Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  She notices me first during intermission, but I’m careful not to look her way. I feel her think about saying something to me two different times. Didn’t we meet at the gala? she would ask.

  But she’s silent and so I don’t say anything either. Patience.

  It’s in the final act that things really progress, and by that I mean—I cried. Twice. The show is a gorgeous tragedy, and there are tears streaming down my face. The program is clenched in my hands, almost torn apart by the strength of my emotion. Sutton looks stoic beside me, but I know he’s moved by the way he holds my hand.

  Mrs. Rosemont is crying, too. When the curtain falls and the actors take their bows, she and I are among the first to rise to our feet, clapping our hands as hard as we can, trying to convey everything we felt and lost and learned in such a basic, universal sound.

  It’s only when the lights go up again, and everyone streams out the doors, that she turns to me. “You’re the one who wants to tear down the library,” she says, her eyes tinged red.

  “I don’t.” Lying works well for getting someone to switch seats with you. For something like this, honesty is the only way. “I’d love to restore the library, to see it in its glory.”

  “Then how can you…” She glances at Sutton but must think better of what she’s going to say about him. He sits with his ankle over his knee, looking supremely relaxed and confident in a theater. He would look this way in a stable or a boardroom. That’s because it comes from inside him, that certainty that he’s right where he needs to be.

  “I love the library, but it’s not doing anyone any good with all the books molding and the wood rotting. And no one, not Bardot and Mayfair, not the city of Tanglewood, is going to pay the small fortune it would cost to repair it.”

  She sniffs. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to condone a mall.”

  “What I’m proposing is something that will benefit the city of Tanglewood, the history of Tanglewood, more than an abandoned building ever could.”

  The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “What is your plan?”

  “We go through the books. Find the ones that are worth keeping and the ones that aren’t. Donate the ones of value to the Tanglewood library system for distribution or display.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  This feels like more than an interest in historical restoration. It feels personal. “Tell me why,” I say. “Tell me why the library is so important to you.”

  She studies the velvet curtain, clearly deciding how much to tell me. Secrets are a form of currency. “I went to that library as a child.” A pause. “It was more than a place for books, you understand. It was the place you could learn things, no matter what family you came from. No matter how much money you had.”

  “There are other libraries.” It’s strange feeling to argue against myself.

  “Not like that one.”

  “Not like that one,” I have to concede. “But the books can be restored and find new homes in libraries around the city. Bardot and Mayfair would be honored to fund restoration of some of the best pieces, for better preservation and display.”

  She mulls that over, her shrewd eyes on the curtained stage, probably imagining how it would look. Not only the value, but the fact that the Tanglewood Historical Society had managed to secure it for the city. It would be a win. “I’ll have to talk about it with some of the others. I’m not making any promises.”

  “There was a library I went to,” I tell her, cashing in my own secrets. The times between husbands. “We mostly wouldn’t talk to the librarians unless the computers broke. The machines told us where to find books. Then one day I went in and there was a brand new book about Leonora Carrington, the glue still tacky where they’d put the library label on. I could barely find a few lines and one photo of her work in the other books.”

  “An artist?” Sutton asks, his voice soft.

  “A painter. A surrealist.” None of those words accurately convey what she meant to me. “She painted mythological creatures, but they’re… they’re these radical statement about existence, about transformation, about sexuality. She’s the reason I believed I could be painter.”

  Sutton makes a small sound and squeezes my hand.

  “But there was nothing—no store where you could walk in and buy a book about her or a print of one of her paintings. It was like, in the world of money and power, she never existed.”

  I don’t share that she was expelled from multiple schools for wild behavior. That she was a revolutionary and a vocal feminist. Her family never understood her desire to be an artist.

  Sometimes it’s an act of rebellion to simply exist.

  “My father was a carpenter,” Mrs. Rosemont says, her throat working. “Kitchen cabinets and basic furniture, that kind of thing. He never made anything artistic at home. I wouldn’t have known it was even inside him, if it weren’t for the library.”

  A thump in my heart. “He made the wall?”

  “They paid him twenty dollars for the whole project.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe your father made that. It’s incredible.”

  She shakes her head. “It broke my heart when they shut down the library. But it’s always been there. Waiting, I think. Waiting for someone who cares enough.”

  I look at Sutton, who’s watching me with unreadable blue eyes. He’s waiting for someone who cares enough, maybe. Waiting for me. We might not be able to save the whole library, but we can save the wall. And it will be better—much better to preserve it properly than let it sit in that dusty, abandoned space, exposed to the elements through the broken glass dome.

  “As it happens the extraction and transportation of walls has been a subject of particular interest to me. And Sutton’s a carpenter, too. I’m sure we can find a way to pull them off the building and move them…” Where? “Maybe a museum.”

  “City hall,” Mrs. Rosemont says, and I know we’ve won.

  Sutton gives me a small nod of agreement. We still have to convince Christopher, who I think will be less amenable, but I have to believe I can do it. There’s a cost to what I’m proposing, but nothing in life is free. Being a stated supporter of the society will mean the project has their backing. It might even help smooth along some of the red tape.

  This is the way business is done.

  Like Christopher said, I am my father’s daughter.

  Mrs. Rosemont nods once. “I still have to discuss it with the other members, but this might be the best option. We’ll be in touch with some specifics.”

  That’s a nice way of saying she’s going to make us bleed through the nose for some expensive book restorations, but I can’t really blame her. My job is far from done. There will be more negotiations, but this is a solid start.

  Sutton stands. “Shall we?”

  He helps me up, but my foot has fallen asleep from sitting too long. I stumble a little against the chairs in front of me. It’s Sutton who helps pull me upright, Sutton who keeps me that way when my leg threatens to give out again. Sutton who leans down so that his face is only an inch away from mine, an intimate pose considering we’re sitting in one of the front rows of the theater.

  Most of the seats are empty now anyway, but there’s one man at the back. In the shadows. Of course he would be there. I recognize his silhouette immediately. Christopher must have come down from the box seat and waited for us.

  I lean on Sutton as we make our way to the back.

  Vaguely I’m aware of Mrs. Rosemont and her husband trailing after us up the long carpeted aisle. We’re almost completely alone in such a large space. The stage is silent after being so full of life for the past three hours. Through the archway I can hear the buzz of voices, people excited and a little tipsy, but they seem far away.

  Even a few feet away from Christopher, he’s too dark to read. I can feel the tension radiating off him. Is he worried I said something wrong? He steps forward, only half a foot, and I can see his black eyes flash with fury.

&nb
sp; “Christopher?” I say, suddenly uncertain. It had felt so natural to make a deal with Mrs. Rosemont with Sutton beside me. This is what I would have done for my father, if he had lived long enough to use me for this. It’s what I was born to do.

  “I’ll take you home,” he says, his voice so low it’s almost guttural. The sound of a cello in the orchestra pit, foreboding and grave. It means the main actor is in trouble.

  Sutton’s hand tightens on me, and I realize what this is. Another one of their damn pissing matches. I’m not even sure it matters who I am—it could be anything they’re pulling between them. “I’ve got her,” he says, nice and quiet. Lethal in a different way.

  “This wasn’t a date,” I whisper. “I’m not going home with either of you.”

  Christopher looks away, his jaw ticking. “Of course. We can go to the office instead. You can give me the rundown of what you promised Mrs. Rosemont.”

  I take a step back, stung. “We can do that tomorrow morning. And hopefully by then you’ll have cooled down enough not to speak to me like I’m a child.”

  A dark gaze slides down my body. The emerald wrap dress suddenly feels like nothing. “You’re not a child, Harper. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

  The man was saying a thousand things with the innuendo in his voice, none of it good. I’m struck speechless a moment, wondering how I got to this place. Wondering how I can say anything at all when my throat itches and burns like I might start crying—for a third time tonight.

  It’s Sutton who steps forward. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you right now, but you’re going to walk away before I remind you how to speak to a woman.”

  There’s nothing leashed about the violence in his voice. He’s about one second from punching his business partner in a public place, even if we’re mostly alone.

  Mostly, except where’s Mrs. Rosemont? Is she seeing this?

  “Let’s go,” I manage in a harsh mutter, though I’m not sure whether I’m talking to Sutton or Christopher. Maybe I’m only talking to myself. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “Hell,” Christopher says softly. “I’m sorry, Harper.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I lie, because it does. There’s a hole in my heart that proves it does. “We can talk about the library tomorrow.”

  He gives a hard shake of his head. “Not that. I’m sorry about the trust fund. I should have let you do whatever the fuck you wanted with it. I shouldn’t have let a dead man control you.”

  There’s too much to take in, the fact that Christopher is maybe softening toward me after years of being a hard-ass. The fact that he called Daddy a dead man. Because it wasn’t Daddy controlling me, not really. It was Christopher, all along.

  I take a step back, away from him. Away from Sutton.

  I’m halfway ready to run down the velvet-covered aisle, to climb onstage and through the curtains. Into a fictional world that’s just as tragic as my own.

  Christopher steps forward, fully in the light, and I realize that he’s more than soft. He’s drunk. That’s why he’s saying this. That’s why he’s being a man I don’t even know.

  A man I wished existed for so long, it’s painful to see this parody of him now.

  “Damn you,” I whisper.

  It happens so fast. Christopher reaching for me, his eyes almost translucent. Showing me things I’ve always wanted to see, a longing so deep it reaches through my ribs and squeezes.

  And then Sutton blocking him, a swift arm to keep me safe.

  I can’t even tell who swings first, not really. A scream escapes me when I see Christopher’s head knocked back in a punch. Then he swings at Sutton. Soon they’re on the carpeted floor, rolling around, their black-and-white suits flying, their eyes fierce as animals.

  It could have lasted an eternity, that fight.

  Or maybe only a few seconds.

  Other men come and tear them away. Dimly I recognize Blue as one of them, looking fierce. And another man, his face so hard-set he looks like stone.

  There are tear tracks down my cheeks.

  I notice them only when they feel cold in the theater air, the rest of my skin flushed. Finally the men calm enough that they are let loose, both of them panting and bloodied. “This is what we’ve come to,” I say, soundless so no one hears me.

  This is what we’ve come to, because of money and sex. Maybe it was inevitable that I would make the same mistake as Mom, but twice as bad.

  Two men to trample my dignity instead of one.

  Through the shimmer of tears I see Mrs. Rosemont’s face pinched as she looks at Christopher and Sutton. I know what she sees. Two men who are out of control.

  And the woman who made them this way.

  Our eyes meet, and she lifts her chin. The deal is off, those shrewd eyes tell me from across the room. No amount of book restorations or carving installations will save us now. No amount of money will repair the trust we’ve broken.

  I should have let her go, but I imprinted early on humiliation.

  “Wait,” I tell her, wiping my cheeks, useless because they must be streaked with black. “I’m sorry. Don’t judge them by this, please. It was a bad night. A strange night.”

  “I’m not judging them,” she says, her voice as stiff as starch. “I’m judging you.”

  “Yes,” I say, pleading now. “It’s my fault, not theirs.”

  I don’t actually know whose fault it is or if blame is a thing we can own. It doesn’t matter, because my heart is with Christopher and his ambition. My heart is with Sutton and the wild horse he tamed. My heart is in that library, but even that I was willing to give up for these two men. Of course it’s love. Only love could hurt this much.

  “I was young once,” she says. “So I’ll tell you this. Sometimes you need to walk away. Maybe you don’t see it right now, but those boys are dangerous. They will tear apart anything in their path to get what they want. Even you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  MR. VALEDICTORIAN

  Blue offers to take me back to the hotel, but there’s a pretty young woman with tired eyes and a large, pregnant belly who waits to the side, so I tell him no. Penny also offers to escort me back, but Damon Scott kind of terrifies me, which is saying something considering the two men who fought each other in front of me.

  Sutton’s lip has been split, but when I reach up to hover over it, he doesn’t flinch. Still in shock, maybe, like he’s fallen into the bay and been dragged out. Or maybe he’s fought too many times in his life to be shocked anymore. “I’ll take you home,” he says.

  I swallow hard. “I’m not… I’m not the kind of girl that men fight over.”

  He shakes his head, a quick dismissal. “That says more about us than it does about you. And nothing good, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to apologize to him?” Christopher stands only six feet away from us, leaning against the curved stone edge of the fountain, staring out at the city’s skyline. It shouldn’t be possible to see his expression in this darkness, but I can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s melancholy. It makes me long for the hard-edged, cold Christopher.

  The one who breaks my heart but doesn’t look melancholy.

  “No,” Sutton says. “But I’m not going to punch him again. Not tonight.”

  “I suppose that’s the best I can do, but I can’t leave him like this. I’m pretty sure he drove here.”

  Hard blue eyes study the solitary figure. “We can call him a cab.”

  When did it become Christopher against me and Sutton? Maybe from before I even met Sutton. I would have aligned myself with anyone against Christopher. Does that mean what I have with Sutton, this connection, the invisible string that draws me toward him, isn’t real?

  “I can’t leave him here,” I say finally, resigned that I won’t figure out the secrets of the heart tonight. “The way he is now. There’s too much history.”

  A sleek black limo glides into the courty
ard. Sutton’s limo.

  I put my hand on his arm, feeling the restraint in his muscles, the heat of his body. “It’s okay. I’ll take an Uber with him. You don’t have to do anything.”

  He looks increasingly remote, the more I try to reassure him. “Bring him.”

  Into the limo? Sutton may have promised not to punch Christopher again, but I’m not sure putting them in a closed metal box going eighty miles per hour is the answer. “We couldn’t.”

  An impatient wave of his hand. “It’s the fastest way. The safest, too.”

  I can’t argue with those points, and I don’t really relish waiting for an Uber in the dark, making small talk with a random stranger—or Christopher, who seems like a stranger.

  He looks up at the stars as I approach him, unmoving even though he must hear my heels on the cobblestone, the red carpet rolled up and put away until there’s another show.

  “Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s get you home.”

  “I’m not drunk,” he says, gesturing to the sky as if that proves a point.

  “Well, you’re not sober.”

  “Go on ahead. I’m not good company tonight.” A humorless laugh bounces off the stone and water of the fountain. And abruptly falls silent.

  I put my hand on his arm, feeling his muscles—so different from Sutton. Sleek where he’s bulky. Tense where Sutton is deceptively casual, reserving his strength for when he needs it. “I don’t have a red and white life preserver, but there’s a limo that will work just as well.”

  He glances over. “Don’t think Sutton would appreciate that.”

  “It was his idea.”

  Christopher remains still, considering. I wonder what scales are in his head right now, weighing the cost of being near me and Sutton. Weighing the return on investment of a ride home.

  I take a step away, hoping he’ll follow. “Remember what you said to me? Can you climb? I need you to climb right now, Christopher. One rung at a time.”

  His eyes are as deep and fathomless as the bay was that night. There might have been sharks in that depth. Or it might have been my imagination, running wild. In the end he stands up and runs a hand through his hair. “We didn’t hurt you,” he says like a statement, even though it’s a question.