CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE WINNIE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WINNIE

Two days later, I give Arsène a call. We arrange to meet in the evening at his place. We’re professional and curt, almost clinical, and I wonder how a person can kiss you one way and treat you another in the same exact week.

Since I have the entire day off, it leaves me an abundance of time to overthink. I stay in my jammies, make myself a cup of coffee (three shots. Take that, Paul!), power up my laptop, and Google my condition. It’s stupid, I know. The first thing doctors tell you not to do is go on the internet and self-diagnose. “Every ingrown toenail becomes the c-word,” Ma used to tell us when Georgie, Lizzy, and I crumbled in fits of hysterics whenever we woke up with a blue mark on our skin.

I type in all the symptoms I’ve experienced throughout the last few years. Awful menstrual cramps, paralyzing pains, infertility, random cramps .?.?.

The same word keeps popping up on the screen over and over again. Endometriosis. I click on the definition, suck in a breath, and brace myself for the worst.

Women who suffer from endometriosis have trouble conceiving and, in fact, may not conceive at all.

It says the condition is incurable. Can be medicated—but never healed. In other words, I may never, ever have biological children of my own.

And just like that, the heartache of Paul’s death and betrayal shrinks into a Post-it Note–size issue, making room for something bigger in my chest. It swells, and rises, suffocating me.

Permanently infertile.

I’m in full-blown meltdown mode, pacing back and forth. And still. And still. I can’t bring myself to cry about it. About the terrible prospect of never birthing children. What’s wrong with me?

I charge toward my bedroom. Pick up Paul’s stupid alarm clock and hurl it across the room. It breaks in two.

Time. You were never on my side.

I grab his newspaper next, rip it, and toss it on the floor. Trudge into the en suite, open a cabinet, and take out all the half-empty pregnancy tests and ovulation kits. I toss them into the trash. They aren’t needed anymore.

Finally, I fall into my bed and scream into my pillow.

That’s not the end of the world, now, is it?a reasonable voice inside me soothes. There are still ways. Adoption. Surrogacy. But they’re all expensive and drawn out and demand bureaucracy. Moreover, pregnancy is not only about the end goal. My sense of failure as a woman is so immense that I loathe myself in this moment.

A knock on the door makes my head snap up from my pillow. I’m not expecting anyone. Which means it could be Arsène. Couldn’t he wait until tonight?

Maybe he misses me.

I roll over to my back, about to shove my feet into my slippers and head for the door, before I hear a voice.

“Winnie? It’s me, Chris. Open up! I know you’re there. It’s your day off and you have no life.” She lets out an awkward laugh.

My heart sinks. It’s all the evidence I need of the fact that I’m royally and seriously messed up. Why did I think it’d be Arsène? Why did I want it to be him? He belongs to someone else. His heart, dusty and crooked as it may be, will always beat to the rhythm of Grace’s drum. I bury my face back in the pillow, ignoring the persistent knocks and the doorbell, not feeling even half-guilty for it.

Endometriosis.

Oh, Paul, aren’t you glad you aren’t here? You’d have had to pretend not to be disappointed. You’d have had to do your part, say all the right things, be a gentleman about it, but it wouldn’t have changed how you felt. Played—by the sweet, naive woman you thought you could tuck away in the suburbs and make babies with.If Paul were here, if he knew, he would stick around for a year, maybe two. Before his affair—or several of them—would intentionally come to light. Before he’d start to manufacture fights.

He’d make me leave him. Tweak the narrative to fit his good-guy universe.

It just didn’t work out. We tried. Sometimes people just grow apart.

It reminds me of the whole Brangelina debacle back in the day. People lashed out at Jennifer Aniston—why hadn’t she given him babies? Was she too obsessed with her figure? Was she too selfish? Too self-centered? Too infertile? Either way, inexcusable! And then, of course, came Angelina. Who made him a father. Suddenly, they were a brood. We all know how that turned out. Children are not glue. They cannot fix a marriage. Just like infertility isn’t a hammer. It cannot—shouldn’t—break one.

The doorbell continues to chime, but I ignore it.

Chrissy can wait. For now, it’s just my new best friend and me.

Agony.

I arrive at Arsène’s fifteen minutes late. I don’t want him to know I’ve waited for our meeting all day. How I was ready three hours in advance, tucked inside my most flattering pair of jeans, cute black sweater, and the only pair of nice shoes I own.

Not wanting to look eager, or worse—interested—I kept my makeup to a minimum. A little bit of foundation, mascara, and a pink lip gloss, which I also tapped lightly on my cheekbones to create a shiny blush.

He opens the door in his work clothes, the top of his dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal a mat of dark hair. He is barefoot and talking on his phone, motioning with his hand for me to come inside.

This throws me off. After all, at the drive-in, he was acutely attuned to me. Generous, playful, almost romantic; now he is the same cold statue I met in Italy.

Arsène turns his back on me and advances toward his kitchen. I follow, straightening my spine and ignoring the obvious signs of obnoxious wealth dripping from every stainless steel appliance and piece of furniture in his domain. If Grace’s apartment hints at wealth, his downright screams it. His view alone is mouthwatering.

“Right out the gate, I’d move away from crypto. Too vulnerable to government crackdowns. If there’s one thing we can always count on, it’s the government’s ability to fuck up a perfectly good investment channel,” he says to the person on the other line.

I glance around myself uncertainly. I was not expecting this kind of welcome.

“Hmm,” Arsène answers to his client. “Not sure about this one. Let me run the numbers and double-check.” He points at a seat at his dining table, and I assume position, taking it. “Hold on a sec, Ken. What can I get you, Winnifred? Coffee? Water? Tea?”

I was hoping we were going to have something stronger. Clearly, he and I aren’t on the same page tonight. Anger begins simmering in my veins, diluted by humiliation. You stupid, stupid woman.

“Water’s fine, thank you,” I say formally.

He gets me a bottle of FIJI Water and disappears into his hallway, then returns with a thick manila envelope, which he dumps in front of me on the table.

“No surprises there.” He laughs, deep in conversation with Ken. “Stock-oriented hedge funds have low net exposure. I hardly ever deal with those time wasters.”

It’s all gibberish to me, so I open the manila folder without waiting and pull out the heavy stack of papers. It’s mostly pictures, which I wasn’t expecting. Largely printed and in good quality. I’m not even sure what I’m looking at. How could the private investigator capture pictures of Paul and Grace after they’ve passed away?

And yet that’s exactly what I’m holding in my hands.

The first picture is of Grace perched in Paul’s lap, grinning at the camera. The picture is taken by someone else, and the backdrop seems to be a party. A company party, to be exact. Why would they be so openly intimate in public?

Maybe their affair was Silver Arrow Capital’s worst-kept secret.

This explains why none of Paul’s colleagues wanted to answer my questions about him. Chose to send me flowers rather than pick up the phone.

The second picture is of both of them in Paris. Paris. Where they shared an apartment. A second, domestic life full of bliss. The window behind them is open, overlooking the Eiffel Tower. They’re not touching each other, which is somehow almost worse. Grace seems to be serving food to a small group of people while Paul cracks open a bottle of wine. This goes beyond betrayal. This wasn’t an affair, I realize—it was a love story.

The third picture is peculiar. I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s of Grace only. Puffy eyed and tired. She is slung over a bed, her mouth in a surly pout. There’s an Instagram caption under her face that reads, miss my baby <sad face emoji>

Said baby, I’m going to take a wild guess, is my late husband.

The final picture is the one that breaks me. It’s a picture of Paul and Grace kissing—full-blown kissing—in Italy. I recognize the background like I do the palm of my hand. The yachts. The bay. The pastel-colored buildings. I can almost smell the brine and the olive oil and the blossom of the nearby trees. They were at it when their partners were nearby.

With a soft gasp, I grab a pile of documents and throw them on top of the pictures so I don’t have to look at them. They’d met privately in Italy. Before that awful dinner, seeing as Arsène and Grace left hastily in the middle of it.

Paul kissed her before he kissed me on that balcony.

Been inside her before his mouth roamed the most sensitive parts of my body.

Then he shared a peach with me. Told me he wanted to have a child with me. Gave me hell for my coffee intake.

“My apologies.” Arsène slides into the seat next to me, tossing his smart phone to the other side of the table. “New client. I had to pretend to care.”

I’m already full to the brim with rage. Lashing out at him, the man who not only showed me more evidence of Paul’s indiscretions but treated me like I was an unwelcome cold caller since I walked into this apartment, is a no-brainer.

“Where’d the private investigator get all these pictures?”

“Grace had a secret Instagram account,” he supplies. “Finstagram, I think the clued-in youngsters call it.”

“Why would she be so mindless?” I roar.

Arsène shrugs. “I don’t have any social media, so the prospect of being caught by me was slim. Plus, it was set on private. It allowed Paul to leave her flirty comments without you seeing them.”

“From his real profile?” I splutter. He nods. I want to throw up.

“They really loved each other, didn’t they?” I worry my lip. How else can I explain the frequency, the intensity, with which they carried out their affair? It was almost like they were begging to be caught.

Arsène’s eyes hunt my face for something, for a reaction I don’t deliver. After a moment, his attention returns to the thick file. “Yes. I suppose they did love each other. We were their safe bets. But they were each other’s safe haven.”

I go through the rest of the file. It’s comprehensive. Not that I would expect less from a man like Arsène. Though it must be said, he doesn’t look half as heartbroken as I thought he’d be when we go through the material.

Paul and Grace shared an apartment in Paris and biweekly trips to their favorite Manhattan hotel. They also went to Saint Moritz together for a skiing trip, were treated as a couple by their colleagues, and were planning to buy an apartment together in SoHo, not too far from my place. They’d already put in an offer at the time of their deaths. The contingency fell through when they passed.

There were presents, and holidays, and plans for the future. Romantic dinners, shopping sprees, and even nicknames. He called her Gigi.

Gigi is so much better than baby doll.

I don’t lift my head from the papers for hours. Maybe more than hours. Maybe days. Who knows? I’m so engrossed in all this new information .?.?. the details .?.?. the messages .?.?. the emails. There are so many work emails. How did the private investigator get his hands on those?

“I think it’s time we crack open the brandy.” Arsène swoops up everything in front of me in one go, arranges the pages and pictures neatly, and tucks them back into the manila folder. He stands up and returns with two snifters and a decanter. He pours both of us a generous amount, shoving mine across the table until it hits my elbow.

“You need a distraction,” he muses.

“I need a bullet to the head,” I murmur.

He studies me for a long moment. “You know, Mars is red because it’s covered in iron oxide, which is essentially rust. It is also the prime candidate to be the next place humans would live on.”

“What’s your point?” I look up at him with a sigh.

“My point”—he takes a sip of his drink—“is that just because something doesn’t work properly, or is rusty—like your heart—doesn’t mean it can’t survive.”

“Still not following,” I lie.

“Come, Bumpkin. You dodged a bullet. Can you imagine finding out all of this when you’re forty-five, after you’ve given Paul all of your best years, plus two unplanned C-sections, saggy breasts, and a shattered Broadway dream to show for it?”

To this improper joke, I answer with a snarl.

I cover my face in my hands. My snifter knocks over, spilling all over the floor. The glass breaks. I don’t even have it in me to mumble an apology. At least up until now, I could tell myself that Paul had been letting off some steam with Grace, after all the tension that had been building up in our marriage. Now, even that weak excuse is gone. What he had with her wasn’t dirty and salacious. They were in love. All in. Just merely tolerating Arsène’s and my existence.

“Winnifred.” Arsène’s voice is harsh now. He stands up. I don’t lift my head to look at him. “Stop this right now. You must’ve had an inkling. People don’t carry on months-long affairs if they don’t care for each other.”

“That’s not why I’m broken.” I use the sleeve of my black sweater to clean my nose. I don’t even care that I’m a snotty, ugly mess. A wad of clean tissues materializes in my periphery, and I snatch it, dabbing my nose with it without so much as a thank-you. And still, no tears. No tears. No tears.

“Why’re you like this, then?” His voice is patient but not at all emotional.

“Because I can’t blame him.” I look up at Arsène, with his tar-black eyes, hard jawline, imperturbable expression. “I hadn’t delivered on all the things he thought he’d get when he married me. I’m not the woman you saw in Italy. I’m not all sweetness and warmth and peach cobblers. I don’t .?.?. I don’t even know how to make a peach cobbler!”

I throw my hands in the air, then bury my face in them.

“I wasn’t ready for this kind of confession,” he drawls sarcastically. “Should I loop in the feds? Maybe Interpol? This is too big a secret to stay within these walls.”

“Be serious for a second. I’m telling you I’m a huge disappointment.”

“I am serious,” Arsène says tonelessly. “You’re a complex human being, not a stock he gambled on. If he thought he had a sure bet, he’s the idiot. Not you.”

“Just stop!” I dart up from my seat. Glass crunches beneath my shoe. “Don’t defend me. I’m not that little southern girl Paul had fallen in love with. I’m the bitch who tried to get a job at Calypso Hall—and succeeded—so she can get closer to you!” Now that the confession is ripped out of my mouth, I can’t stop. “I wanted to meet you, Arsène, because I knew you were a man of resources who could shed some light on what happened between Grace and Paul. I wanted your knowledge, your information, your means. Wanted to use you to get closer to the truth. I knew you owned the place. It was all premeditated. I wanted you to think it was your idea to exchange notes. But I only took the job because I needed my hands on this file.” I point to the manila folder. “I’m a manipulative, weak, gross excuse for a woman, and I wanted to use you. I’m selfish, just like you said!”

Rather than look stunned, hurt, annoyed, surprised—any of those things—he smiles that lopsided, worldly smirk of his that makes me crazier than a sprayed roach.

“Why, this is wonderful news, Bumpkin! Drink.” He thrusts his brandy glass in my direction. I gulp half of it in one go.

“The only reason I let you keep your job is because I wanted us to exchange notes,” he continues. “And I always knew you were selfish. You’re human. It’s in the DNA. I just wanted you to own up to it so you can start asking things for yourself.”

“That’s what I mean.” Miserably, I shove the snifter back into his hand. “We’re both deplorable creatures.”

“I prefer resourceful. And I’m sorry to be the one breaking this to you, but you’re not half as cunning and corrupted as you think you are. You taking a job at Calypso Hall hurt absolutely no one. Grace was a million times more shrewd and heartless, and as you can tell, Paul didn’t care one iota. At any rate, in case you need to hear this—you’re still the most wholesome person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Please don’t thank me—I don’t consider it a compliment.” He raises his hand and shakes his head, like I’m a lost cause. “And I still think you’re too good for Paul.”

I can’t believe this is almost over. That soon, he’ll come to my place, get into Paul’s office, and find what he’s been looking for (or not), and we’ll never see each other again.

“Paul liked that I was good.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“Paul never understood you,” Arsène says bluntly, completely unfazed by the idea of upsetting me further. “He thought of you as a stereotypical southern belle. You were a status symbol, akin to an Italian car, a nice suit. The minute you fell short of his Little House on the Prairie idea, he lost interest and moved on. By then, though, you had a ring on your finger, so he figured why not make you the baby maker and go find his true love? I doubt he thought you’d ever catch him.”

This hits too close to home and explains too many things I couldn’t understand about my relationship when Paul was alive.

Taking a deep breath, I collect myself. “Thanks for sharing your unsolicited opinion with me. I think I’ll head back home now. We can arrange for you to come over at—”

“Stay.” It’s an order, not a request, and before I know it, he pulls me to his living room and places me on his couch. I comply, stunned. He tucks his snifter between my fingers and says he’ll be right back. In the sideline of my vision, I see him cleaning the mess I left behind. All the broken glass. I sip the brandy. It rolls down my throat smoothly. After a few moments, Arsène joins me with a snifter of his own.

“Do you think we’ll ever do it?” I ask him but stare down at the bottom of my drink.

“Do what?” he asks.

“Occupy Mars.”

He smirks, recognizing I don’t want to know about the planet—I want to know about my heart.

“I think maybe there was some type of life on Mars at some point. At any rate, right now it’s too cold, too dusty, and too dry to be hospitable. But this could change. I can see us investing in making artificial habitats and becoming Martians if we really put our minds to it, if we really try.” His eyes bore into mine, intense and urgent. When I don’t say anything, he shrugs. “I mean .?.?. not us. Humanity in general. It’ll take some time.”

I nod, nestling inside the silence for a few minutes.

“Tell me what’s in that little head of yours,” he says.

I swallow before I speak.

“I just think it is so symbolic that what brought us together, you and me, was a play that’s all about unrequited love. Because that’s what we’re both experiencing. Think of how it all starts. Nina is courted by Konstantin, who is in love with Masha, who, in turn, is also the object of Medvedenko. No one gets what they want. Everyone’s love life is unfulfilled. Everyone’s unhappy.”

“That’s right, life is a messy business. Living is a lesson in endurance.” Arsène nods. “And endurance is a lesson in humility. The problem with humankind is that everyone wants a simple, comfortable life. But that’s such a terrible existence. How could you ever appreciate the good moments if you haven’t braved the bad ones?

“And,” Arsène continues, watching me as I sip the rest of my drink. “You keep forgetting one thing—Nina survived. She found her way. She endured.”

“Do you think you’ll ever move on from Grace?” I place my empty snifter on the coffee table. I’m fairly intoxicated by now, having drunk on an empty stomach.

“No.” Arsène is quick in refilling my drink with more brandy. My heart drops, and I realize this confession really and truly hurts my feelings. “I haven’t made any celibacy declarations. And no part of me wants to keep pining for her. But I’m a practical man, and, practically speaking, I don’t think any woman could ever compare.”

I drink some more to shake off the uneasy feeling that accompanies the realization that Arsène is never going to be in the market for love. “Maybe I should go back to Mulberry Creek.”

“And do what?” He eyes me mockingly, that taunting smile ready on his face. “Milk cows?”

“First of all, we don’t even have cows.” I pin him with a look. “I’ll have my family, my friends, my circle. I’ll have .?.?. Rhys.”

“Who’s Rhys?”

“My ex-boyfriend. We broke up when I moved to New York. We were really good together. He’s a nice guy.”

Arsène rolls his eyes. “Please kill me if the first adjective that springs to mind to describe me by my ex-girlfriend is nice.”

I laugh. “Being nice is a great trait.”

“That will not get you in the history books.” He salutes me with his drink.

“Not everyone wants to get into those books,” I point out.

He makes a disgusted face. “Oxygen wasters.”

This makes me laugh. “I don’t hate you quite as much as I did weeks ago,” I admit.

“Well, then here’s some food for thought.” He pivots toward me. “You broke up with Rhys for a reason. Never forget that.”

The brandy decanter gets emptier as the night progresses. Arsène brings over the file, and we go through the pictures together again, but this time, it’s not as gut-crushingly terrible to watch as the first time around. At some point, the doorbell chimes. He ordered food. Soul food. My favorite. Fried pork chops, collard greens, cornbread, mac ’n’ cheese, and apricot jam tart. No sign of a peach cobbler. He really does think of everything.

We tuck in, washing it down with lots of water, and then we drink again.

I get brazen. Maybe even a little reckless. After all, this is Arsène. He will never love me. Not that I want him to. But he’ll never betray me either.

Because he’ll never be mine.

“I have a confession to make.” I tuck my hands between my thighs.

“Is it as big a bombshell as the peach-cobbler one? My heart can only take so much.” He places his hand over his sculpted chest.

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.” I ignore his jest. I think I’m slurring, which is an excellent reason not to tell him what’s on my mind. But I’m heavy with food and easy with alcohol, and the mood between us is so different than it was at the drive-in. Tonight, he put on a different air. The best friend one. The guy who can be trusted. And it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to.

“You have my word. Unless it’s really juicy—then out I go with it to The Enquirer.”

Groaning, I shove at his shoulder, hoping it’ll stir something inside him to prompt him to kiss me. No dice. He is different tonight. Cocksure, as always, but also reserved.

“I’m probably infertile.”

The words explode between us. Taking a breath, I continue.

“Well, not probably. More like certainly. Remember when you saw me in Italy? I was a whole blubbering mess in the bathroom.”

My ears get hot when I think about that moment. He nods slowly, staring at me.

“That was because I had a bad argument with Paul about it.”

“I see.” He strokes his chin. “That first time we talked about them—in the New Amsterdam, remember?—you seemed to have had a drop-of-a-penny moment when I told you when they started having an affair. Why was that?”

Swallowing, I look down at my feet. “Because it was around the time Paul and I had spoken about my possibly having fertility issues. It felt like he gave up on me and moved on with her.”

Arsène doesn’t say anything for a while, almost like he hasn’t heard me. This was clearly a mistake. I get embarrassed waiting around for him to reply, so I stand up.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Second door to your left in the hallway.”

After emptying my bladder, I return to the living room to find him sitting in the same position on the couch. I regret telling him about my infertility. I don’t know what I expected—but it wasn’t complete apathy.

“I’m happy for you,” he says from his spot on the couch.

I blink, thinking maybe I misheard him. “Happy for me?”

He nods.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not really heartbroken about Paul. You’re heartbroken over the way you two ended your relationship, and that he didn’t love you enough to accept you despite what you view as your imperfection. That’s an excellent starting point. You’ll move on, find someone else. Someone who realizes the value of a person is measured not by their reproductive system and have a good life. Probably with Nice Rhys or a guy of his brand. Paul will become a distant memory, an anecdote.”

Narrowing my eyes at him, I shake my head. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Why?” He watches me grabbing my little clutch bag and my phone.

“You’re so callous about everything.”

“You wanted me to be devastated for you?” He stands up to follow me across his apartment.

Yes, yes I did.

I stop at the door, turn around, and fling out my arms. “I wanted you to comfort me!”

He stares at me, a little confused.

“Why’re you looking at me like that? What’s so bad about wanting to be comforted? Have you never consoled anyone in your life?”

We’re still for a moment before he speaks. “No.”

His voice is quiet, forlorn. “Never,” he admits. “I’m not sure where to start.”

Vacillating between scolding him and teaching him, I decide to go for the latter. After all, I know what his childhood was like. Distant father, no mother, and a stepmother who banished him from his home.

“There are a few ways.” I munch on my lower lip. “My favorite is just to cuddle and sleep in each other’s arms. My momma always used to hug me to sleep when I had a bad day. Even when I was a teenager. Cuddling is a great destresser.”

He squares his shoulders. “Cuddle. Right. I can do that.”

“Why, though?” I stare at him with a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. “Why humor me?”

He throws me a sarcastic smirk. “Because you haven’t fulfilled your part of the bargain yet, why else?”

I’m not sure I believe him—I don’t want to believe him—but I still trudge my way to his open arms like a moth to a flame. I plaster my cheek over his chest, hoping to feel his heart racing the way mine does.

“If we cuddle in your bed, I want no funny business.” I speak into the rich fabric of his shirt.

“I .?.?. no, you can’t go into my bedroom.” He places his hand on the small of my back, ushering me to a small guest room down the hallway with a queen-size bed.

“Why?”

He looks around himself, as if looking for an excuse. “I don’t let people in my bed.”

“You’ve never mentioned it before.” I frown.

“I’ve never discussed my bedroom antics with you either,” he says easily, but something’s off. This man doesn’t seem sentimental enough to vow not to bring a woman into his bed because Grace once slept there. Luckily for him, I’m too drunk and exhausted to grill him about it.

Minutes later, I’m in a strange bed, his arms are wrapped around me, and his lips are in my hair, and my breathing is all calm.

“There, there,” he says. “Everything’ll be all right. Am I doing this okay?”

“You’re doing just fine.”