by July Hall
To her shock, Josephine sat down on the bench next to her and smiled. “Oh, my,” she said. “Aren’t you sweet. You’re not from around here, are you?”
For a second, Sandra was too astonished to speak. Then she said, “What?”
“I mean the Upper East Side.” Josephine folded her gloved hands in her lap. “Women north of Fifty-Ninth are incapable of accepting compliments. It’s always ‘oh no, I really need to lose four pounds’ or ‘this old thing?’” She smiled again.
Was that a crack? Had she been implying that Sandra needed to lose four pounds? Why on earth was Josephine Banks bothering to speak to her?
Well, she’d seen Sandra dancing with Charles. Maybe she had an agenda. Everybody in Charles’s world seemed to have one, and nothing was ever as it seemed.
“No,” Sandra said, keeping her smile screwed on tight. “I’m not from...around here.”
“No. I know. You’re Bradley’s ex-girlfriend.”
Sandra’s shoulders stiffened.
Josephine’s gaze grew sharper. “Rosalie might have told me a few things.”
Sandra dropped her compact back into the clutch. “Nice to meet you,” she said, and got ready to stand up.
“No, wait.” Josephine briefly put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. This must seem...impertinent. But I thought I might as well warn you.”
Sandra froze and looked at Josephine with apprehension. “Warn me?” Was Rosalie putting an actual hit out on her?
“Take my advice,” Josephine said. “Whatever happened…whatever deal you think you’ve struck…” She seemed to hesitate. “Cut your losses and walk away. Don’t look back. You’ve been very lucky, but eventually the axe is going to fall, and its name is Charles Magister.”
Now Sandra couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it. “What?” she choked.
“He’s not a man to take lightly. I’ve just remembered that.” Josephine stuck her tongue into her cheek and then looked past Sandra’s shoulder at the opposite wall. “You’re a complication. He doesn’t like those.”
After a pause, during which she got her breath back, Sandra asked, “Did he tell you that?”
“Oh, no. We didn’t discuss it. But I’ve known him a long time.”
“So I’ve heard,” Sandra said. “Everyone’s talking about you.”
Josephine snorted. “I’m sure.” She glanced at Sandra with a wry smile. “Don’t get your hopes up with him, I’ll tell you that.”
Sandra stopped breathing.
Josephine went pink. “Oh. It must be late. I’m saying things I shouldn’t.” She stood up and smoothed down her magnificent skirt and glanced toward the stalls. “I’m sorry if I intruded.”
“It’s fine,” Sandra whispered. “I love your dress. Good night.”
She left the ladies’ room, half-blind and disoriented. Where was she? Which way was the study, again?
Or why did that matter? Why should she even bother going there? She should ask Arnaud to take her home. No reason to stick around just to get her heart broken.
And yet her feet carried her deeper into the house, past a security guard who nodded as she passed by. Someone had apparently told him that was okay. Of course she had the run of the house. She was the decorator.
As she walked, she heard a new kind of music swell from the direction of the ballroom. The string quintet. And over it, a soprano voice of incomparable beauty rose. Sandra had no idea who that was, but the voice seemed to roll right over her, high and sublime. It seemed more suited to announcing the apocalypse than singing a love song.
Oh well. That was fitting too. Sandra shrugged and walked on. About halfway to the study, she took off her shoes. Her long skirt dragged against the floor. She hadn’t even noticed how much her feet hurt until she took the pressure off. They were gorgeous shoes, even though nobody could see them. They were glittering Kate Spade slingbacks that gave her three inches of extra height and, right now, raw patches on the backs of her heels.
She had to hear it from him.
It was the worst thing ever, but she had to hear it from him. Maybe Bradley had misunderstood, maybe Josephine was lying, and maybe Sandra had read Charles’s cues all wrong during their dance. When you put all those things together, sure, the situation looked pretty bad, but…
The second study was doused in shadows, illuminated only by the light that came through the windows—mainly the moon. The windows looked over a long stretch of lawn that led eventually down to the shore. It was very peaceful. Sandra flipped on the lights, winced at the sudden brightness and then flipped them off again. Maybe just the lamp. She turned on the Tiffany lamp that stood next to the desk. Yes, that was better.
She glanced over and saw the tall cabinet where Charles had placed the Ru ware cup. Yes. As she’d thought, it looked just right. Every little detail worked in here now.
Then she kind of stopped giving a fuck, and plopped down on the overstuffed bench by the bay window. She dropped her shoes to the floor, along with Indira’s clutch, hearing them thump against the carpet.
Her hands were shaking. Well, that was odd. She tugged off her kidskin gloves with trembling fingers. That might help somehow. Her mother’s diamond bracelet caught the light.
Maybe it was cold in here. Maybe they’d turned on the A/C all over the house because there were so many people here, and she only noticed it now that she was alone.
She felt fine, really. No, that wasn’t true. She didn’t feel anything at all. Except the cold. She must feel really cold, because she couldn’t stop shaking.
Behind her, the door to the study opened and closed.
She kept staring out of the window, even when she saw Charles’s reflection in the windowpane as he approached. He looked solemn.
She clasped her hands together in her lap, so tightly that it hurt, so he couldn’t see how they trembled.
“Sandra,” he said.
She waited. She couldn’t breathe. Her stomach was in knots. Tell me all this is nothing, she wanted to say. Tell me I’m imagining things, tell me I’m silly and tired, tell me this is all in my head and I’m being ridiculous.
“I want to start with an apology,” he said.
Everything around her got a little fuzzy, then. Spots seemed to dance at the corners of her vision. Oh, how strange, how weird.
Charles cleared his throat. “I behaved badly. I know we’ve both been thinking about it. I never meant to upset you or—or hurt you. Believe me.”
Maybe her dress was too tight. Maybe she was going to suffocate. Or not. No, she’d live, and tomorrow night she’d be sitting alone on the edge of her bed, and on Monday she’d get up and go to her job, and she’d be Sandra Dane, same as before, nothing special about her. Maybe a little more bruised, maybe a little wiser too, because God, it wasn’t like she could get any more stupid.
And Charles would feel a little embarrassed, perhaps a little guilty at how he’d handled things, but in the end he’d be with a woman who knew how to organize charity balls and greet the Empress of Japan, so that would work out fine.
He was still standing there. She wished he’d go. She’d claw out her own eyes before she cried in front of him again, she’d cut her own throat before she spoke in a breaking voice. He’d said he was sorry, and now he should just go, and she should leave with Arnaud and go home, and maybe then her hands would stop shaking.
Oh. She’d wrapped her arms around herself again.
“Sandra,” Charles repeated. She saw him tug at his collar. But he sounded calm—so terribly calm—when he said, “We really need to talk. I need you to look at me.” He paused. “You seem a little apprehensive. I promise you, there’s no need for that.”
“No,” Sandra said dully. “I’m sure.” Why the hell had she come here? He could have just told her this over the phone. People said it was tasteless to break up over the phone, but right now she’d give anything not to be looking at his face, even in a reflection.
But they were here. There was no get
ting away from it. “When did it happen?” she blurted. “This thing you’re so sorry for.”
“What? Oh.” Finally, Charles looked uncomfortable. “All right—if you need me to say it. The car.”
In the car? The fucking car? That was a where, not a when, but it answered her question all the same.
“It was inexcusable,” Charles continued. “You deserved more…consideration than that.”
“Yes, well,” Sandra said. “What’s done is done.” She sounded calm, too. Good. You shouldn’t get your hopes up, Josephine had said, her eyes full of pity. Not malice; she just felt sorry for the dumb girl who had stars in her eyes.
Sandra couldn’t be mad at that. She couldn’t even be mad at Charles, even if he deserved it. She could only be furious with herself, because she’d told herself all along that he didn’t love her and it couldn’t last.
He was smarter than she was, because love was stupid. Love was horrible. She was never going to let this happen to her again.
“I’m glad you understand. Sandra, look at—” For a moment, his voice roughened. He cleared his throat again. Then he sounded perfectly even when he said, “If you would just look at me.”
“I am looking.” Oh, no. Was that her voice? So raw? His eyes widened in the window. “I can see you like this. It’s fine.”
“Sandra, what the hell,” he said. She heard his swift tread behind her, and then she felt his hand on her shoulder. She cringed. He snatched it away.
“We don’t have much time,” he said through his teeth. “I want to talk about the future. Good Lord, it’s not like I’m going to tear your clothes off.”
Sandra laughed. It sounded awful, terrible, and felt worse. “No,” she agreed. “Be careful with her dress, though. It’s a masterpiece.”
After a pause, Charles said, “What?”
“It’s Lanvin. She told me so, in the bathroom.”
“It’s Lanv…” His voice trailed off for a second. Then he sounded hoarse when he said, “You spoke to Josephine. When? What did she say?”
“Not to get my hopes up. She was very nice.” Sandra stood up from the bench and smoothed down her skirt. Her gloves fell to the floor. She bent down to pick them up, but he put his hands on both her shoulders this time.
“She said that?” Charles sounded shocked. “Jesus Christ, what possessed her?” Sandra finally looked at him. His eyes went even wider. “No,” he said, and tightened his grip. “She should not have said that. Sandra, I came here to—”
“I know.” Her voice was ragged now, and so was her breath. “I know why you’re here. I don’t care. I just want to leave.” His grip tightened again. He got a very strange look on his face. “Charles, please let me go.”
“No,” he rasped. Then he shook his head and swallowed. “I mean…I don’t want to upset you. I apologize.” But he did not let her go. “Just hear me out. There is a reason—”
She pushed him. She slapped her palms flat on his chest, and she shoved. He let go of her and stepped backward, looking stunned.
Then he stepped forward again, back into her space, making her back up until she bumped against the bench. He didn’t touch her, but she saw his hands twitch at his sides.
“All right,” he said. “I understand what you must be thinking. But you’re wrong, and that is absolutely not what I came here to talk to you about. I don’t know why she told you such a thing.”
“Bradley did too. He said you two were all—” Was she really going to vomit? “All over each other at the rehearsal—” No, she wasn’t going to vomit. She might, however, scream.
“Bradley!” Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll kill him. I certainly was not.”
“And you danced with her, and you…” She gasped, and it felt like she had knives in her lungs. A tear streaked down her cheek. Oh, shit, shit. “You leaned in and you talked to her, and you wouldn’t even look at me when we danced. It was like you wanted to be somewhere else the whole time.”
“Somewhere else? Are you joking?”
“And you did her in the car, which you literally just admitted to me!” It would have been a scream if she’d had enough breath for it. Instead, her voice cracked.
“In the—what the hell are you—” Then Charles’s eyes fell shut. “Oh, Christ. You thought I meant…Sandra, I was talking about you.”
“About what? Me?”
“I was—yes. I was rough with you in the car. On Wednesday.” Charles opened his eyes and looked directly into hers. He ground his jaw. “I was apologizing for that. It was very wrong of me.”
Sandra stared at him.
Then she said, “You must think I’m so stupid.”
There was no other explanation. He really expected her to believe that he’d called her away from Stephen’s wedding so he could apologize for…what? Being “rough” when she’d blown him a few days ago? What the hell was he even talking about?
She was going to cry. If she didn’t get out of here, she was going to detonate into a big, ugly mess of tears. But he was standing between her and the door. He was tall and strong, but maybe if she shoved him again he’d be too surprised to stop her.
Before she could move, he grabbed both her hands. “Sandra, there is no one else. Not Josephine, not anyone. I understand that it must look…” He grimaced. “Incredibly bad. But you must believe me.”
She was back in the guest bedroom while Bradley babbled at her over the phone. Babe, you’ve got to believe me. When she’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.
“He said that too,” she managed. “You’re just like him.”
Charles’s brow knitted in confusion. Then his face cleared and he let go of her, anger darkening his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said coldly, “but I am not. I appreciate that you are upset, but you have read this situation all wrong.”
There were a million things she could say, starting with how he and Bradley had basically said the exact same thing in the exact same situation. Except that he appreciated that she was upset, or whatever, which meant maybe he knew how badly he could hurt her.
Yeah. Maybe he’d finally figured that one out.
She was shaking again. She made to push past him. This was not, she knew, the most rational response. She should think of something soothing to say, get him off her back, make a clean escape from the house, and then think about what came next. But she had no energy left to fake it, and besides, he would see through that, and then he could hurt her some more.
Before she could get far, Charles detained her with a firm grip on her wrist. “Stop. Where are you going?”
Sandra scrambled for words. Maybe she could sort of halfway pull this off. “Just for some air,” she heard herself say. “You’re right. I’m a little upset. I just need some air. It’s fine.”
He pulled her backward, and she almost stumbled. He wrapped her in his arms, and his eyes blazed down at her. But he sounded remarkably calm when he said, “Then I will escort you.”
“No,” she said, looking away from him toward the window.
“Because if it’s fine,” he continued, strain now in his voice, “then there’s no reason I shouldn’t help you get your air. Yes?” His grip tightened. “Because you believe me, and this ridiculous argument is over.”
She didn’t say anything. She looked at the window. She could see them both in tableau, Charles looming over her with his teeth bared, one hand clutching her waist and the other grabbing her wrist.
“For God's sake,” he said, “you believe Josephine and Bradley, and not me?” He squeezed her. “Fucking hell, you can't be serious. Are you playing with me? Is this a game or something?”
Sandra went rigid in his grip.
His breath caught. “Ah, no, of course not. You wouldn’t do that.” He’d gone pale. It made her blink. This was not Charles as he usually was. And as she took it all in—his look, his voice, his words—her brain shifted into another gear.
“Sandra,” Charles said. “Listen to me. I am telling the
truth.”
Telling the truth. His deep voice rang with sincerity, and finally it reached her. With a shiver, Sandra began to come back to earth. Back to her rational self.
Logic whacked her rational self in the face.
Charles was right. There was no reason for her to believe Josephine and Bradley over him. He didn’t beat around the bush. If he wanted to break up with her, he’d do it. Bradley was the liar, not him, and Josephine might have reason to lie as well.
Charles wasn’t Bradley, he wasn’t, and he’d said she was overreacting, misreading…this totally wasn’t what she’d thought at first…
And it wasn’t the real problem, either.
Sandra’s head spun. Even if Charles was innocent, that didn’t make her less vulnerable—or less stupid. One misunderstanding and she fell to pieces? She was in the arms of a man who could destroy her, not just with money or power, but her own weakness. This wasn’t some thrilling, exciting secret anymore. This was coming face-to-face with something hideous, something awful, like a bloody knife. Or the scene of an accident.
“Sandra?” Charles said. She felt his lips pressing into her hair. He felt warm and strong against her. Nothing had ever felt as good as he did. And they didn’t even dare leave this room together for fear someone would see. Because what they did was shameful, and it made her weak and vulnerable.
“Um,” Sandra said. She looked at the floor now. “Right. Sorry. Yeah, I’m being…stupid.”
Against her, Charles relaxed. He exhaled into her hair. “You are.”
“I…” She closed her eyes and felt another tear slide down her cheek. “I believe you.”
“I’d sure as hell hope so.” He chuckled, but it sounded forced. “There. That’s enough of that. Do you still want some air? It’s cold out, but…” He pulled backward and tipped her chin up.
If his voice had lightened, his expression hadn’t, not one bit. He inhaled sharply through his nose and brushed his thumb over the tears on her cheek. His other hand kept a fierce hold on her wrist.
“Well now,” he said. He spoke gently, but his eyes burned. “What’s all this? This isn’t like you.”