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Instead of processing the possible death of my fiancée, my mind begins swerving out of control, spinning wildly down an endless rabbit hole.
Did Grace love Paul?
Did she want to leave me for him?
What was the exercise of this pointless affair with him if she were to marry me? If she wanted to quit her job? Paul wasn’t particularly handsome, nor did he enjoy a wealth of gray matter.
How long had it been going on? Were they already at it, harboring this secret, while all of us were in Italy?
Was Grace really at work in Zurich all those days, those weeks, those months? Or was she with him?
And where did they meet when they were alone? A hotel? An Airbnb? The apartment Grace had refused to stop renting, “just in case”?
I want to know each and every sordid detail. To gorge on my own sorrow until I choke on it.
“Mrs. Ashcroft?” A woman in a white robe walks out of a silver door. She takes off her thick glasses and cleans the lenses with the hem of her sleeve.
Bumpkin flattens her ridiculous dress, squaring her shoulders. The woman steps sideways, motioning for her to come with. Winnifred throws me one last die-in-hell glance. I want to tell her she can drop the whole wounded-widow charade. She got her wishes. She is a young, beautiful widow with millions in the bank, and no one can accuse her of foul play. Every gold digger’s dream.
We hold each other’s gaze for a moment. I hope my eyes convey what every bone in my body is screaming.
It should’ve been you on the plane.
You were supposed to die. You.
Unremarkable. Insignificant. Forgettable. Country Bumpkin.
Not my beautiful, sophisticated, math-wiz fiancée.
Not the cunning, alluring Gracelynn Langston. The spectacular woman only I understood.
“Please follow me.” The woman in the white robe ushers her. Winnifred complies swiftly and comes back ten minutes later, looking ashen and pale. Her shoulder bumps into my arm as she leaves the room, but she doesn’t even notice. I swivel my head to follow her movements. In the hallway, Winnifred collapses midstep, on the floor, back hunched, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.
I don’t need to ask. I know. It was Paul she saw in there.
The woman in the robe saunters out the door again. “Mr. Corbin?”
I close my eyes and press the back of my head against the wall.
Grace has somehow managed to slip through my fingers. Again.
I didn’t hold her tight enough, close enough, good enough.
And this time? The water didn’t save her.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WINNIE
Eight months later
Momma always tells me that the cutest thing I ever did as a child was bawl my eyes out every time “Space Oddity,” by David Bowie, came on the radio.
I’m talkin’ full-blown meltdown, peppered with hiccups and uncontrollable emotions.
“You were so moved by it, no matter how many times you listened to it. It touched your soul. This was how I knew you were an artist. You let art touch you. So it was obvious to me, one day you’d be able to touch others with it.”
These days, I can’t shed a tear to save my life. Super Bowl commercials. Cheesy Hallmark movies. Women pushing strollers on the street. People without housing. Wars, famines, humanitarian crises. Expired yogurts that belong to Paul in the fridge. “Mad World,” by Michael Andrews. The list of things that usually make me weep is long and tedious, but my body is all dried up. In an emotional coma, refusing to produce tears.
Cry. Feel something, darn you! Just one thing, I inwardly chide myself as I burst out of the theater, a blast of humid heat slapping my face.
New York wears her weather like a weapon. Summers are long and sticky, and winters are white and ruthless. These days, it seems like the entire city is melting into the ground like an ice cream. But for the first time in years, the heat doesn’t get to me. All I feel is a mild chill, thanks to the fifteen pounds I’ve lost since Paul.
My eyes are still dry.
“No, you shouldn’t cry. You’re happy,” I mumble to myself aloud. “Fine. Maybe happy’s not the right word . . . satisfied. Yes. You’re satisfied with your little accomplishment, Winnie Ashcroft.”
One good thing about New York is no one ever looks at you twice when you talk to yourself.
I stride along Times Square, oblivious to the sights, the scents, the festivity in the air. Putting one leg in front of the other requires enough effort these days.
My phone dances in my pocket. I withdraw it, swiping to answer my agent, Chrissy.
“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes. “I didn’t forget to attend the audition this time.”
I’ve been very forgetful these past few months. Understandable, everyone keeps reassuring me, but I can tell some people are at the end of their rope. I rarely show up to auditions, meetings, and social functions these days. Forget to eat, to exercise, to call relatives and friends back. My niece’s birthday came and went, and for the first time since she was born, there were no lavish gifts, no balloons, no surprise visit from Auntie Winnie. Most days I’m slumped on my couch, staring at the door, waiting for Paul to return.
