It was better than nothing.
Wasn’t it?
“It’s not as if we run in the same circles,” she said, when he didn’t answer. There was enough light in the room to see something in her eyes dim.
No. We do not run in the same circles. How can we? There is a strait between us.
He needed to start speaking out loud. Apparently they could no longer read each other’s thoughts.
He hated to push her, but what choice did he have? “What if I were to bring my next poem, or my next column, to your office? Hand you my pages rather than mail them to you.”
“But you write those pseudonymously.”
Was she worried someone would see him at her office and identify him as the author of “Advice for Married Ladies” and/or the odd poem?
“What if I were to require help with a poem? We could have an ‘editorial meeting.’” He hoped she caught his meaning. She looked . . . not vexed, but discomfited. She was tapping the fingers of one hand mindlessly against the fingers of another.
“What is wrong?”
Did she notwantto see him?
“What are you thinking?” he pressed.
“What happens after the editorial meeting?” she asked.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
She stopped fidgeting and looked right at him in the mirror. “I haven’t time for an affair.”
He had to reach out for the edge of the bureau to steady himself. That she could turn away from all that had transpired between them because she wasbusyhad him reeling. The statement lanced him, another instance of the power she had to hurt him, to hurt every part of him, body, soul, and heart together.
He wanted to ask how she had found time for the other two affairs she’d had, but the question would be laced with affront, even malice, and to meet hurt with hurt was beneath him.
He took a step back from the bureau. He did not turn to face her but kept his gaze on hers in the mirror. He was stepping back because he wanted to get farther from the light. He didn’t want her to see the wild thudding of his pulse, which had been easily visible in his neck. For the first time, he regretted having shorn his hair. His long hair would have been a curtain right now, one he could hide behind.
There was a stab in his stomach, a rush of sourness. The idea of hiding from Julianna—hiding his true feelings, hidinghimself—was anathema.
“I am sorry,” she said, breaking the connection between their gazes and looking at the floor.
What was she saying? He could not lose her entirely. “Let us resume our correspondence,” he said carefully. “We shall see how things feel.”
Julianna wouldn’t have him, not even in the shadows, apparently, but would she have his letters? She had to. He could not give up their correspondence.
“So we write to each other as we did before.”
“No. We shall write to each other with no pretense between us. You know who I am now, who I really am. And . . .” An idea was forming. “Will you allow me to furnish you with funds to pay for your letters to me?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it would make me happy.” Or at least it would make him less bereft than if he neither saw nor had word from her ever again.
“I ought to say no.”
“You ought to say yes.”
“Why?”
“So you may write me every day. If you want to.” He started again. “So you may write me as often as you would like. So I may have the pleasure of reading as many letters as you would like to send me.” He paused, wondering if he should say the rest. Well, hell, why not? He was on the verge of losing her entirely. “And because my father has been very cruel to me and though it is petty of me, I take pleasure in the idea of using his money for such.”
