The One in My Heart

by Sherry Thomas

  I dropped the spatula in a stand and went back to unloading the dishwasher. Zelda joined me. Wordlessly we put away the pots and pans that remained on the bottom rack. Then I swept the floor, while she hung up fresh kitchen towels.

  We often did household chores side by side—it was one of those little things I treasured. But now I could scarcely breathe against the sense of futility that permeated the air. Against Zelda’s bewilderment, sorrow, and guilt.

  She broke the silence at last. “Do the Somersets know yet, about you and Bennett?”

  “He was going to come clean today—that was the plan, in any case. I don’t see why he wouldn’t follow through.”

  “I’ll make sure to ask him first before I bring up anything—they should learn from him, not me.”

  I nodded, dumping the contents of the dustbin into the garbage can, and then tying up the bag and taking it outside.

  When I came back, Zelda was biting into a Danish from the box of pastry she’d bought. I grabbed a gooey orange roll from the same box and sank my teeth into it with a vengeance, needing the solace of glucose and refined carbohydrates.

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Zelda when only crumbs remained of her Danish. “And I don’t mean about Bennett.”

  About myself then. I thought of my father on his deathbed, asking after Zelda, longing for the lovely woman he’d lost, because he’d been too set in his ways to change.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I have no idea.”

  And for once, that was an honest answer.

  IMOGENE SOMERSET WAS EVERYTHING A young woman ought to be. Her father’s doctors were very pleased with his recovery. And the family was suitably taken aback that there had been no real girlfriend, only an elaborate ruse.

  All this Zelda related gingerly over dinner that evening, when I asked how her day had gone. The following week she had further updates. Mr. Somerset was out of ICU and then, a few days later, discharged from the hospital. He insisted that he was well enough, that everyone ought to return home and go back to work so he could recuperate in peace and use the time to try out some reality shows that he didn’t want to be caught watching.

  Despite my reminder to Bennett that I was in breach of contract and therefore owed nothing, I received effusive thank-you notes from organizations around the city, pouring out their gratitude for the generous donations in my name. A check also arrived at my office, bearing the previously agreed-upon amount for my research, which I voided and sent back.

  That night I took my phone in hand, prayed that it could be a force for good, and texted, How did you deal with your abandonment issues?

  I set the phone aside. I used to know Bennett’s schedule, but not anymore, after the disruption of his father’s surgery. Even if he wanted to reply, it might be hours before he could.

  The phone pinged a few minutes later.

  It was easier with Moira. She was right that we wanted different things in life—near the end of our relationship I probably had more in common with Darren, her accountant, than I had with her.

  With my parents the anger ran a lot deeper. Relationships end all the time, even for people who once believed themselves soul mates. But family is supposed to be forever, through thick and thin.

  Even after I saw them at O’Hare and set the whole moving process into motion, sometimes the resentment still came back. Why was I the one doing this? Why weren’t they meeting me at least halfway?

  Times like that I had to ask whether I was as blameless in the matter as I preferred to cast myself. And the answer was, of course, no. My dad might have acted out of anger, even pigheadedness, but I was the only one who had retaliated from spite.

  Then it was a matter of deciding which was more important: hanging on to my resentment or having my parents back in my life.

  I like to think I chose correctly.

  I sighed and set the phone on my chest, as if by doing so I could absorb some of the courage and wisdom that had guided him to the right choice.

  TEN DAYS AFTER MR. SOMERSET’S heart attack, I received an unexpected call from him, inviting me to lunch at his house.

  The address wasn’t far from Bennett’s apartment. I knocked on the door of the solid four-story brownstone. A smiling housekeeper let me in and took me to an elegant white-and-green living room, where Mr. Somerset was set up comfortably on the couch, with a swing-out table next to him on which sat a phone, a tablet, a laptop, and several books.

  He tilted the table out of the way as I came into the room. “Thank you for coming, Evangeline.”

  I shook his hand and sat down on a chair that had been pulled close. “I thought I’d find you neck-deep in Real Housewives.”

  “If I had it on, my wife might never go to work. Tea, or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

  “Tea would be fine.”

  We chatted for a few minutes. Imogene and Prescott had both reached home safely. Imogene’s boyfriend, while he was in Manhattan, had actually asked for Mr. Somerset’s permission to propose. But no one thought anything would come of it: Imogene inspired proposals; she did not accept them.

  The housekeeper returned with plates of salad, tea for me, and a tall glass of green smoothie for my host.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Kale, green apple, wheatgrass, kiwi, and maybe a few sprigs of basil.”

  “You forgot ginger, matcha, and chia seeds.”

  “That’s hardcore.”

  “Tell me about it.” Mr. Somerset gave the smoothie a baleful look. “I used to insist I’d never blend my vegetables—I’d ignore them like a man. But it took only one near brush with death for me to change my tune completely.”

  I raised my glass. “It’s a good new tune to sing. Here’s to your health.”

  We talked about this and that as we polished off the salad and the grilled swordfish that followed. From time to time he glanced at the clock, but seemed to be in no hurry to get to what he wanted to see me about.

  In fact, it wasn’t until we were halfway through the fruit salad served for dessert that he finally said, “Ben tells me I have you to thank for our reconciliation, for pushing him to stop waiting around.”

  Ben, eh?

  “I didn’t do anything. He was the one who uprooted his whole life and moved across the country for this one purpose.”

  “Yes, that was humbling in the best possible way.” Mr. Somerset fiddled with a piece of pineapple. “When we came back from Berkeley, the time we severed ties, my wife didn’t speak to me for three weeks. Frankly she almost left me again, and might have, if we didn’t have Imogene to consider.

  “But I’d been brought up to hold that a man’s word was his everything. So I believed I had no choice but to follow through with my threats of disownment. I thought he couldn’t do it. We knew he’d be getting some paintings when he turned twenty-one, but nobody knew whether they were paintings by actual artists or watercolors by some great-great-aunts that not even their own relatives wanted. Besides, three years is a long time when a boy is eighteen, and has to fend for himself when he’s been raised in the lap of luxury.”

  His gaze strayed to his left. The couch had been placed before a large window. On the windowsill a Siamese cat slept soundly, next to a digital photo frame. The frame was at too oblique an angle for me. But Mr. Somerset caught my line of sight and turned it thirty degrees.

  It was a family picture taken on a beach. Since everyone looked about twenty years younger, I had a good idea where they’d been. “Maui?”

  “Yes, our last good vacation as a family.” He finished the rest of his green juice, and seemed almost to relish it. “Of all my children, Ben was the one who worried me the most. But he surprised us all by becoming far tougher and far more disciplined than I’d thought possible. He dealt fine with having no money. And he dealt pretty well too with all the later windfalls.

  “He didn’t know it, but we were there at both his college and medical school graduations. I was proud of him, but too proud to admit that,
especially after his attempts to take over the family firm.

  “When he moved back east, my wife was convinced he wanted a reconciliation. I feared that a reckoning was coming our way instead. We’d walked away from him—I’d walked away from him. We weren’t there for the bad times or the good. We were just some people he used to know.”

  Mr. Somerset looked down for a moment at his hands. “I can’t tell you how many times I walked past his hospital. A couple of times I even went inside the lobby, pretending that I had a friend who was recovering from something. I never came across him. Then we started seeing the two of you everywhere. But he was so chill that I couldn’t read him one way or the other.

  “Good thing you convinced me to go to the MoMA exhibit, which I’d thought to avoid like the plague.”

  My brows shot up. So I hadn’t messed things up after all? “I did see you there the Thursday after Zelda’s party.”

  “That was probably my third time at the exhibit. You were right about it being a treasure trove of what we’d been missing all these years.”

  I exhaled. “Did you see the chickens?”

  “There were chickens?” He laughed softly. “No, I didn’t see any chickens, but I saw so much else. I saw a full, vibrant life—not a minute wasted. And I can’t tell you how much I wished now that we’d been part of it, Ms. McAllister or no Ms. McAllister.

  “At the lunch a couple of days later, I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn’t in front of everybody. It was frustrating. And I was too…abashed, I guess, to ask my wife or anyone else for his number. So I went to see my lawyer instead, the Wednesday before my heart attack. I thought that if I never managed to say anything to him in person, at least he would learn, when my will was read, what he meant to me—little did I know that would almost happen right away.”

  “Thank goodness it didn’t.” Sometimes, thinking back to those moments before we learned of the surgery’s success, I still got a little scared.

  “Thank goodness,” he echoed my sentiment fervently. “But I want to thank you all the same. Because of you, had things gone the other way, he’d still have known it. And that was very important to me.”

  I smiled at him. “You are very welcome. And I’m really happy for you and Mrs. Somerset. And Bennett too, of course. Everybody.”

  I half expected him to ask something about Bennett and me, but he didn’t. We both had our attention snagged by the next image that scrolled onto the digital photo frame, a young Bennett, seventeen or eighteen, in his Eton uniform—an old-fashioned black tailcoat worn over a black vest and dark grey striped trousers, an outfit one might see in a costume drama set in the Victorian era. He leaned against a brick wall, his arms crossed before his chest, his head turned to his left, his gaze beyond the frame.

  There was an impatient look on his face, one not of petulance, but rather a wistful urgency, as if he wished he were anywhere but leaning against that brick wall, next to a rosebush in furious bloom.

  “That’s the last picture he sent us, when he was still at Eton,” said Mr. Somerset. “It’s kind of etched on my brain—I used to look at it so much.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” came Bennett’s voice. “There was a jam in the subway and—”

  I turned around. He stood in the doorway in a slate blue three-piece pin-striped suit, staring at me. My heart thudded painfully.

  Into the silence Mr. Somerset joked, “You’ve become a lawyer now?”

  “I was at the free clinic—folks there appreciate it when their doctor puts in some sartorial effort,” Bennett answered, his eyes never leaving me. “Hi, Evangeline.”

  “Hi.” Did I sound normal—or did I sound out of breath? “You missed lunch.”

  “I’ll find something in the kitchen.”

  I rose. “I was just about to leave.” I shook Mr. Somerset’s hand again. “Thank you for lunch. And I’m so glad to see you’re recovering well.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” said Bennett.

  He waited until we were out of earshot of his father before he added, “I see that he’s learned a thing or two about guerrilla tactics from us. If it weren’t for the jam I’d have been here twenty minutes earlier.”

  I’d suspected as much. I’d suspected all along that Mr. Somerset might be trying his hand at matchmaking. It would have been awkward had his plan not been foiled by the subway jam. All the same…

  “You didn’t miss anything,” I said as I shrugged into my coat. “He was just telling me things he must have already told you.”

  “But it never gets old to hear him admit he was wrong about me.” Bennett ran a finger lightly over the piping on the lapel of my coat.

  My heart might have stopped briefly. “So they call you Ben. When were you going to tell me?”

  “When you told me you’re called Eva.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “Exactly.” He played with the top button on my coat. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Busy. You?”

  “Fine. Busy. Reading The Fellowship of the Ring. They’ve made it through Moria.”

  “But they’ve lost Gandalf,” I reminded him.

  “Ten bucks says the old wizard comes back more badass than ever.”

  My lips curved a little, since he was right on target about that. “Anyway, I’m really happy for you. Your dad told me how proud he is of you—and I’m sure he’s told you the same thing. It’s everything you hoped for.”

  “Not everything,” he said, his gaze as green as the return of spring. “I still hope for you.”

  He leaned in and kissed me, a slow, simmering kiss that left me reeling. His hand on my cheek, his lips grazing my jaw, he murmured, “I love you.”

  I swallowed and left quickly. But that night, as I lay in bed, I reached for my phone.

  I love you too, I texted.

  His reply came a minute later. In the immortal words of Han Solo, I know.

  Chapter 18

  MRS. ASQUITH PASSED AWAY THE next week.

  Zelda immediately purchased a plane ticket for the grand old dame’s funeral. I helped her with the packing. When we were finished, I went up to my bedroom, opened my laptop, and pulled up Larry de Villiers’s e-mail.

  Which made me grimace no less upon rereading. I sighed and began typing.

  Dear Larry,

  I’m very sorry to learn of Mrs. Asquith’s departure. She was tremendous, and I wish she could have lived another twenty years.

  Zelda is headed to England tomorrow. I imagine you two will run into each other at the funeral and have much to say. I also imagine that you might hold yourself back, my words of admonition still echoing in your head.

  Please allow me to apologize for the more extreme things I said that day in Mrs. Asquith’s garden. It is not—nor has it ever been—my place to tell you what to do. The choice belongs to you and Zelda.

  I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t find the possibility of Zelda embarking upon a new life absolutely nerve-racking. But my role is to love her, not to keep her penned into what little space I consider safe.

  I wish you both the very, very best.

  Yours,

  Evangeline

  I hit send before I could change my mind. And then I went downstairs to the kitchen, where Zelda was putting together our dinner, a heated-up, store-bought lasagna alongside a spinach salad.

  I helped her carry everything to the dining table, conscious that she peered at me as she handed me the plates and the silverware. My admission that I couldn’t handle emotional intimacy had changed things for Zelda and me. Not that it had led to strain or mistrust, but there was a sense of melancholy and regret in the air.

  I waited until we had sat down and served ourselves. “I haven’t told you this, Zelda, and I don’t believe Larry de Villiers has either. When we met in England, he let me know that he’d been debating whether to rekindle your relationship. I told him that he shouldn’t even think about it, because of his tendency to make a huge deal of your condition.”
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  Zelda blinked. “And what did he say?”

  “He e-mailed me later to say he agreed with my assessment. I e-mailed him back fifteen minutes ago to apologize for overstepping my boundaries.” I looked down at my plate. “I should apologize to you too, for meddling in your life.”

  “Darling.” Zelda reached across the table and took my hand. “You expressed an opinion. That’s not the same as meddling.”

  “Maybe not. But I did appoint myself the arbiter of what’s good for you, when you’re perfectly capable of deciding for yourself.”

  She shook her head. “Larry isn’t the only one who can rekindle this relationship. I could have approached him too. But I’ve been hesitant. So even if you’d said nothing to him and he everything to me, not much would have happened by this point.”

  “But now you’ll meet in person.”

  She nodded. “I’m excited—and a bit nervous. It’s been a long time.”

  I gazed at our clasped hands. “I think you’ll have a great time together.”

  “We always do. With your father the challenge was to negotiate the ordinary times. With Larry the ordinary times have never been a problem.” She sighed softly. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll look out for myself. And I’ve reached an age when I have no problem telling someone to fuck off.”

  We both giggled at that.

  “It almost makes me wish Larry would do something stupid,” I told her, “so I can hear you say those words.”

  And that made us laugh again.

  Zelda took a bite of her lasagna. “But enough about me, darling. How are you?”

  I dug a fork into my own serving. “I’m trying to do the right thing. Trying to make good choices.”

  Trying to understand that I could act through fear, and not just out of fear.

  She studied me, my beloved Zelda. And slowly she smiled. “You’ll do very well, darling. Not all those who wander are lost, remember?”

  BEFORE I WENT TO SLEEP that night, I texted Bennett. I’m very sorry about Mrs. Asquith.