversize china.

“How are you handling the whole .?.?. you know.” Archie makes a face.

“Death of my fiancée?” I supply blandly, taking a spoonful of caviar nestled in a bowl of ice. “Life moves on,” I drawl.

“Now, that’s the spirit, mate.” He reaches across the table to pat my arm awkwardly. “It’s not the end of the world. Oh, I suppose for her, it is. Anyway, shall I order us another grapefruit rosé and some dessert?”

“You can, if you wish to seduce me, but I’ll be honest, Archie. You’re too married and I’m too straight. Your chances aren’t looking good.”

Archie and I, although friendly, haven’t been close in years. Which means he called me here for a reason. I can sniff people’s intentions from miles away. Archie’s here to present a business offer. I’d like to hear it more than his mindless chatter about I bonds and stock dividends.

Archie chuckles and scratches the back of his neck, not used to being called out. “Fair enough. If nothing else, I can appreciate your bloody honesty. The truth is .?.?. well, let’s start from the beginning.” He clears his throat, signaling a waiter for the check. “Sadie and I are moving to New York this January.”

“You are?” I ask dispassionately. Sadie is his wife. Third wife, to be exact. He goes through them like socks.

“Yes. See .?.?. we’ve had our own little tragedy happen in our family.” Archie’s face is crestfallen.

“Oh.” I sit back.

“We lost our dear, dear Daisy prematurely.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I hadn’t realized you and Sadie were expecting.”

“Expec .?.?.??” Archie’s face twists in confusion before he waves his palms around. “No, no, you misunderstood. Daisy was Sadie’s King Charles spaniel. Such a darling dog. I gifted her Daisy for Christmas, but the poor pup died of canine distemper shortly after. Sadie took it hard. She was an absolute wreck for the longest time.”

A dog.

He is comparing Grace’s death to a dog’s.

My face is expressionless, I know—I’ve practiced the art of not giving a fuck for many years—but inside, I’m burning with rage.

“Please.” I raise a palm. “The story cuts too deep. Say no more. So you’re moving to New York?”

Archie, picking up on the sarcasm, looks flustered. “Well, yes, and see, Sadie is going to be so very bored here while I help Papa with that god-awful building he is trying to buy—”

“Bottom line, Archie.” I glance down at my watch.

“.?.?. and I heard through the grapevine—mates from Andrew Dexter who frequent New Amsterdam—that you’re in the market to sell that quaint little theater of yours. Calypso Hall, was it? Sadie always had a passion for theater—she loves the West End—and with The Seagull already a smashing success, I think it’ll give her something to do while she’s here. A sense of purpose, if you would.”

I stare at him, wondering idly what makes him the way he is—an abundance of stupidity, or privilege? Perhaps a combination of both. I’ve no doubt his family’s name is on Cambridge’s library, where he went for higher education. There’s no way this dimwit got in on merit.

I open my mouth to answer him, but he beats me to it.

“Before you say anything, I have an offer you cannot possibly refuse.”

“Sounds like a challenge.” I smirk.

“They say Calypso Hall is worth six point two.”

“They say a lot of things.” I play with the napkin on the table. Said rumor was started by me. In practice, Ralph told me, it is worth a lot less.

“I’m offering you eight million dollars if you sign this week.”

There’s a beat of silence while I digest his offer. It is unorthodox, maybe even a bit extreme, to bid so high on such a pitiful business venture. There’s no logic behind it, just the need to pacify his high-maintenance wife.

Every pragmatic bone in my body tells me to take it. A better offer won’t come, with or without The Seagull’s success.

Maybe it’s because Archie compared Grace’s death to that of an inbred dog, or perhaps it is because he didn’t even bother to make it to my fiancée’s funeral. Hell, it might even be the sudden, unexpected success of Calypso Hall these past couple of weeks, but I find myself in no particular hurry to sell it, whatever the sum.

“It’s an obscene number, indeed.” I look up to find his eager gaze clinging to my face.

“Told you.” Archie clucks his tongue, satisfied. “Shall I talk to my solicitor, then?”

“If you wish, and enjoy a pricey conversation.” I stand up, smoothing my cashmere sweater. “Unfortunately, Calypso Hall is not currently for sale. No deal.”

I dig through my wallet for a few bills and throw them in Archie’s general vicinity before making my way out of the restaurant. The air is no longer acidly hot, marking the first signs of fall. I let my legs carry me aimlessly around the streets. I’ve nowhere to go and no one to see.

There is something about my showdown with Archie that troubles me. I don’t normally let my feelings dictate my actions. I’m a pragmatist. Ordinarily, Archie comparing Grace to his dog would not be a reason for me to reject a perfectly good offer. I’ve always been able to successfully separate my feelings from my business decisions.

Until now.

Why?

It’s not like my love for Grace has grown in the past few weeks.

I come to a stop in front of Calypso Hall, surprised to find myself here. It’s not even on the way to my apartment.

It has been two weeks since Winnifred told me she’ll be in touch about our information exchange, and so far I haven’t heard from her. Seeing as she doesn’t know my number or my address, I’m not exactly shocked. Making myself available to her constantly is bad form, but a little nudge in the right direction wouldn’t hurt.

As long as you remember it is not infatuation—it is business. The woman is a bore. Naive, sweet, and beneath you. Remember that.

I step into the theater, strolling by the ticket booth and concessions. On a bad day—which is most days in Calypso Hall—the place is empty, save for a few art students and unenthusiastic tourists. Now, it is buzzing with families, couples, out-of-towners.

After pushing the door with my shoulder, I saunter into the theater midplay, leaning against the wall. I expect to see Winnifred, but instead, it is her replacement, who works twice a week when it’s Winnifred’s days off. A girl named Penny.

Fuck you, Penny.

She rushes across the stage, cries, wails, throws herself onto Trigorin. But she lacks that special Winnifred thing that turns Nina from a tragic heroine to a perilous creature. Penny’s Nina is simply tragic. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But Winnifred’s? She’s a force gaining power and speed.

Nice one, idiot. Not infatuated at all.

I leave with a huff, knowing deep down that I should sell this damn theater, and yesterday.

Another week passes.

Riggs is in town—back from Finland. Arya took Louie to visit a friend in Omaha, which means Christian is not out of commission for a change. We meet at the Brewtherhood. Riggs is wearing a baseball cap and keeps his head down, trying to go incognito. I never understood his fascination with women. I find tolerating one person to be too much, let alone multiple every week.

I knock down one Japanese beer after the other and flip through my astronomy book every time the conversation takes a boring turn, which is often.

At some point, the discussion spills into the territory of parents. All three of us are orphaned. In fact, I’m the only one who had a father not so long ago. Christian and Riggs have been like this since early adolescence. Not that Doug could be considered anyone’s parent.

“We know your father was a poor excuse for a dad, but what about your mom?” Riggs elbows me to catch my attention.

I dog-ear a page and send him a disgruntled stare. “What about her?”

“You never told us about her.”

“She passed when I was six. I hardly remember what she looks like, not to mention any personality traits.”

And what I do remember, I don’t trust. I grew up with the notion Patrice Corbin was a real monster, an agenda promoted by Douglas. The gist of it was that she cared more about Calypso Hall than about me and spent her days as far as humanly possible from the Corbin clan.

I knew she had an apartment in Manhattan, and that she stayed there regularly when I was a child. She also had a lover, Douglas made a point of lamenting to me, probably in order to erase his own wrongdoings. From my few recollections of her, Patrice was mild and pretty. But again, what did I know? I was just a stupid kid.

“Did you have a good relationship?” Christian asks.

“I was six,” I reiterate. “Back then, I had a pleasant relationship with everything other than broccoli.”

“We’re just trying to figure out what made you the way you are,” Riggs explains, grinning from ear to ear. He flings an arm around my shoulder. “You know, a total nut job who thought Gracelynn Langston was a good idea.”

“Ah, yes. Because I’m the only one here who has a messed-up relationship with the fairer sex.” I return my attention to my book.

“It’s not just that,” Christian explains. “That you don’t remember your mother very much is not out of the ordinary. The fact that you haven’t put any effort or resources into learning anything about her .?.?. now, that smells fishy to me.”

I down my beer, pick up my book, and bow them farewell. “Thanks for the psychological assessment, gentlemen. Keep your day jobs.”

With that, I leave.

At home, I take out an old photo album—the only one I have—and flick through pictures of my mother and me before her boating accident. Christian and Riggs aren’t completely wrong—I haven’t spared a minute of thought about my mother in decades.

There was little point. She was a terrible human, possibly worse than my father.

The first picture is of her holding me when I was a newborn, staring at me with pride. She looks exhausted, so I’m guessing I was as difficult a baby as I am an adult. The second is of her standing above me, holding my hands, as I wobble in what must’ve been my first steps, wearing only a diaper. In the third one, we’re both throwing yellow-orange leaves in the air, dressed for autumn. The fourth is of Patrice and me making a cake together, looking messy and happy.

She doesn’t look like the devil my father made her out to be. In fact, she very well could have been a saint. I will never know since both of them are completely and thoroughly dead.

The truth, unfortunately, was laid to rest right along with them.