CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX ARSÈNE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ARSèNE

I arrive in Nashville, Tennessee, ready to commit capital murder. The only thing stopping me is the fact that the woman I’d like to strangle will be missed by many, including, to my great fucking shame, myself.

Nashville is busy and colorful and entirely too cheerful for a big city. The sun paints everything in a buttery-yellow filter.

I slip into a taxi and hand the driver the Mulberry Creek address I’ve been given. Arya made me promise not to give Winnifred shit, a vow I wholeheartedly intend to break. She was the one who gave me Chrissy’s number. And Chrissy? She only asked me to keep her posted.

I haven’t seen or heard from Winnie since she took a flight back home. Please, if you go there, tell me how she’s doing.

It was her one and only request in return for her client’s address. But now, as my phone flashes with her name, I can’t help but send her straight to voice mail. In a way, I partly blame her for this blunder. She should’ve kept her client on a tighter leash. Should’ve stopped her, through blackmail or reason, from leaving New York.

What kind of woman ditches a leading role at a Manhattan theater without so much as a two-week notice? And what kind of person lets her?

It’s a one-hour drive from Nashville to Mulberry Creek, and a whole lot of open fields and nothing between them. Wide-open spaces spark an uneasiness in me. Though I largely spent my youth in a boarding school in a mansion on the outskirts of New York, there is a certain state of mind, a quietness to the endlessly stretched fields, which I find disconcerting.

I arrive at Winnifred’s childhood home when the sun dips behind ancient red oaks. It’s a small white cottage with a sagging front porch, rocking chairs, a swing, and potted plans. There’s a pink toddler bike tipped over on the front lawn.

“Wait here,” I instruct the driver before getting out of the car. I’ve very little faith that I can change this stubborn woman’s mind. Much less that I can appeal to her common sense. First, because I came here without a plan. Second, because Winnifred (since when do I call her Winnifred and not Bumpkin?) never valued common sense very much. This is what makes her unpredictable, different, and fresh. Her ability to easily and happily choose the road less taken.

I go up the steps to her house and knock on the door. The telltale noises of a family dinner in progress assault my ears.

“Georgie, aren’t you going to eat any of the crawfish? For goodness’ sake, you’re not on one of your vegetarian spells, are you?” I hear Winnifred’s mother.

“It’s not a spell, I’m on Lent!”

“It’s not even February.”

“Winnie hasn’t eaten any, and I don’t see you complaining about her. And at least I’m being a good Christian.”

“The bleachers of our local high school would beg to differ,” Winnifred sasses back to her sister. I grin despite my best intentions.

Just fucking admit it, idiot. You don’t hate this woman as much as you want to. Not even close. Not even close to close.

“Are you ratting me out?” Georgie gasps. “Because while we’re on the subject, Ma and Dad may want to know about your little meet into the night with—”

“Are you ratting me out?” I hear my employee retort. “You haven’t changed at all, Georgie!”

“Of course I have. I’m now skinnier than you are!”

I rap the door again three consecutive times and step away. It doesn’t sound like Winnifred is having a terrible time. Her family seems to be nice. But she still owes me a show, and I do not like to be robbed of things.

The door flings open, and in front of me stands a woman who must be Georgie. She appears to be exactly Winnifred’s age, only taller. Her hair more rusty red than Winnifred’s vivid shade of orange blonde, her bone structure less refined and pleasing.

“Heya.” There’s a piece of string bean tucked into the corner of her mouth, like a cigarette. “How can I help you, you strange, good-looking city boy?”

So Winnifred got the personality and beauty. Poor Georgie.

“I’m here for Winnifred.” The words, although true, surprise me. It occurs to me that I’ve never stood in front of a girl’s door before, asking for her to come outside. I’d rarely dated before Grace, and when I did, I limited my communication with the said dates to sordid liaisons. Then Grace happened, and we either lived together or had our own apartments. There was no mystery, no added stress or value to pursuing her. Throughout my life, I had been spared the basic embarrassment of standing in front of a complete stranger, asking to see their beloved relative.

“Who’s asking?” Georgie arches an eyebrow and grins.

“A strange, good-looking city boy,” I say flatly.

She laughs. “Be specific.”

“Her boss.”

“Boss?” Georgie’s grin melts into a frown. “You look like a big-shot businessman, and she works at the theater.”

“Not for long, if she doesn’t come here promptly and explain herself.”

“Wait here.” Georgie disappears into the house, half closing the door behind her. A minute later, Winnifred is outside, wrapping her cardigan against her shoulders. She tips her chin up to look at me, and all I see in her Nordic blues are dread and mild accusation. She wasn’t expecting anyone to make the trip here and confront her. Her New York world and Mulberry Creek world have been separated thus far, and she thought she could keep it that way.

“Hello, Winnifred.”

“Hi.” She turns bright red the minute our eyes meet. “What are you .?.?. doing here?”

What a question, Bumpkin. If only I knew. Sure, you screwed Calypso Hall over, and I don’t appreciate lazy employees, but I have people on my payroll with the capacity to do my dirty work and seek you out themselves.

The truth is, I haven’t the greenest clue why I’m here.

“We need to talk somewhere private,” I say.

“Are you going to yell at me?” She narrows her eyes, her defiance back in full force.

I give it a moment of consideration. “No. You’d just yell louder if I do.”

She nods. “There’s a river about a mile down from here. Let’s walk.”

“Shouldn’t you tell your family where you are?” I ask.

She gives me a once-over, then smiles. “Nah. If someone’s gonna drown someone, it’s going to be me.”

We both step off the porch and down the loosely paved road of her neighborhood. Each house is acres apart.

“How’ve you been?” she asks as we make our way on the shoulder of the road.

“Fine. Great. Why wouldn’t I be?” I bark out.

She turns to me slowly, a funny look on her face. “No reason, I was just making polite conversation.”

“We were never polite to each other—why break a perfect streak?”

She gives me another look. Why am I nervous? I’m a grown-ass man.

“How about we jump right to the important stuff.” I clasp my hands behind my back. “You owe me a love interest.”

“Excuse me?”

“A Nina,” I specify. “You bailed on The Seagull. Your replacement is not well received.”

Lucas has been calling me nonstop, begging for me to try to find the star of his show. Penny is not holding up very well. Perhaps begging is not the right word. But he did call once. It was by accident, but he did. And when I asked him how Penny was doing, he replied “Oh, well, a theater critic from Vulture described her the other day as ‘possessing the charisma of an ingrown toenail.’ So all in all, I’d say things could be better.”

“Since when do you care about Calypso Hall?” Winnifred narrows her eyes.

“Of course I care about it. It’s my family’s business.”

“You want to sell it.”

“All the more reason for me to want it to function well and turn a profit.”

“And yet, you wouldn’t invest a cent in it, even though it’s falling apart.”

“The next owners will renovate it.” What a maddening woman. What is she getting at?

“I’m sorry,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she speeds up. “I realize my actions have consequences, grave ones, but I had no choice. I was in a really dark place. I couldn’t stay in New York after what we found out.”

“You did a lot of growing up in the last few months,” I point out.

“I really did,” she says. “So did you, though.”

The elephants in the room—Paul and Grace—have been acknowledged, and now would be a good opportunity to broach the subject of the pregnancy, of my mother’s videos, of the betrayal. But I don’t. This will not serve my purpose. I’m here to bring her back to New York, not remind her why she ran away.

“Darkness is all I know,” I reply tersely. “And yet you don’t see me dropping commitments left and right just because I’m in a bad mood.”

“It’s not a bad mood.” Her tone changes, the edge in her voice more prominent. “I couldn’t stand the idea of staying in that apartment.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? We’d have found you appropriate accommodations in Manhattan.” I kick a small rock on the side of the road.

“It’s not just about the apartment.” She shakes her head. “It’s about my future.”

“You’ll have no future if you don’t return to New York immediately!” I stop dead in my tracks, a few hundred feet from the river she was telling me about. I’m screaming. Why the fuck am I screaming? I don’t think I’ve screamed my entire adult life. No. Scratch that. I never raised my voice when I was a child either. It is such a common thing to do.

I turn to her, and for the first time in months, no—years—I am thoroughly and royally pissed off. “I’m going on a flight back home in five hours, and I expect you to join me. You have an annual contract with Calypso Hall. I don’t give a shit about your mental state, just like no one gives a shit about mine. Contracts are meant to be honored.”

“Or what?” Her face hardens. Sweet Winnie Ashcroft is sweet no more. Maybe she was never that bundle of innocence and oatmeal cookies people pegged her to be. Or maybe she is simply growing up right in front of me, and she will no longer be pushed around by anyone. Paul. The world. Me.

“Or .?.?.” I lean forward, a mild smirk tugging on my lips. “I’ll sue you, and you’ll have to come back, anyway.”

A second ago, I didn’t think it was possible for me to hate myself more than I already do. But I was gravely mistaken. Because the look on Winnifred’s face makes me want to vomit my inner organs and then feast on them. For the first time, disappointing someone means something to me.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then opens it again.

“You mean to tell me that after everything we’ve been through together, you’re going to sue me because I skipped town and your theater has to make do with a temporary actress, for a role that had over two thousand women auditioning for it?”

“Yes.”

“This is how little everything that’s happened to me, to you, means to you?” She searches my eyes. She is not going to find anything there. I perfected the art of not showing any emotions decades ago.

“Oh, gosh.” She steps back, shaking her head on a dark chuckle. “You really don’t care, do you?”

I say nothing. How am I the bad guy here?

She is the one who left without even saying goodbye.

She is the one who quit on her role.

“You’ve given up,” I reply mildly. “What was the point of this entire journey? Of us meeting? Finding out the truth? If you refuse to stay and fight for what you came to New York for? You just ran back to your mommy and daddy. To rainbows and pies. To the place you know damn well is too small for you, too uninspiring for you, too wrong for you.”

“Our needs change as we get older.” She throws her arms in the air. “It’s okay to settle for comfort!”

“It is terrible to settle for anything,” I grit out. “Comfort is the last thing an ambitious, talented twentysomething woman should be feeling. You shouldn’t even be within a hundred-mile radius of comfort.”

She stares at me with bone-deep frustration.

“I’m not coming back,” she says, finally.

“Of course you are. You’ll finish your post; then you’ll leave. Don’t worry, I’ll be happy to pay for your ticket back to Shitsville.” I glance around, scowling.

She presses her lips together, closing her eyes. “Maybe you’ll never understand, and that’s okay. Every person’s journey is different. But I should’ve done this months ago. Come here, sort out my thoughts, make sense of everything that’s happened to me. I’m sorry I ignored my responsibility. I know it isn’t fair to Lucas, the cast, and you. I wish I could turn back time and not take the role.”

I cannot believe I’m feeling disappointed. I never feel anything about other humans’ actions. Putting your faith in someone else goes against everything I taught myself over the years. I want to scream in her face. To tell her it isn’t fair.

She sighs, looking down at her slippers, which are now covered in dust. “A big part of why I took it was to get closer to you, anyway. But I can’t go back. Not now. Maybe not ever. This is my time to put me first. No matter the price.”

And so, on the side of the country road, and for the first time in my entire life, a girl ditches me.

She turns around and walks away, leaving me in a cloud of yellow dust.