I know you’re not in a place for more than friendship. But I want to at least be that. So, when you’re ready, write to me, call me, send a smoke signal…wherever you are, I’ll find a way to answer. Because, as Ralph Waldo Emerson said… “The only way to have a friend is to be one.”
In the meantime, here are the letters I wrote you. Read them in order the first time.
Love,
Stone.
I read it ten times before I put it down. He couldn’t have known that this is exactly what I needed. Or that today would be the day I’d be open to receiving this. But like every other time this man has entered my life, his timing has been uncanny.
I untie the ribbon and start with the next one.
Dear Venus,
Last night, I drank enough to forget my own name. But I can’t forget yours. I can’t stop thinking about you. You asked for distance, and I’ve given it to you, even when it’s killed me to do so. So, these letters are my entreaty, my fair lady. I will write you, and one day, I’ll have the nerve to send them. Until then, I want you to meet me where the gods gather to make love…and we’ll build our world there.
Yours,
Mars
* * *
Oh my God. I am undone. I keep reading. My heart feels like it’s been hooked to a source of electricity and is humming in my chest.
* * *
Dear Venus,
You're my most beautiful someone.
Yours,
Mars
* * *
Dear Venus,
I had a revelation as I lay awake missing you, reveling in the way it hurts…because that pain means that my heart works. Sometimes life puts you in touch with the people you need to meet – to help you, to hurt you, to leave you, to love you, and to gradually strengthen you into the person you were meant to become.
Yours,
Mars
* * *
Dear Venus,
Don’t let anyone tell you that your dreams are too big.
They don’t have your vision.
They can’t see what you see.
Your belief in them, and yourself, is all you need.
Yours,
Mars
* * *
Dear Venus,
You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. It’s such an asinine saying. Surely, the eggs aren’t glad to be scrambled and cooked before some asshole eats them? So why do people say that instead of saying…nothing good comes easy? Isn’t that clearer and truer? I make a great omelet, by the way. They’d be awesome with your lemon ginger scones.
Yours,
Mars
* * *
Dear Venus,
Today, I just miss the hell out of you,
Yours,
Mars
Dear Venus,
If you aren’t already mine, why am I so afraid to lose you?
Tell me…
Yours,
Mars
* * *
Dear Venus.
I’ve found that my heart was stretched by its experience with you. Now, it won’t go back to its old shape. Can you help?
I miss you,
Mars.
* * *
By the time I’m done, I can barely breathe for the happiness that’s swelled inside of me.
If the last three months have been a trial, this feels like a reward. Yes, my life, as I knew it, is completely broken. But I have all the tools I need to reshape it.
I put his letters away and email my lawyer, asking for his first available appointment.
When that’s done, I pull out my stationary and write Stone back.
Chapter 37
A Surprise Dollop of Cream
Stone
I rush inside and tear the letter open, my heart damn near in my mouth by the time I’ve opened it.
Dear Mars,
You are spectacular beyond measure or compare. Your letters were like a surprise dollop of cream in the center of an already very delicious lemon ginger scone.
Until we can have that omelet…I would love to take you up on your offer of friendship. I’ve missed you. And have so much to tell you. If you agree, call me - 713-779-5555.
Yours,
Venus
I’d like to take the word friendship, stick it in a self-destructing rocket and launch it to the moon. But it’s better than nothing, and it’s a start. And, damn, if I don’t miss her, too.
I pick up the phone and call her.
“Hello?” Her voice is husky with sleep, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in a long time.
“Goddess, it’s me.”
There’s silence for a beat, and then I hear a whimper, and then she clears her throat.
“Stone, is that really you?
“Yes. I got your letter. Thank you for writing to me.”
“Oh, I’ve missed you. So much. Oh my God, thank you for all of those letters. I’ve read them every day. I’m blabbering. Sorry. I’m just so nervous. And happy. Hi,” she practically sings that last word.
My soul sighs in relief. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but she sounds good. The knot of dread that’s been eating away at me starts to loosen.
“Hi. And I miss you, too. I’ve been really worried, Regan.”
Her sigh is too weary, and I hate that I can’t see her. “It’s been a rough few months, as I’m sure you know. But, I’m so glad I know the truth.”
I don’t know which truth she means, so I focus on the one that is at least somewhat my business. “You and Hayes…you’re…related.” I use the most sterile word I can manage.
There’s a pregnant pause before she clears her throat. “Yeah…I guess. I can’t wrap my head around that part, if I’m honest. I’ve been more focused on the other dumpster fire.”
“Your grandfather…I heard, so what’s happening?”
“Nothing, he’s dead. Any accomplices he had are, too. I just…I feel like I need to find a way to make things right.”
“Make what right?”
“Everything, my father wasn’t the only person he hurt. But…I don’t want to talk about the past – not now. I want to know how you are. How was the refugee camp?”
I love that she remembered and that makes talking about it less burdensome. “It was hard, and I was so ready to leave. But I signed up for an extra month because they need so much help.”
“And because you love a challenge,” she teases
“That I do.” And I love you, too. The thought comes unbidden. And I’m glad we’re not on FaceTime, so she can’t see the panic that freezes my face for a second.
“I’m so glad you’re making the most of your time there… and I’m learning to love challenges again, too…” she trails off.
“Don’t be cryptic, Regan,” I scold.
“Don’t be impatient, Stone,” she shoots back. And we laugh at the same time. Just like that, our grooves click into place and that knot is finally loose again.
“Okay, I had an idea, and at first, I thought it was crazy… but it’s actually happening.”
“Spill it, Goddess,”
She squeals. “Okay, okay. Last week, I took a large chunk of my inheritance and bought a property in West Houston that used to be a boarding school. And I’m going to turn it into a transitional housing space, with a community center, and courses, and counseling, and even, eventually, a fully functioning outpatient clinic on sight. And guess what?” She gasps, breathless with giddiness, but doesn’t pause long enough for me to speak. “I’m going to call it Venus Rising. After the goddess who inspired me so much.” She sounds like a game show host announcing that I won the grand prize.
I certainly feel like I’ve won something. “Regan. That’s incredible, I’m so proud of you.”
She lets out a shuddering breath. “Thank you for the inspiration. And I can’t wait to show you everything. It all needs updating, and I’m having three newly constructed buildings added to the property.”
“So, are you an
d Marcel funding it completely? Or are you raising money?” It’s a sly move to get the information that’s foremost on my mind. If she can sense that I’m fishing, she doesn’t call me out for it.
“There is no Marcel and me And soon not in any sense at all. I… met with my lawyer a couple of days ago.” She says the words in a rush and I hear them before they sink in.
“Oh…so, like a divorce lawyer?” I’m almost afraid to ask and hold my breath when she takes a second to answer.
She laughs softly. “Yes. A divorce lawyer. Like you said, no reason to stay is a good reason to go. My children are the only reason I’ve been holding it together and I don’t think, no I know that it’s not what’s best for them anymore. So, I’m doing it.”
“Wow, are you okay?”
“I’m great.” And she sounds it. Relief and motivation are twin fires lighting in my mind at the same time.
“Yes. Of course, you are. So, what next?” I rub my hands together in anticipation.
“Well…I’ve got to get my finances in order so I can figure out how to pay for my project.” Her emphasis on the last word is tinged with light rebuke.
I check my excitement at her divorce. Getting a divorce doesn’t mean anything. Her marriage was the least of my worries. I know Regan wants to hit a reset button on other parts of her life. Talking about us, right now, would be premature. She read my letters, so she knows how I feel.
“Oh yeah, tell me more.”
“So, I have a trust fund that vested when I was thirty, and I used some of it to buy the property out right.”
“But years of fundraising for other people’s good deeds was good practice. I paid for the property out right, but I’ve created a non-profit, with a board of directors, to oversee staffing and programming and to help me raise money.”
“Who’s on the board so far?”
“Matty, my mother, and Tyson, if I get him to sit down long enough to sign everything.”
“Save a spot for me. I want to help.”
She shrieks. “Really? Oh, I’m so glad. You can be on the board, or just brainstorm, or help me think through the clinic. Whatever you want to do.”
“All of it, Venus. I want to do it all.”
Chapter 38
One Month Later
HOUSTON, TX
Chapter 39
Freedom
Regan
The slam of my bedroom door jolts me from sleep. I sit up and find Marcel standing at the foot of my bed.
“Marcel, what are you doing?”
I fumble for my phone to check the time.
“Give me that,” he roars, and before I see him move, he grabs the phone from my hand and tosses it onto the bed.
I scramble to sitting and command my voice-controlled lights to full power. “What is going on?”
“I was served divorce papers in my office yesterday,” he says, in his deep, even toned voice. My pulse jumps. I knew they were being served. I should have expected he’d come straight here.
“Yes. Well, you can’t be surprised. We haven’t lived together in six years.” I keep my voice even, despite my heart beating like a bass drum.
“So what? You are my wife. There is no divorce, unless I say so.” He brings his hands together in a clap, as if signaling the end of the discussion.
I scoff. “Maybe in feudal France. But here, in Texas, I don’t need you to agree.”
He puts one hand on his hip and points at me. “I will not allow you to do this. You will not drag my name and my children’s names through the mud because you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous, Marcel. To be jealous, you’d have to have been mine in the first place.”
“What does that mean? I am your husband.” He throws his hands up.
“Marcel, you are my spouse.” I wrap my comforter around myself and smooth my hair and try to look as dignified as the circumstances will allow. “You haven’t been my husband in years. I don’t want to live with you anymore. I don’t want your last name. I don’t want…”
The crack of his hand across my cheek comes from nowhere. It’s not a forceful slap, but only because Marcel is small and weak and lazy.
His gasp is louder and sharper than mine. “Oh, mon dieu…look what you made me do. You know I am not the kind of man to hit a woman.”
He starts to pace frantically, pulling at his hair. I take in his day’s growth of gray stubble and creases in the houndstooth Façonnable blazer he wears when he travels. He must have come here straight from the airport.
I touch the stinging spot on my cheek and eye him warily.
“I want you to leave. We have a prenup. This shouldn’t be messy. And we live separately anyway. The children will visit you, as they normally do, in the summer. When and if you come here, they can spend time with you in your home.
“This is my home. The children will visit me and so will their mother. You cannot do this,” he roars.
The last thing I need is for him to wake the children. “Get out. Or I’ll call the police.”
His gaze turns murderous. “You will not get away with this. You will not. Maybe you can get a divorce, but I will not let you have a life. You will not make a mockery of my family.”
“Are you kidding? Who is making a mockery of whom? Our nanny is having your baby, Marcel. You’ve been having affairs for as long as I’ve known you. I am tired of it, and I don’t need you.”
“You’ve never needed me. You made that obvious from day one. No, you married me because you wanted to be your grandfather’s pet again. And I married you because I wanted to own the woman who no one else could afford to buy.”
I flinch at his characterization. “But I’m not a fool, I know when a woman is wet and when she’s inserted lube before coming to bed. I didn’t complain. I just found a way to take care of my needs without making it your problem. Why can’t you do the same thing?” he hisses.
Guilt pricks my conscience and blood rushes to my cheeks, but I don’t apologize. I’m not sorry, but I didn’t realize he knew.
“I want free of this gilded prison. I want to travel and work and not spend my summers in Monaco. I don’t want to be your spouse, in any sense of the word.”
He pulls the papers out of the inside pocket of his jacket.
He pulls a slim gold lighter out of his pocket and sets the papers on fire.
“Marcel, burning them won’t make this go away. This is a no-fault state. You can’t stop this. It’s over.”
His face mottles red with anger. “Not even when I’m dead. We’re Catholic. We married in a Catholic church. You are my wife for eternity,” he snarls, and throws the burning papers onto my bed, before he storms out.
I grab them and rush to the bathroom, throw them in the sink, and turn the water on to douse the flames.
The smoke makes my smoke detector go off, and I grab a towel to wave the small plume away. The sound stops, but I hear the patter of little feet, as soon as I turn the water off.
“ Y’a quelque chose qui brûle ici ?” (“What’s burning?”) Martinez peeks around the frame of my bathroom door. For the last two years, he’s only spoken French. He goes to the French school here and is fully immersed in it. I don’t mind, because it makes them very easy to tell apart. Unlike Remi and me, they are identical.
“C’était un accident, chéri,” (It was an accident) I tell him, guiding him out of the smoke stink of the bathroom. I shut the door and then stoop to put myself face to face with him. He looks so much like my brothers, but he has his father’s sky-blue eyes. Right now, they’re heavy and groggy with sleep.
I run a hand over his mop of curls and smile indulgently at him. My heart is still racing from Marcel’s fire and brimstone routine, but just having my hands on my son helps me calm down. “Tu es toujours fatigué?” (Are you still tired?)
“Non, mama,” he says, and then gives a huge yawn.
I laugh and scoop him up. “Allez viens. Retournons dormir.” (Come on let’s go back to sleep). I pl
op him onto the bed and pull the comforter off, when I see the spot when he’d thrown the paper. I grab a blanket from the leather bench at the foot of my bed and cover him with it, command the lights off and lay down with my soft, sweet smelling reason for everything tucked by my side. When his breathing evens out and I’m sure he’s asleep, I get out of bed and grab my phone and go back to the bathroom to call Stone.
Unlike the wild, consuming love affair we had on that island, our daily phone calls, while treasured, are distinctly dissatisfying.
By tacit agreement, we talk about everything but us or how we feel. Instead, we talk about work, our families, life, politics, anything, but the huge elephant in the room. With so much left unsaid, there’s an undercurrent of frustrated tension in every conversation.
But still, there’s no one else I’d rather talk to. And I know he feels the same way. As if to prove me right, my phone buzzes with a text before I can dial his number.
Are you awake?
Yes.
My heart skips a beat, and a smile breaks across my face when my phone starts to ring almost immediately.
“You okay? How’d it go?” He sounds like he’s holding his breath.
“Yes, I’m fine. It’s fine. He was mad, but it’s done,” I say, with a small burst of excitement.
He lets out a harsh breath. “I wish I could get away.” Half of the doctors on his team are out sick with some norovirus, and Stone is working double shifts.
“Stone, don't worry. The hard part is done. And I’m fine.”
“You know the more you say that, the less I believe you, right?”
“Okay, well I’ll stop saying it. But it’s true.”
“Did he call you? When is he coming back to Houston?” He asks each question in rapid fire succession. I can feel his anxiety, and I wish I could say something to soothe it. But given that mine is running high, I can’t even begin to.
The Rivals Page 92