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It is time to hit Arsène with a truth stick. Even if I’ll have to admit said truth to myself first.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
WINNIE
New York is cool and splendid in a dozen shades of gray and blue as I cab it from LaGuardia Airport into the city.
Fall has conquered every inch of Manhattan. The trees are naked, tall, the branches curling into themselves, shriveling from the frost.
My first stop is my apartment.Myapartment, not Paul’s. I stand and stare at it for a few minutes, hands balled over my hips, taking inventory one last time.
Then I grab all the junk mail from my mailbox, open a trash bag, and throw everything inside.
Possessed by energy I haven’t had in forever, I proceed to my fridge, throw it open, and yank out all Paul’s yogurts. His pickle jar. His favorite smoothies. Moon cakes. All gone. I shove my sleeves up my elbows and scrub the fridge clean. The residue of expired food assaults my nostrils, sour and lingering. I don’t stop until it’s spotless, laughing soundlessly when I remember how I’d given up on using the fridge so I wouldn’t have to deal with the stench of the food.
Then I move on to the rolled newspapers I kept for him.
He is not coming back. Even if he did, in another life, in another universe—he can buy his own darn newspaper. The only news flash he needs is this: he was a bastard who tried to kiss my sister and impregnated another woman while we were married.
All the papers go to recycling. I have to make three separate trips downstairs before they’re all gone, but it’s worth it.
Next, I throw Paul’s office door open. All his files go into the shredder. His computer, his monitors, I pack up to be donated to a charity. I don’t want any proof of the fact this man ever lived here. Because he didn’t. Not really.
It takes me six hours to get the apartment in order and completely Paul-less. By the time I’m done, I’m exhausted. I drag myself into the shower and let the scorching water hit my skin. When I get out, I choose a nice dress and put some makeup on.
I’m just putting my lipstick back into my makeup bag when the doorbell rings. I smile at the mirror, knowing who it is, and walk briskly down the hallway. The place is spotless. Clean, tidy, and completely me. It smells of the cinnamon-and-vanilla candle I lit up earlier, a scent Paul never liked—cinnamon made him nauseous—and open the door.
Arya stands on the other side of it, holding Louie, who is not so tiny anymore.
I immediately reach to take him from her, and he gurgles happily, nestled in my arms. The weight of him is delicious, and I laugh when he shoves his chubby fingers into my mouth.
“Louie, keep your hands to yourself.” Arya tugs her scarf free and flings it over my couch. “I have a feeling I’ll need to say those words a lot, considering his daddy’s success with the ladies before we got together.”
“Come on in.” I laugh, stepping aside so she can enter.
When she walks inside, I realize she isn’t alone. Chrissy is here, too, marching with her signature fat-burning-tea tumbler and electric cigarette in hand.
“I thought you were in Los Angeles with your boyfriend.” I snatch her into a quick hug before she escapes.
“Oh, I was.” She waves me off, plopping onto the couch. “But then Arya told me you were coming back, and I couldn’t help myself. Especially when I heard thereasonfor your arrival. Now, look at this place. It’s almost as though Paul’s never lived here!”
The three of us look around in amazement while Louie wiggles, trying to break free and roam the place.
“It was time,” I say.
“I’m really proud of you.” Arya gathers me into a squeeze. “For all you did today, and all you’re about to do. Now, hand me my bundle of booger, please. I have something I need to give you.”
I hand Louie back to her, albeit reluctantly, then open my palm between us as she fishes for the thing I asked for in her purse.
“Are you sure Christian is not going to mind? About you giving this to me, I mean?” I ask. It’s a violation of privacy and possession.
Arya lets out a laugh. “Oh, he’ll mind. I’ll never hear the end of it. But can he really be mad at me for long? I don’t think so. Besides, once he understands what’s at stake, he’ll be delighted. Trust me.” She curls my fingers around the key. “The doorman’s name is Alfred. If he gives you trouble, tell him to call me.”
And just like that, I have the key to Arsène’s apartment.
Now all I need is to unlock his heart.
Of course I wanted Arsène to be home when I arrived in New York. But as soon as I landed and called Arya to let her know I’d arrived, she toldme that Arsène mentioned to Christian that he’d be in London until late tonight to sign off on an agreement selling Calypso Hall.
