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And it’s not just that. The true meaning of what Paul has done is finally beginning to sink in. He burdened me with his last name when I should’ve always been Winnifred Towles. The starry-eyed girl from Mulberry Creek who dreamed big, and finally—accomplished it.
Arsène is right. Paul and Grace don’t deserve our sympathy, our loyalty, our devotion. He’s right about a lot of things. I should never feel powerless. And it is okay to have a bit of an ego. It’s better than cancelling yourself just to be “the Wife of.”
And there’s one more thing he is right about . . .
Call your doctor.
I pick up my phone and make the call.
“Sullivan OB-GYN Medical Group, how can I help?” a chirpy voice answers. I open my mouth to make an appointment, but no words come out.
I need to see my doctor.
There are tests I need to have run.
I’m not okay, I may never be okay, and I’m scared of what it might mean.
“Hello? Hello?” the receptionist asks on the other line.
I hang up, shoot up to my feet, and storm into the bathroom. I grip the edges of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. “You’re such a coward, Winnie Ashcroft. Such a darn coward. I want Winnie Towles back.”
For the first time in a long time, I recognize the face staring back at me. I see the girl from Mulberry Creek. Her freckles. Defiance. Hopes. Dreams. The laughter in her eyes.
“Winnie!” I bracket the mirror with my hands. Wonder and relief swirling inside me. I see the girl who visits kids at the hospital to make them happy. The girl who snuck around with Rhys Hartnett, captain of the football team, during prom night and lost her virginity in the boys’ locker room while he apologetically muffled her moans with his kisses. The very same girl who showed up at the Nashville airport with half the town behind her when she bid Tennessee farewell and moved to New York.
The girl who taught the neighbors’ kids to do cartwheels on her dewy front lawn. Who secretly enjoyed going to church every Sunday, because it gave her a sense of community, of grounding. Who read the classics and dreamed big, imagining herself in the shoes of Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennet.
I love this girl. She is still here, and she was the one who saved me on that stage last night.
“It’s good to have you back.” I finger the mirror, smiling. “Now, can you please tell your new self you need to get checked?”
I blink, and in a heartbeat, it’s all gone. It’s me again. Winnie Ashcroft. Sunken cheeked and beaten up by life. Betrayed and unsure.
Only this time, I know exactly who I need to be to get my life in order.
Winnie Towles.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ARSÈNE
Two weeks later, I sit in front of Archie Caldwell at a restaurant. Archie is an old acquaintance from Andrew Dexter Academy. He lives in London, and whenever he’s in New York, he drags me to the most awful establishments. Michelin starred, with extra-white tablecloths, minimal designs, and food that looks like Costco samples served on oversize china.
“How are you handling the whole . . . you know.” Archie makes a face.
“Death of my fiancée?” I supply blandly, taking a spoonful of caviar nestled in a bowl of ice. “Life moves on,” I drawl.
“Now, that’s the spirit, mate.” He reaches across the table to pat my arm awkwardly. “It’s not the end of the world. Oh, I suppose for her, it is. Anyway, shall I order us another grapefruit rosé and some dessert?”
“You can, if you wish to seduce me, but I’ll be honest, Archie. You’re too married and I’m too straight. Your chances aren’t looking good.”
Archie and I, although friendly, haven’t been close in years. Which means he called me here for a reason. I can sniff people’s intentions from miles away. Archie’s here to present a business offer. I’d like to hear it more than his mindless chatter about I bonds and stock dividends.
Archie chuckles and scratches the back of his neck, not used to being called out. “Fair enough. If nothing else, I can appreciate your bloody honesty. The truth is . . . well, let’s start from the beginning.” He clears his throat, signaling a waiter for the check. “Sadie and I are moving to New York this January.”
“You are?” I ask dispassionately. Sadie is his wife. Third wife, to be exact. He goes through them like socks.
“Yes. See . . . we’ve had our own little tragedy happen in our family.” Archie’s face is crestfallen.
“Oh.” I sit back.
“We lost our dear, dear Daisy prematurely.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I hadn’t realized you and Sadie were expecting.”
“Expec . . . ?” Archie’s face twists in confusion before he waves his palms around. “No, no, you misunderstood. Daisy was Sadie’s King Charles spaniel. Such a darling dog. I gifted her Daisy for Christmas, but the poor pup died of canine distemper shortly after. Sadie took it hard. She was an absolute wreck for the longest time.”
