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The final picture is the one that breaks me. It’s a picture of Paul and Grace kissing—full-blown kissing—inItaly. 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 mycoffeeintake.
“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 tobuyan 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 ... theemails. 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.”
