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The words still rang in Irene’s ears when she’d driven back to Lone Pine today, to finish packing and close down the house. Her last stop on the way out of town would be to return the key to the corpulent landlord, who’d be sad to see the two older Taylor women leave after twenty years of paying him rent, not always in cash. Irene had been taping up the last box when the air in the tiny house, with its stained carpets and peeling wallpaper, had suddenly become thick with the haze of neglect and poverty and bad memories. Putting a hand to her throat, she’d run outside, onto the crooked wooden porch to take a staggering breath of cool, clear air.
Now, leaning against the rough wood, Irene stared out at the dark spring night. On the edge of town, between the railroad tracks and the forest, patches of snow still lay on the ground. In the distance, she could see the roof of the tiny house where the Abbotts had once served her cookies after school. Irene pulled her cashmere cardigan a little tighter over her body. She told herself she’d been lucky, really, to have known love, even for such a short time. But if she was lucky, why did it hurt so much?
She’d gotten six different calls from Makhtar since she’d left, all of them from different members of the palace staff who were desperate to have Sharif’s wedding to Kalila called off. Well, get in line, she thought. But the latest call had been particularly painful. Aziza had called her at three that morning, waking her up.
“How can I be happy,” she’d wailed as greeting, “when both of you are going to be miserable forever?”
“We’re not miserable,” Irene had lied. “We’re fine, and—”
“Fine? You should see my brother right now!”
Irene’s throat had ached, and she closed her eyes against the flash of blinding pain. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“But you said you loved him. How could you love him, and leave him to that woman?”
“He gave me no choice.”
“You haven’t even called him! Even Basimah is surprised. She told me, since you didn’t call after my wedding was canceled, you must not love Sharif at all.”
The knife twisted a little deeper in Irene’s heart.
“Aziza,” she’d gasped in the dark, empty bed of her condo, “please...”
“No, forget it!” she’d snapped. “Don’t even try to save him—just enjoy your life and forget all about us!”
She’d ended the call, leaving Irene weeping for the next three hours in the dark.
She missed Aziza, and Makhtar, and everyone in the palace. But most of all, she missed Sharif. His absence was a hole through her body, leaving everything hollow and devoid of meaning. She felt as if she was dying without him.
Irene’s gaze fell on her car.
Her last suitcase had arrived from Makhtar yesterday. It was still in the trunk of her rental car. She hadn’t wanted to open it because once she did, the last possible link between her and Sharif would be gone. As long as she didn’t open it, she could hope he’d left her some note, some letter to read and treasure for the rest of her life. She’d tried to put it off as long as she could.
She couldn’t wait another minute. Grabbing her suitcase from the car, she dragged it up to the porch. With a deep breath, she flung it open.
All she saw were the clothes she’d left behind. Clothes. Just clothes. Kneeling forward, she started pawing through them more desperately.
Then she saw it.
A note.
With a gasp, she picked it up. She opened it. Her heart pounded as she recognized his jagged handwriting. But the note had only two words: Unpack thoroughly.
* * *
That was it? She looked at the back. Blank. That was it?
Still on her knees, she crushed the note to her chest. All that hope for nothing. She leaned her head against the rough, splinter-covered wood of the porch. She wanted to burst into sobs.
“I heard you were back in town.”
Irene looked up through a shimmer of tears to see Carter Linsey standing in front of the ramshackle cottage, wearing a dark vest over a white shirt. Carter, the crush of her teenage years, the supposed heartache that had driven her abroad.
“Carter?” Wiping her eyes, she rose unsteadily to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if it was true about you. And it is.” He rubbed his jaw, looking her over. “Wow. Your time in Paris really...wow.”
Irene looked down at her pearls, sleek cashmere sweater set and slim-fit gray trousers. A little dressy for packing up boxes, but since she hadn’t wanted to open that last suitcase, she’d had nothing else clean to wear today. She wore contact lenses instead of glasses now, and she’d probably lost weight, too, since she’d lost her appetite beneath the weight of her grief. She suddenly realized she looked different from the girl who’d left over two years ago. Maybe even fit for the Linsey Mansion, as she’d once dreamed. “Um. Thanks.”
