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“Thank you,” I say.
“Just promise me one thing,” Chrissy says. “You’ll take a look at the brochures I brought over. I’m not blowing smoke up your cute little butt, Win. I know you’re in a state of despair, but there’s so much more in life ahead of you. And some of it? It’s really darn good, as you say.”
By the time Chrissy goes home, I feel a lot better. This, of course, doesn’t last very long. Fresh dread floods me when I glance at the overhead clock in my kitchen while making a half-hearted attempt to tidy up the place. Arsène should be here any minute now. Together, we’re going to raid Paul’s office. Paul’s shrine, which has been locked for almost a year, ever since he died.
Arsène is late. I use the time to go into my bedroom and change into a casual sage housedress. Nothing fancy, but it’s one dress I know I look good in. The doorbell chimes. When I hurry to zip my garment, my skin catches in the zipper. “Ouch. Darn it.”
I groan as I make my way to the door. When I fling it open, he is standing on the other side, and it’s like we’ve never said goodbye. There is something so familiar about him. So dangerously comforting.
“You’re late.” I lean against the doorjamb. How else can I greet this man, who spent the entire night two days ago holding me, brushing my hair back, whispering in my ear that everything was going to be okay? Then, the day after, when I woke up and his friend was there, Arsène looked distracted and impatient, just barely holding himself back from kicking me out of his apartment.
“Time is a subjective experience, Bumpkin.” He sails past me like he owns the place, walking into my apartment, giving himself a tour. He is taking it all in as I stand by the door.
“So this was Paul’s domain.”
I lean over the kitchen island, feigning disinterest. “Our domain. We designed the place together.”
Tonight smells, and tastes, and feels like goodbye. The finality is thick in the air, suffocating me. After this, Arsène and I will go our separate ways. No more secrets to uncover, no more wounds to poke. He is going to walk out of my life, and probably sell Calypso Hall in quick succession.
“That’s sweet,” Arsène drawls, ripping his eyes from a painting on the living room wall to glance at me. “You said you have infertility issues. Did you ever freeze your eggs? Better yet, embryos? You could still have a nice little bundle of joy from him.”
I blink, digesting the offhanded way in which he broached this personal subject. I don’t know if I should be outraged or amused.
“How is that your business?” I ask.
“It’s not.” He approaches the credenza and sifts through items like it’s a crime scene. “But I’m a problem solver, and when presented with one, I usually find a solution.”
“And then what? Get a surrogate? They cost a fortune.”
“In North America, yes. But there are agencies—”
“Well, we didn’t freeze anything,” I answer shortly.
And even if we had, I wouldn’t want to use it, knowing everything I know.
“Too bad.” Arsène puts a vase back in its place and pivots in my direction. “Now, where’s the key?”
I withdraw the small thing from my dress’s pocket and dangle it between us.
“Do you think we’re going to hate whatever we find out?” I swallow hard.
“I hope so,” he says. “Makes it easier to let go.”
And then we’re right there. In front of the door I’ve been staring at for months like it was the open mouth of a lion. Before I turn the key in its hole, I take a deep breath.
“God, you’re still in love with him. That’s pathetic.” The words crawl over my back from behind, like claws.
“Pot, meet kettle,” I murmur.
A chuckle escapes him. “Oh, Winnifred.”
What? I want to lash out. What am I missing? How are you and I different? But it doesn’t matter, and it wouldn’t bring me closer to inner peace.
I turn the key and push the door open.
Paul’s office is a vision of averageness. Files tidily stacked on his desk. A row of three screens adorned with Post-it Notes. There are filing cabinets, dusty pictures of us on his desk, and a stress ball. Nothing stands out. Nothing screams scandal. Adulterer. Cheater.
Arsène moves swiftly to one side of the room. “I’ll take the filing cabinets, you check his desk drawers.”
He pulls every single file out of them, then each filing cubby, turning them upside down and patting them from all angles to see nothing is hidden inside.
“Be careful. There’s no need to destroy his things,” I grind out.
“Bumpkin,” he answers, already sitting on the floor, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “You have to stop being loyal to people who haven’t been loyal to you. It’s not a gracious trait. In fact, it’s a little off putting.”
