Paolo jiggled the kitchen door. It was locked. He wandered around, looking under rocks for a spare key, while Jule huddled under the umbrella.
She pulled out her phone and searched his name, looking for images.
Phew. He was definitely Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone. There were photographs of him at charity fund-raisers, standing next to his parents, wearing no tie at an event where clearly men were supposed to wear ties. Pictures of him with other guys on a soccer field. A high school graduation photo that showed a mouth full of braces and a bad haircut, posted by a grandmother who had blogged a total of three times.
Julewasglad he was Paolo and not some hustler. She liked what a good person he was. It was better that he was genuine because she could believe in him. But there was so much of Paolo that Jule would never know. So much history he’d never get to tell her.
Paolo gave up hunting for the key. His hair was soaked. “The windows are alarmed,” he said. “I think it’s hopeless.”
“What should we do?”
“We better go in the gazebo and kiss for a while,” saidPaolo.
The rain didn’t let up.
They drove in damp clothes toward London and stopped at a pub to eat fried food.
Paolo pulled the car up to Jule’s building. He didn’t kiss her but reached his hand out to hold hers. “I like you,” he said. “I thought—I guess I made that clear already? But I thought I should say it.”
Jule liked him back. She liked herself with him.
But she wasn’t herself with him. She didn’t know what it was, or even who it was, that Paolo liked.
Could be Immie. Could be Jule.
She wasn’t sure where to draw the line between them anymore. Jule smelled of jasmine like Imogen, Jule spoke like Imogen, Jule loved the books Immie loved. Those things were true. Jule was an orphan like Immie, a self-created person, a person with a mysterious past. So much of Imogen was in Jule, she felt, and so much of Jule was in Imogen.
But Paolo thought Patti and Gil were her parents. He thought she’d been to college with poor dead Brooke Lannon. He thought she was Jewish and rich and owned a London flat. Those lies were part of what he liked. It was impossible to tell him the truth, and even if she did, he’d hate her for the lie.
“I can’t see you,” she told him.
“What?”
“I can’t see you. Like this. At all.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Is there someone else? That you’re going out with? I could take a number or get in line or something.”
“No. Yes. No.”
“Which is it? Can I change your mind?”
“I’m not available.” She could tell him she had someone else, but she didn’t want to lie to him anymore.
“Why not?”
She opened the car door. “I have no heart.”
“Wait.”
“No.”
“Please wait.”
“I have to go.”
