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“Oh please, no, I don’t hate you. But I don’t ever want to see you again. It is so fucking awful what you did. Allowing me to blame myself for years. So yeah, I wish you…” She couldn’t even say ‘all the best,’ and rather laughed again, dry and painful. “I wish youwhatever, Frankie. Do well, but don’t look for me again, god… And if you think that you giving me this piece of truth fixes something for you? No, Frankie, you sold them the pictures with my face and kept the ones that would have embarrassed you most out of the press. So you doing the right thing now?”
Frankie was on her feet too now, pacing, trying to come closer and perhaps seeing clearly what was in Chiara’s eyes and not daring.
“Doesn’t it count for something?”
Chiara smiled at her bitterly.
“I thought it was all on me. Everything. For years. And it wasn’t. And I assumed Vi betrayed me. And she never did. Her keeping her family’s secret, in retrospect, is something someone like her, starved for love, loyal to a fault, would have done. Taken on all the blame and trapped it in her chest and allowed it to choke her. Maybe we are peas in a pod, or whatever Renate called us. Be well, Frankie, but do it far away from me.”
As she crossed the room to the door, one hand already on the handle, Frankie’s voice stopped her.
“What are you going to do?”
“Beg her to forgive me, Frankie. Something I should’ve done years ago. And hope beyond hope that she does. Hope she will be much more merciful to me than I am to you. Pray my sins will be wiped off that proverbial ledger. Maybe some balance in that book is finally due. All that bleeding red is too much, and Vi has bled enough all over its pages.”
27
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF HEROES AND VILLAINS
Chiara Conti never really believed in magic, but as she made her dramatic exit from the waiting room, as if by the flick of a wand, the subject of all the preceding drama was leaning against the wall opposite the door, watching her with tired, concerned eyes.
The image of all that disheveled hair, the rumpled clothes, the linen shirt she’d hastily pulled on, the slightly too big trousers held up by the stupidly attractive suspenders, and the naked ankles peeking out from under the material… It did something to Chiara on a visceral level.Stupidly.That was the correct descriptor of how this woman affected Chiara.
But next to the unvarnished lust, there was also intricate adoration, tenderness, and above all else, limitless love. And guilt. So much guilt, Chiara felt she might suffocate on it.
And the wondrous eyes kept looking at her, despite Aoife saying something to Vi, despite people milling back and forth in the now crowded corridor, and the distance between them. Vi was seeing only her, and the hope in Chiara’s heart bloomed.
Maybe they would make it to the other end of this clusterfuck they’d created. All these things that should have been so simple. All of this, which was supposed to have been a quiet divorce, a quiet courtship, and a quiet, happy five years of love.
Except while happiness was always straightforward, misery had no such requirements. And you always had to pay the toll.
Had Renate been her wake-up call? Was Frankie’s confession the first strip of her heart she had to pay for knowing the truth? And would whatever happened with Vi next, force her to surrender the rest of it?
Perhaps seeing her indecisiveness, Vi strode over, took her hand, and in a matter of minutes, they were making their way through the hospital’s labyrinth of hallways and passageways. Before long, Vi had them outside and was hailing a cab with one of those attractively self-assured gestures that Chiara knew would never go unanswered, because a car was at the curb next to them in an instant.
The trip to the Village was a blur of a cigarette-smoke-filled backseat and the dimming lights of the awakening city. Vi’s hand in hers, warm and sure, was an anchor amidst the stench and the sensory overload.
Even as Vi’s building appeared in front of them, that thin thread that had been tormenting Chiara for days tugged at her until she turned around.
She knew they were there even before her eyes caught sight of them, because that wonderful warmth was gone from Vi’s hand in an instant.
And as Charles faced them under the dying light of the lamp, Chiara remembered exactly where she had seen him. No, the dawn of Manhattan wasn’t the dusk of Paris, but she knew. And suddenly, so many things made sense. Only one question remained.
“We’ve been ringing the doorbell for ten minutes, Genevieve. You certainly keep inappropriate hours.”
Charles' voice sounded haughty and a little rough, maybe due to the early hour or the fact that both he and Gwyneth were decked out to the nines, clearly coming from some fancy reception. Possibly even her own, since the Poise party surely continued until dawn, despite the guests of honor leaving early.
He looked tired. His wife looked as bored as always.
“I’m an adult, father.”
“Being an adult doesn’t permit you to be rude, Genevieve. Invite us up. If your date can stand an interruption.”
His eyes swept over Chiara with the same indifference as always, and the last pieces of the Courtenay puzzle slid into place for her. Some things really were that simple. She had no more questions. Only answers. And now was the right time to share them. Vi had suffered enough.
“This is actually fortuitous, Charles. I would have sought you out within the next few hours myself.” Chiara straightened to her full height, looking Charles directly in the eye. Clearly, this wasn’t something he was accustomed to, because his gaze narrowed, and he lifted his aristocratic chin, the shadow of gray stubble making him look so much older.
“Chiara…” Vi’s voice trembled, and it was all she could do not to give in and gather her in her arms, as she should have done countless times five years ago.
