“It’s all there,” I told him coldly. “You’ve got what you came for, and I’m going.”
He caught my wrist before I could turn away, his fingers warm and slippery against my flesh. The memory of another time, another touch, slithered along my spine, sending a surge of bile scorching up into my throat. He was smiling, the familiar oily smile that had always made my skin crawl.
“Now, now, people might get the wrong idea if you just rush off, Mrs. St. Claire. I took the liberty of ordering you a drink just before you arrived. I thought we might . . . talk over old times.”
I yanked my wrist free, trying to wipe away the feel of his touch. “We have nothing to discuss, and I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
“Come now, we both know that isn’t true. In fact, you appear to care a great deal, or you wouldn’t be here at all. Now sit down and let’s drink to old times.”
I sat, but only because heads had begun to turn in our direction. The bartender appeared, gaping at me with the same openmouthed expression he had worn the last time. Zell was grinning, clearly pleased to watch me squirm. He lifted his glass, motioning for me to do the same as the weight of curious gazes from around the room continued to mount. Numbly, I raised my glass, my fingers curled so tightly I thought it might shatter in my hand.
“To renewing old friendships,” he murmured, his eyes glittering hungrily as he threw back the shot of dark liquid in his glass. He smiled then, a slow, malicious show of teeth. “I’ve missed you, Lily-Mae.”
I sat there staring at my glass, willing myself to put it down and get up, to flee as fast as I could, but something kept me rooted there, like a fly buzzing futilely in a web as the spider steadily advanced.
“Be a good girl, Lily-Mae, and drink up.” He paused to light a cigarette, tipping his head back to spew the smoke into the air above his head. “It’s impolite not to drink to a toast, especially one between old friends.”
“Stop saying that,” I hissed furiously. “We’ve never, ever been friends.”
He pretended to be shocked, but smiled a little, too. “How can you say that after all we’ve been through? And speaking of old times, how is that little sister of yours? Caroline, wasn’t it? She wasn’t quite the piece you were, but she was coming along nicely the last time I saw her.”
A fresh wave of revulsion swept over me as I stared at the untouched amber liquor in my glass. It took everything in me not to toss it in his face, to wash the smug smile from those thick, pulpy lips. I was certain it wouldn’t be the first time a woman had thrown a drink in a man’s face in the Terminal Bar, but I couldn’t afford to draw any more attention to myself than I had just by being there.
The room tilted as I pushed to my feet, the overhead lights going briefly dim. I covered the dizziness somehow, holding on to the table as I gathered my handbag. I would sooner have died than give Zell the satisfaction of knowing how badly he’d rattled me.
“Don’t rush off on my account,” he said, not bothering to conceal his glee. “I was just beginning to enjoy myself.”
I spun around to face him, no longer caring that someone might overhear, or what anyone might think. “I’ve always wondered. Do you believe in hell?”
I expected the question to take him off guard, or to at least make him angry. Instead, his lips twitched with an almost obscene smile. “I’m an ordained man of the cloth, Lily-Mae. Hell is my business.”
I blinked as he blurred in and out of focus. There was nothing to say to that, and clearly no way to shame him. The best I could hope for was knowing I would never have to see his face again, and to make it to the door without landing face-first on the floor. But I wasn’t to have even that.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said almost silkily as I stepped away from the table. “The next time I’m in town I promise to look you up.”
I didn’t bother to turn around. There was no point. His meaning was clear enough. Jasper had been right all along. Zell wasn’t going to stop, and nothing I could say or do, no amount of begging or pleading, would ever persuade him to leave me in peace. He would keep coming back for more. Only there wasn’t any more. I couldn’t ask Roland for money without telling him why, and I couldn’t keep borrowing from Jasper. It was only a matter of time until Zell made good on his threats. And then what? I could go to the police, but where was my proof? And by then the papers would already have had a field day. The damage would be done.
The reality of it hit me full force, like an unexpected punch to the stomach as I stumbled, half blind, out into the afternoon sunshine. I staggered into a man in a grimy gray suit as I ducked into a nearby alley and retched up the last traces of my breakfast. In that moment I knew there was only one way to protect Roland’s reputation.
December 15, 1958
New York, New York
There is nothing more terrible than knowing you must let go of something you love, living out that last handful of days like a prisoner bound for the gallows, knowing each day brings you nearer to the end. So much lost. Twice in my life I’ve told a lie that has cost me someone I love. The first was Caroline. The second was Roland.
It took several weeks to finally muster the courage, to carefully choose and rehearse the words until I could say them without tears or hesitation, to look the man I love with my whole heart in the eye and tell him our marriage had been a mistake—that I was leaving him.
I managed it somehow, like a thing carved of stone, cold and impervious as the words dropped like sharp little pebbles from my mouth. I waited, steeling myself for the moment they finally penetrated. I wasn’t prepared for the blank look Roland fixed on me, as if I had spoken in some foreign tongue. To my horror, I had to say the words again. Finally, understanding came, along with a soul-wrenching look of betrayal.
For a long time—an eternity of dull, heavy heartbeats—Roland said nothing at all, just stood there staring as my words sank deep and his face began to crumple. There was nothing to do but meet his gaze, and pray for the strength not to waver, but as we stood there looking at each other in all that awful silence I felt my heart tear and begin to bleed, the slow but fatal leaching of all my happiness. I longed to take back the words, ached to blurt out the truth—that it was all a lie, that marrying him, loving him, was the best thing that ever happened to me. But like the first deep thrust of any blade, once struck it was too late for recrimination. There was nothing to do but finish the thing.
“I never meant to hurt you, Roland,” I told him, stunned by the coolness of my own voice, as if I had accidentally stepped on his foot or spilled hot coffee in his lap. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I don’t want anything from you—only the divorce.”
He stepped toward me but stopped when I backed away. “And that’s it? Just like that, you’ve decided?”
“Yes,” I managed without flinching, though the word cost me dearly.
“I don’t understand. I thought we were happy. I thought . . .”
“We were happy, but it was the summer, the cottage. It was all so perfect, so romantic, but now that we’re back in New York, things are . . . different.”
“Different how? Are you saying you don’t love me?”
“Roland, please, don’t make me say things that will hurt you. You’re a good man, a kind man—kinder than I deserve—but I told you when you asked me to marry you that one day you’d regret asking.”
My throat ached as I watched his face, each word landing like a blow.
“I see,” he said stiffly. “You’re not saying you’ve stopped loving me. You’re saying you never loved me.”
“I made a mistake,” I whispered hoarsely, the tears I didn’t dare shed searing my throat raw. “We both did. In time you’ll see that.”
“No,” he said raggedly. “I won’t. Time won’t change how I feel. But if you think it will, then maybe you’re right. Maybe you did make a mistake. Where will you go?”
I said the first thing that came to my mind. “Jasper has found me an apartment.”
A fresh wound appeared in Roland’s eyes. “You told Jasper you were leaving before you told me?”
“I had to make plans, Roland.”
“With Jasper?”
I ignored the insinuation. He had a right to be bitter, even unkind if he chose. “Plans for myself, Roland. And for Caroline. She’ll be home from school soon.”
“Is that what the two of you were discussing at lunch the other day? Your plans to divorce me?”
I was shocked. Until that moment he’d made no mention of my meeting with Jasper. “How did you . . .”
“You’re not exactly invisible, Lily-Mae, especially now that your last name is St. Claire. You can’t just meet a man for lunch at the St. Regis and not expect to be recognized. People see things, and they talk. You, of all people, should know that.”
If I’d had any doubts about my decision to leave Roland, his words quickly extinguished them. He was right. I knew it. He knew it. And Zell certainly knew it.
“Yes, Roland. I, of all people, should know—do know.”
“Jasper must have been glad to hear the news,” he said bitterly. “He never did like having to share you. Now he’ll have you all to himself again. Like old times.”
The words stung, not because they weren’t true, but because I could see that he believed they were. “Yes,” I said coolly, pretending his words hadn’t just cut me to the quick. “Just like old times.”
My eyes blurred as he turned to walk away, but I held myself together, not giving way to my tears until I heard the front door slam, and knew I was alone. Then I went to our room and began to pack my things.
That was weeks ago, though I’ve not been able to write of it until now. Perhaps because doing so would have made it more real, irrevocable somehow when recorded with pen and ink. And yet there’s a blessing in it, too, now that it has been written down, the kind of relief that comes with the purging of poisons and the bleeding of wounds.
I do not regret my decision—it was the only way to protect Roland—but at times it’s beyond bearing that he could have believed I was carrying on with Jasper. Then I think to myself, let him believe it if he knows me so little. Let the whole world believe it. And they will, too, if the papers have anything to say about it. They’re full of facts and figures these days, inviting readers to peer between the lines of half-truth and lurid innuendo, to speculate on the hows and whys of my marriage’s untimely demise. They can say anything they like about me now. With the divorce nearly final, I’m no longer a threat to Roland St. Claire, which is all I wanted.
The details were handled with startling, if chilly, civility. A few signatures and a handful of phone calls from the law offices of Singer and Bladen was all it took to set things in motion. The Manhattan apartment and all its furnishings are to belong to me, along with a monthly allowance for the remainder of my life—and Sand Pearl Cottage.
It’s only the last that I care about, as I clearly told the lawyer when I called to give back the rest. But Roland insists on leaving the settlement as is. It’s the customary settlement for a man of Roland’s stature, or so Mr. Singer has informed me.
In truth, I have no right to the cottage, either, but can’t bear the thought of letting it go. I have never cared about money—Roland’s, or mine, or anyone else’s. I have only ever wanted to be happy, and for a few brief moments I was. It is far more than most get in this life, certainly more than I ever hoped for, a thought I must and will cling to in the years to come.
January 16, 1959
New York, New York
It’s the quiet that plagues me most, the terrible, empty silence as I lie down each night, and then awaken the next morning—the silence that reminds me I’m alone. It’s been a month since Roland moved out, a month of silent mornings, empty breakfast tables, untouched financial sections. A month is a long time to get used to a thing, but I’m not used to it. I’ll never be used to it. Or to how different everything is now.
Every morning I lie here in the near dawn, waiting. As long as I’m still I’m fine, but the moment I stir, it comes with a vengeance, the same awful sickness I remember from that day when Sister Ruth caught my eye in the mirror, when she knew—when we both knew—that I was going to have a child.
In cases like yours, it’s unlikely there will ever be children.
Sister Doyle’s words have lived with me since the day she spoke them, and yet I’m as sure of the child growing in my belly as I’ve ever been of anything in my life. Roland’s child. Could fate have played a crueler jest?
Roland doesn’t know, of course. No one does, except Caroline, and I’ve only just told her this morning. Until a few days ago I wasn’t certain, but now that I am I don’t know what to do. The divorce will be final soon. It’s almost impossible to believe. A few signatures on a piece of paper, and it will be as if our marriage never happened at all. All that will remain is the child.
A few months ago I would have been overjoyed. Now I’m just numb, and vaguely bitter. I could go to Roland, of course, and tell him everything, explain that Zell had resurfaced, that I had only lied about Jasper to protect him, that I never for one moment considered our marriage a mistake. I could spill it all, and beg his forgiveness. He would give it, too. Of that I’m sure. That’s the hardest part, knowing all I have to do is pick up the phone to put things back to the way they were before. But nothing I can say will change the fact that as long as I was in Roland’s life his future would be in jeopardy. Zell had made that only too clear. He would say he didn’t care, as he did the day he asked me to marry him. But one day he would care. One day when his friends had all turned their backs, and his good name was in tatters, he would care very much. And he would blame me. How could he not?
I went to see Caroline at her apartment. She was surprised when I turned up on her doorstep. We seldom see each other these days, and rarely even speak on the phone unless it has something to do with the divorce. She’s been acting as a sort of go-between since Roland refuses to speak to me. I can’t blame him after the lies I told about Jasper.
I didn’t have to say a word for Caroline to guess my secret. In fact, I had barely unbuttoned my coat. She took one look at me, green eyes narrowed knowingly on my pale face. “How far along are you?”
I was shocked at first, but then, I suppose a sister knows these things. “I’m not sure,” I said quietly. It was almost a relief to finally say the words out loud. “I only just guessed myself this morning.”
“And you’re here because you want me to tell Roland?”
“No. I’m here because I want you to promise never to tell him.”
“Are you keeping it?”
I looked at her, not registering the words. “Keeping it?”
“The baby, are you keeping it or not?”
“I hadn’t thought—”
“You don’t have to, you know. There are ways, discreet ways, to take care of such things. It would all be over before anyone even knew.”
I stared at her in horror, the blood draining from my face as her meaning finally penetrated. I closed my eyes, wavering slightly on my feet as my head filled with memories of a narrow cot, of torn sheets being bound about my wrists, of Sister Doyle’s face and the sharp glint of a knitting needle.
“No,” I choked out. “Not that. Never that.”
“Well, if you’re squeamish there are other options, places to go and just lay low. You tell everyone you’re going to the South of France or someplace, take care of the business, hand over the kid, and no one’s the wiser. There’s one upstate, run by a doctor and his wife.”
A hideous thought crossed my mind. “How do you know about places like that?”
Caroline rolled her eyes, waving away my concern. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lily-Mae. I’m too smart to get caught like that. A girl from school went last year. She told everyone she was going to stay with a sick aunt, which didn’t fool anyone. The trick is coming up with a plausible cover story, and no one would question you taking a long vacation. Not with the stress of the divorce and all.”
I thought about what Caroline was suggesting, of handing my baby—Roland’s baby—over to strangers, to never see it again, to never know if it was happy and well. It seemed unthinkable. “I don’t know if I could do it, Caroline. Give away my own child.”
Caroline took her time as she lit a cigarette, her face thoughtful as she set down her lighter and blew out a long plume of smoke the way the movie stars do. “I thought you said you didn’t want Roland to know.”
“I did, and I meant it. He can’t ever know. I can’t risk him calling off the divorce.”
“So you want to have the baby but don’t want Roland to know. You don’t think he’s going to figure it out when he hears his ex-wife’s belly is the size of a beach ball? Be honest with yourself, Lily-Mae. Roland or no Roland, you can’t keep this child. Divorced with a child, and every gossip rag in the country hounding your heels. What kind of life is that for a child? No father, and a single mother who knows nothing about raising children?”
Those last words stung like a slap. I wanted to point out to her that I had all but raised her, and that doing so had cost me a great deal. I wanted to, but I didn’t. She was my sister. Whatever I did for her, I owed her. The worst part was I knew she was right. Roland would hear of it. Just like he’d heard about my lunch with Jasper. And what if Zell were to suddenly reappear? He’d made the threat, and one thing I’ve definitely learned is that Zell’s threats are rarely idle. What kind of mother would I make, living in constant dread that his filthy pictures might appear in some paper somewhere? That they weren’t actually of me would make little difference.
Summer at Hideaway Key Page 30