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She rests both elbows on the table, steeples her hands, and taps them against her chin a few times. Her nails have been painted the palest shade of pink, a total contrast to her lip color.
“One final question,” she says, lowering her hands. “One I didn’t want to ask in front of Kane.” Her eyes suddenly brim with tears, like they had in the conference room. “Did-did my son seem happy to you?”
I have no idea how to answer. Even if I’d occasionally allowed myself to entertain memories of that night back in Boston, how could I be sure my observations at the time were accurate? Plenty of us are brilliant at disguising how we really feel, even who we really are. No one in the world, not even Nicky, knows what gnaws at my heart every single day. Maybe C.J. was just as good at that kind of deception.
And then, without warning, a memory of him blooms in mymind, something so small and faint that if it were a sound, it would barely be above a whisper. He’s smiling at me at the hotel bar, not a creepy come-on, but a friendly, engaging grin from a man seemingly at ease in his own skin.
“Overall, yes,” I say, feeling an urge to comfort his grieving mother. “He did seem happy.”
She smiles wanly. “I want very much to believe that, you see. Like so many people, Christopher didn’t end up with the life he’d hoped for, and I’d like to think that toward the end, he at least felt somewhat at peace. That there were moments of joy he could draw on.”
“Mrs. Whaley, I can only address how he seemed during the one night we were together,” I say, even though I’m certain this is going to disappoint her. “And it was such a long time ago.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You mean your involvement with him wasn’t recent?”
“No, it happened twelve years ago—when I was in grad school in Boston, and he was on business there.”
The muscles in her face tighten, and looking off, she presses her index finger against her lips, smearing her lipstick a little.
“Goodness,” she says, clearly taken aback. “Thatwasa long time ago.”
Briefly I wonder if she’s going to break down and cry. She’d clearly thought my encounter with Chris had been recent, and that I might be able to tell her something significant, perhaps that he’d made peace with the idea of dying in those last months or weeks. But I have nothing at all to offer her.
“I’m sorry. I wish I had more to share. But I really should leave,” I say, pulling my bag under my arm. “I need to spend the rest of the day in my studio and deliver a piece of art to my gallery.”
She seems to recover her equilibrium and offers me a faint smile. “My driver will take you to the station,” she says, sliding her phonefrom a slim, quilted Chanel bag, and typing for a moment, her thumbs moving expertly.
“No, please, that’s really not necessary.”
“I’ve just texted him. And it will give me a chance to sit quietly for a minute and order myself a drink. I think I need one.”
I don’t want to owe her anything, but this way I can get right to the train station without the risk of running into Jane Whaley again. “All right,” I tell her. “Thank you so much.”
“And please,” she says, reaching into her purse again and withdrawing a business card. “Feel free to call me if you run into difficulty over the coming weeks.”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the card. “And again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I rise and hurry toward the town car, which is still idling in the road. I yank open the door and nearly lunge into the back seat.
“I’m going—” I say to the back of the driver’s head.
“The station,” he says without turning around. “Mrs. Whaley informed me.”
We pull into traffic, and I grip the door handle, just for something to hold on to. The space, with its faint leathery smell and lingering scent of Caroline’s fragrance, feels like a foreign country to me. How—nowhy—have I ended up here, in this car, in this Tudor-themed town that looks like a set for a movie about Anne Boleyn, in this entire situation? I want the money more than anything—I cantastehow much I want it—but I also desperately need to understand why it’s landing in my lap.
I rest my head back against the leather cushion and close my eyes. Another image of C.J. rises in my memory, almost as faint as the first. We’re standing in the middle of his hotel room, still dressed, and his hands are cupping my face as he kisses me.
When I left his room the next morning, I had no idea I’d allow everything about him to go dormant in my mind. If anything, Iassumed I’d be replaying those memories again and again, reliving the night I’d just spent. I’d not only felt completely relaxed in C.J.’s presence but also connected to him, despite the difference in our ages and status and where we were in life. And then there was the sex. It had been thrilling and intoxicating, and even, as corny as this sounds,empowering. I’d never been pleased by a man to that degree, never felt so sexually free myself.
But in the end, I had no choice but to dig a deep hole and dump those memories into it.Because there wasn’t any way to separate that night in Boston from everything heart-rending that happened in the hours afterward.
9
Then
THE HOTEL ROOM MY FRIEND TESS ASSIGNED ME THAT NIGHTturned out to be “a classic” with a queen-size bed. It was decorated chicly in taupe and shades of cream and offered an enchanting view of Beacon Hill rooftops.
I set my duffel bag onto the luggage rack, unpacked my toiletries, and then flopped onto the bed, stretching out on my back. It was great to be avoiding the dinner party, but at the same time, I felt a little ragged, probably from a combination of fatigue and leftover anxiety about Chloe.
