Chapter 16

16

Caroline

Present day, Tuesday

When I stepped into the lobby of La Grande, dread hardened in my chest. Though I’d mulled over the apothecary for most of the train ride to the hotel, now the more urgent concern—my husband’s imminent arrival—pushed aside any thoughts of Bear Alley, the vial or the library documents.

Given the time needed to clear customs and catch a taxi, it seemed mathematically impossible for James to already be at the hotel. In spite of this, I hesitated in front of my room door, wondering if I should knock. Just in case.

No.This was my room, mytrip. He was the interloper. I slid my keycard into the door and went inside.

Mercifully, the room was empty and everything inside was my own, albeit in tidier condition than I’d left it. The crisp white bed linens had been tucked neatly against the mattress, the kitchenette had been refreshed with clean mugs, and...shit. A vase of beautiful, baby blue hydrangeas sat on the small table near the door.

I pulled the tiny envelope from the center of the flower posy and opened it, hoping it was only an unwitting display of congratulations from one of our parents.

It wasn’t. The inscription was short, but I knew instantly who sent it. I’m sorry, the note began, and I have so much to make up to you, to explain to you. I will love you always. See you soon. J.

I rolled my eyes. James was an intelligent guy; he meant to do damage control in advance of his arrival, pulling whatever strings he could to ensure I at least opened the hotel room door for him. But if he thought we could talk this over in a single morning, then share a couple of mimosas and resume our lovebird itinerary as originally planned, he was sorely mistaken.

I didn’t allow myself to feel guilty about this. I may not have been perfectly happy with our life, but I wasn’t the one who’d thrown it away.

---

A short while later, I lay on the bed sipping an ice-cold water when there came a knock at the door. I knew instinctively that it was him. I could feelit, just like I could feel the exhilaration in his body when I stood across from him at the altar on our wedding day.

I took a single deep breath and opened the door, unwillingly inhaling the scent of him: the familiar aroma of pine and lemon, subtle remnants of the homemade soap he loved so much. We’d bought it together at an outdoor market a few months ago, in the days when my free time was spent peeking at fertility tips on Pinterest. Things seemed so much easier then.

James stood before me, a charcoal-gray suitcase against his leg. He wasn’t smiling, nor was I, and if an unlucky stranger were to walk by at that very moment, they would have believed it the most awkward, unpleasant reunion they’d ever seen. As we stared dumbly at each other, I realized that, until just a moment ago, part of me didn’t believe he’d actually turn up in London at all.

“Hi,” he whispered sadly, still on the other side of the threshold. Though only an arm’s length separated us, it felt like an ocean.

I opened the door wider and motioned for him to come in, like he was a bellman delivering my luggage. As he rolled in his suitcase, I walked away to refill my glass of water. “You found my room,” I said over my shoulder.

James eyed the vase of flowers on the table. “My name is on the reservation, too, Caroline.” He tossed a few travel documents—his passport and a couple of receipts—onto the table next to the flowers. His shoulders slumped and his eyes creased at the edges. I’d never seen him look so tired.

“You look exhausted,” I said, my voice hoarse. My mouth had gone dry.

“I haven’t slept in three days. Exhausted is an understatement.” He touched one of the flowers, running his finger along the edge of a silky, baby blue petal. “Thank you for not turning me away at the door,” he said, looking at me tearfully. I’d only seen him cry twice: once at our wedding reception, when he raised a glass of pink champagne to me, his new wife, and once after his uncle’s burial ceremony, as we walked away from the gaping hole in the earth that was soon filled with dirt.

But his tears drew no sympathy from me. I didn’t want to be around him, could barely look at him. I pointed to the sofa underneath the window, with its round arms and tufted upholstery. It wasn’t meant for sleeping, but for lounging and easy conversation and lustful, late-night lovemaking—all the things James and I wouldn’t be doing. “You should rest. There are extra blankets in the closet. The room service is quick, too, if you’re hungry.”

He gave me a confused look. “Are you going somewhere?”

The late-morning sun shone bright into the room, leaving pale yellow streaks across the hotel room floor. “I’m going out to get lunch,” I said, taking off my sneakers and putting on flats.

The hotel room had listed a few suggestions in a binder on the table; there was an Italian place just a few blocks away. I needed comfort food, and maybe a glass of Chianti. Not to mention an Italian restaurant was likely to be low-lit. Perfect for someone like me who needed a discreet place to think, maybe cry. Seeing James now, in flesh and blood, had left a hard lump in my throat. I wanted to embrace him as much as I wanted to shake him, to make him tell me why he’d ruined us.

“Can I join you?” He ran his hand across his jawline, hidden under three days’ worth of stubble.

I knew the misery that was jet-lagged heartache, and in spite of myself, I pitied him for it. And hadn’t I decided to stop ignoring the discomfort in looking deeper? I might as well start by getting some things off my chest. I only hoped I could keep the tears at bay. “Sure,” I muttered, then I grabbed my bag and led the way out the door.

The restaurant, Dal Fiume, was just a block from the River Thames. The hostess took us to a small table at one corner of the restaurant, away from the other patrons; she probably assumed James and I were on a first date given the obvious distance we kept from one another. As though it were late in the evening, several vintage lanterns glowed throughout the dining area, and heavy scarlet curtains wrapped around the room like a cocoon. I would have found it intimate on any other day, but today it was stifling. Maybe this choice had been a bit too discreet, but we were both hungry and exhausted, and we let out a collective sigh as we sank into the leather armchairs on either side of the table.

The large menus offered a welcome distraction, and for a while neither of us spoke, except to the waitress who brought us water and, soon after, two glasses of Chianti. But as soon as she placed the glass in front of me, I remembered: my period. Still late. Alcohol. Pregnancy.

I ran my finger along the base of the glass, considering what, if anything, to do. I couldn’t send the wine back—James would suspect something, and I would not share this with him. Not here, not in this godforsaken red room that threatened to suffocate us both.

I thought of Rose. Hadn’t she had alcohol in the first few weeks of her pregnancy, before taking a test? Her doctor had had no concerns at that very early stage.

Good enough for me. I sucked down a gulp of the wine, then proceeded to skim the menu, seeing but reading none of it.

A few minutes later the waitress took our orders and left with the menus, and I instantly missed the protective barrier between James and me; there was nothing left to focus on except one another. We sat so close together, I could hear him breathing.

I looked directly at my husband, his face even more sunken in this light than earlier. I tried not to wonder when he last ate, as he seemed to have lost a few pounds. Taking a fortifying sip of wine, I began, “I’m so angry—”

“Listen, Caroline,” he interrupted, intertwining his fingers like I’d seen him do on the phone with disappointed clients. “It’s done. We’re having her transferred to another department, and I let her know that if she contacts me again, I’ll inform Human Resources.”

“So it’s her fault, then? Her problem? You’re the one on partner track, James. Seems to me that Human Resources might be more interested in your involvement.” I shook my head, already frustrated. “And why is this even about your work? What about our marriage?”

He sighed, leaning forward. “It’s unfortunate things came to light this way.” An interesting choice of words; he meant to diffuse responsibility. “But maybe it’s not all bad,” he added. “Maybe there’s some good to come of it, for us and our relationship.”

“Some good to come of it,”I repeated, astounded. “What good could possibly come of this?”

The waitress returned with large pasta spoons, delicately placing them before us, and the silence between the three of us was thick and awkward. She quickly left.

“I’m trying to level with you, Caroline. I’m here, now, telling you that I’ll do counseling, I’ll do soul-searching, I’ll do whatever.”

My solo trip to London was meant to be like a counseling session for me—until, of course, James showed up at my door. And his flippant manner angered me further. “Let’s start the soul-searching now,” I said. “Why did you do it? Why did you let it continue after the promotion event?” I realized that despite my desire to know the gruesome what and how, what I most wanted to know right that moment was...why? A question struck me at once, something I hadn’t considered before. “Are you scared of trying for a baby? Is that why?”

He looked down, shook his head. “Not at all. I want a baby just as much as you do.”

A small weight lifted inside of me, but the problem-solving part of me wished he’d said yes; then we could hold the truth up like a diamond, set it in front of the light and address the real issue. “Then...why?” I resisted the urge to spoon-feed him any more possibilities, and I brought the rim of the wineglass back to my lips.

“I guess I’m just not entirely happy,” he said tiredly, like the words alone exhausted him. “My life has been so safe, so fucking predictable.”

“Our life,” I corrected.

He nodded, conceding this. “Our life, yes. But I know you want safe. You want predictable, and a baby needs that, too, and—”

“I want predictable? I want safe?” I shook my head. “No, you have that all wrong. You didn’t support me applying to Cambridge because it was so far away. You—”

“I wasn’t the one to rip up the application,” he said, his voice like ice.

Undeterred, I went on. “You didn’t want kids early in our marriage because of the burden while working long hours. You begged me to take the job at the farm because it was secure, comfortable.”

James tapped two fingers against the white tablecloth. “You accepted the job, not me, Caroline.”

We fell silent as our waitress arrived with two bowls of pasta and set them in front of us. I watched her walk away, making careful notice of her perky, perfectly shaped ass, but James’s eyes stayed solidly on me.

“You can never take back what you did to me,” I said, pushing away my untouched plate. “Do you realize that? I will never forget. It will be a permanent scar on us, if we even make it through this. How long will it take us to be happy again?”

He grabbed a bread roll from the center of the table and shoved it into his mouth. “That’s up to you. I told you, it’s over and done with. A screwup on my part, one I’m now working to fix with you, my wife.”

I imagined five or ten years from now. If James did indeed remain faithful to me, perhaps the other womanwould someday seem little more than an old mistake. After all, I’d once heard that nearly half of marriages struggle with infidelity at some point. But I’d realized in recent days this woman wasn’t the only source of unhappiness in my life. As we sat across from each other at the table, I considered sharing my feelings with him, but I didn’t view him as an ally in whom I could confide. He remained an adversary, and I felt protective of the truths I had begun to discover on this trip.

“I came to London to apologize to you,” James said. “I don’t care what the rest of this trip looks like. Screw the original plans. We can hang out in the room and eat Chinese food for all I care—”

I held up my hand to stop him. “No, James.” No matter how raw he felt, his feelings were the least of my concerns. My own were still terribly bruised. “I’m not at all happy you came out to London without asking me. I came here to process what you did, and I feel like you chased me here. Like escape wasn’t something you allowed me to do.”

He stared at me, dumbfounded. “Like I chasedyou here? I’m not a predator, Caroline.” He pulled his eyes from mine and picked up his fork, his face growing flushed. He shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, chewed quickly and speared another bite. “You’re my wife, and you’ve been in a foreign country, alone, for the first time in your life. Do you know how panicked I’ve been? Pickpockets, or some creep realizing you’re here alone—”

“Jesus, James, give me a little credit. I’ve got a bit of common sense.” My wineglass was empty, and I waved the waitress over for a refill. “It’s been just fine, actually. I’ve had no issues whatsoever.”

“Well, good,” he relented, his tone softening. He wiped the edges of his mouth with a napkin. “You’re right. I should have asked you whether it was okay for me to come out. I’m sorry I didn’t. But I’m here now, and the last-minute plane ticket cost me three grand. A second one to fly home wouldn’t be cheap, either.”

Three grand?“Okay,” I said through thinned lips, further pissed that he’d spent so much money on a plane ticket he shouldn’t have booked at all. “Can we agree, then, that at least for the next few days, I get time and space? I still have a lot to process.” Though I’ve processed enough to see how much of my old self has been buried, I thought miserably.

He opened his mouth and blew out air. “We should be talking through the hard questions together, though, right?”

I shook my head gently. “No. I want to be alone. You can sleep on the sofa in the hotel room, but that’s the extent of it. I came on this trip by myself for a reason.”

He closed his eyes, disappointment all over his face. “Okay,” he finally said, pushing aside his half-eaten meal. “I’ll head back to the room. I’m exhausted.” He pulled a couple of twenty-pound notes from his wallet, slid them across the table to me and stood up.

“Get some rest,” I said, my eyes not leaving his empty chair.

He kissed the top of my head before he left, and I stiffened in my seat. “I’ll try,” he said.

I didn’t turn around to watch him go. Instead, I finished my pasta and my second glass of Chianti. After a few minutes passed, I saw my phone screen light up on the table. Frowning, I read a new text message from an unknown number.

Hi Caroline! Did a bit more digging after you left & got some hits on our manuscript database. I’ve req a few, will take a couple of days. How long you in town for? Gaynor xx

I sat up straighter in my chair and texted her back immediately.

Hi! Thank you SO much. In town another week! What kind of doc? Does it look promising?

I leaned my elbows on the table, awaiting Gaynor’s reply. While researching together at the library, she’d explained that manuscripts could be handwritten or printed material. Could she have located another letter, another “deathbed confession,” about the apothecary? I opened her response the moment it came through.

Both search hits are bulletins—a type of periodical. Dated 1791. Not part of our digitized newspaper collection & pre-1800, which is why it didn’t come up earlier. Metadata says one of the bulletins includes an image. Who knows? Will keep you posted!

I closed my phone. Intriguing news, yes, but as I stared at James’s half-eaten plate and his dirty cloth napkin lying on the table, bigger issues tugged at my attention. The waitress offered a final glass of wine and I declined; two glasses with lunch were more than enough. I needed to sit and think for a few minutes with the steady din of conversation around me.

According to James, his infidelity came from a place of dissatisfaction with the safe, predictable nature of our lives. Was it possible we’d been equally discontent with the stagnant way of life back home and things had finally come to a shuddering halt? And if so, what did that mean for our desire to be parents in the immediate future? I wasn’t sure any child would want us for parents now.

A child would also need a stable home, a good school system and at least one income-earning parent. There was no doubt that our life epitomized this, but James and I had both just shared our dissatisfaction with the paths we’d chosen. Where on the list was our fulfillment, our joy? Was it selfish to put our own happiness before the needs of another human being, one who didn’t even yet exist?

Surrounded by London’s weathered brick buildings, mysterious artifacts and obsolete maps, I’d been reminded why, so long ago, I found myself enamored of British literature and history’s obscurities. The youthful, adventurous student in me had begun to resurface. Like the vial I’d dug out of the mud, I had begun to unbury something dormant inside of myself. And as much as I wanted to hold James accountable for keeping me in the States, at the farm, I couldn’t blame it entirely on him; after all, as he’d said,I was the one to rip up the application for Cambridge’s history graduate program. I was the one to accept the job offer with my parents.

If I was honest with myself, I wondered if looking forward to a baby had been a subconscious way of disguising the truth: that not everything in my life was how I imagined it would be, and that I hadn’t lived up to my own potential. And worst of all, I’d been too scared to even try.

As I’d yearned for motherhood, fixing my attention entirely on my someday, what other dreams had been buried and lost? And why had it taken a life crisis to finally ask myself the question?