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I make my way to the door, stopping only for a moment. “Oh, and send my regards to little Louie.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WINNIE
Two days after my self-diagnosis, Chrissy shows up at my door. She is armed with an unholy number of brochures and articles. She flings them onto my coffee table in triumph, her version of hello.
“What’s all that?” I crane my neck from the kitchen.
“All kinds of useful information.” Chrissy perks up, throwing me her sunniest smile while sucking on her electronic cigarette. “Mainly about how peopledoget pregnant with endometriosis. I mean, it’s not impossible. There are ways, treatments, cures. A whole lotta options, actually.”
She arranges all the brochures in a line on my table. I’m starting to regret telling her about my suspicion. I know she means well, but I don’t like to poke at the subject. I put an old-school cube of sugar into each of our coffees and take the hot drinks to her. She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and moans.
“How do you make it taste so good?”
“Real sugar, chicory, and just a drop of sorghum. That’s how Memaw used to make it.”
I take a seat on the couch, and she is quick to follow and launches into talking shop.
“Spoke to Lucas yesterday. He said you guys are all sold out for the next three months. He thinks they might continue for a second year. How do you feel about that? I know we discussed Hollywood—”
“I’m not going to Hollywood.” I place my cup on the table. I hate to disappoint her, but giving her false hope would be worse. Chris’s mouth curls into a pout, but she doesn’t say anything.
I place my hand on her knee. “Thank you for the suggestion. I really appreciate it. But I don’t think I’m ready. In fact, I really wanna take it one day at a time after we finishThe Seagull. I don’t think I fully allowed myself to recover after what happened.”
“You mean, you’re not sure if you’re going to sign for a second year with Calypso Hall either?” Chrissy frowns.
Nodding, I lick my lips. “I’m not saying yes or no right now. All I’m saying is that I’m done giving myself a deadline to ‘get better.’ I’ll do whatever is right for me mentally. Right now, I don’t know what that is. But I know going to Hollywood is not something I want to pursue. I don’t care about fame and glamour. I care about art.”
“Oh, Winnie.” Chrissy sighs, puts her coffee on a coaster, and scoots toward me. She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “How on earth did I manage to find the one actress in New York City who doesn’t care about all the gravy? You were always about the main dish, hon.”
I chuckle. “Maybe you chose wrong.”
“Oh, I chose the best.” She stands up, wiping at her eyes. She looks around herself, as if suddenly realizing where she is. “The place looks better. I don’t know how to explain it, but it does.”
Other than stuffing Paul’s running shoes in the shoe rack, I haven’t made any changes. But I think I know what she means. Even thefurniture doesn’t look like it’s holding its breath waiting for my husband to come back.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Just promise me one thing,” Chrissy says. “You’ll take a look at the brochures I brought over. I’m not blowing smoke up your cute little butt, Win. I know you’re in a state of despair, but there’s so much more in life ahead of you. And some of it? It’s reallydarngood, as you say.”
By the time Chrissy goes home, I feel a lot better. This, of course, doesn’t last very long. Fresh dread floods me when I glance at the overhead clock in my kitchen while making a half-hearted attempt to tidy up the place. Arsène should be here any minute now. Together, we’re going to raid Paul’s office. Paul’sshrine, which has been locked for almost a year, ever since he died.
Arsène is late. I use the time to go into my bedroom and change into a casual sage housedress. Nothing fancy, but it’s one dress I know I look good in. The doorbell chimes. When I hurry to zip my garment, my skin catches in the zipper. “Ouch. Darn it.”
I groan as I make my way to the door. When I fling it open, he is standing on the other side, and it’s like we’ve never said goodbye. There is something so familiar about him. So dangerously comforting.
“You’re late.” I lean against the doorjamb. How else can I greet this man, who spent the entire night two days ago holding me, brushing my hair back, whispering in my ear that everything was going to be okay? Then, the day after, when I woke up and his friend was there, Arsène looked distracted and impatient, just barely holding himself back from kicking me out of his apartment.
“Time is a subjective experience, Bumpkin.” He sails past me like he owns the place, walking into my apartment, giving himself a tour. He is taking it all in as I stand by the door.
“So this was Paul’s domain.”
I lean over the kitchen island, feigning disinterest. “Ourdomain. We designed the place together.”
Tonight smells, and tastes, and feels like goodbye. The finality is thick in the air, suffocating me. After this, Arsène and I will go our separate ways. No more secrets to uncover, no more wounds to poke. He is going to walk out of my life, and probably sell Calypso Hall in quick succession.
“That’s sweet,” Arsène drawls, ripping his eyes from a painting on the living room wall to glance at me. “You said you have infertility issues. Did you ever freeze your eggs? Better yet, embryos? You could still have a nice little bundle of joy from him.”
