Every Step She Takes

by Armstrong, Kelley

  I say nothing, just sit with my hands folded on my lap, my voice gone.

  “I was so proud of myself,” she continues, “for realizing I’d done wrong and resolving to fix it. To treat you to an all-expenses-paid trip so I can ask your forgiveness. How generous of me. Yet you come here, and you tell me your story, laying no blame, and when I see blame—squarely on Colt’s shoulders—I still question. I don’t mean to. I believe you. But I cannot help wording it in a way that implies doubt.”

  “He’s still your husband,” I say quietly.

  She sits back. “In name only. We stayed together for the kids. A partnership rather than a marriage. I intended to leave once Jamie turned eighteen . . . but he’s had some troubles, so I waited. He’s better now, and I moved out last fall. That doesn’t mean I spent fourteen years sharing my home with a man I despised. I love Colt. Always will. I still talk to him every day. We’re friends. I won’t make excuses for him. Or I’ll try not to. He’s flawed.” A wry smile. “We all are. But do I believe him capable of exerting pressure on an eighteen-year-old girl he wants? Yes. Whether he’d have gone further once it was clear you didn’t want that . . .”

  “I don’t think he would have,” I say. “Men are accustomed to girls protesting. They’re raised to think they have to talk us into sex.”

  Her lip curls in a sardonic smile. “We want it. We just don’t realize it, so they need to show us.”

  “I dealt with that growing up. I’m sure you did, too. Not from every guy, of course, but there are always some. That night, when Colt kissed me, I kissed him back, and when I pushed away, he thought I was playing hard to get. That doesn’t excuse what he did. But I think, once I clearly refused, he would have stopped.”

  She nods, her gaze down. She agrees he wouldn’t have forced himself on me. Yet she fears defending him, so she only gives that brief nod.

  “This isn’t about what Colt did or didn’t do,” I say. “It’s about me realizing I hurt you, which I do, and I apologize for that.”

  “And I realize I was wrong for not listening to you, for not reading your letter, for presuming you betrayed me, because that was easier than blaming my husband for his betrayal.”

  “I understand all that,” I say. “It hurt, at the time, but even then, I understood. You had a family to protect. Maybe the truth could have helped, but honestly, the media circus was just about selling papers. We were the latest iteration of a popular tale. The wicked girl who uses her sexuality to tempt a good man, endangering his marriage to a good woman.”

  She nods. “Circe tempting Odysseus, while Penelope keeps the home fires burning. Never mind that Odysseus chose to stay with Circe for a year—and she was only one of many women he slept with on his way home. We are all Circe or Penelope. Whore or Madonna. Never Odysseus. Never the hero of the tale.”

  I shrug. “We can be. It just takes more effort than it should.”

  She moves to sit beside me on the sofa. Then she hugs me, and I try not to break down into that hug. I accept it. I embrace her back. Then I withdraw.

  “I’m glad we had the chance to talk,” I say.

  “And now you’re leaving as quickly as you can.”

  Before I can answer, she lays her hands on mine. “I want us to take control of this situation. Not at Colt’s expense. He is still my children’s father, and he’s still someone I care about very much. This isn’t about demonizing Odysseus. It’s about excising him from our storyline.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I want to go public,” she says. “The two of us with our story. The misunderstandings. The anger. You and Colt had a drunken moment together. Nothing more. If that’s—”

  She stops herself. “I’m sorry. Not if. That is the truth. I know it is. It makes sense for both of you. You were eighteen and unaccustomed to alcohol. We encouraged you to enjoy the champagne. Our marriage was non-monogamous, and what happened may have been—was—a misstep on his part, but the media blew it out of proportion.”

  She gives a tight laugh. “Yes, I realize that doesn’t eliminate Colt from our story, but he’s only a side character. This is about us. Your misplaced guilt. Your experience with the press and the public. My misplaced anger. My experience with the press and the public.”

  “I . . . No.” I pull from her grip. “This isn’t what I want.”

  “It would help, though, wouldn’t it? It’s not what we necessarily want, but it’s what we need. We can control the message. We’ll make this about us.”

  “About us . . . or about you?”

  She goes still, and I twist to face her.

  “You feel guilty,” I say. “You want to make amends. You want to give me this gift just as you gave me a weekend in this hotel fourteen years ago. But I’m not that girl. I don’t need gifts. I don’t want them.”

  I get to my feet. “I am glad we talked. I’m glad we cleared the air. But any attempt to fix this would be just as likely to blow up in my face. I don’t want another fifteen minutes of fame even for the right reasons. I’m fine.”

  “You’re living under an assumed name. You gave up your career, your talent.”

  “I’m living under the name on my birth certificate. No, I’m not a concert violist. I didn’t graduate from Juilliard. Those are the dreams of an eighteen-year-old girl, Isabella. I teach music, and I play in a quartet and a small symphony, and I love it. I have a wonderful apartment and an amazing boyfriend. I won’t lie—I would also love to be free from the lies. But I don’t see a way to do that without risking the great life I already have. It’s not a gamble I’m willing to take. I’m sorry.”

  I start for the door.

  “Lucy,” she calls.

  I turn. She’s still there by the sofa.

  “Will you think on it?” she says. “I’ll do the same. I understand your concerns, but I believe we could work something out. A strategy to give us what we both need.”

  When I don’t answer, she sees opportunity and pounces with, “Lunch tomorrow. I know you’re tired. You need time alone. Join me for lunch, and we’ll talk, and if we can’t come to a solution that satisfies you, then you’ll go back to Rome, and I’ll just be happy that we had this chance to talk.”

  I pause and then say, “I’ll get back to you tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  When I get downstairs, the car is pulling in, summoned by Isabella. I’m barely a mile from my hotel, and it’s faster to walk. I want to walk. Even as I step out into a light rain, I don’t change my mind. That car belongs to Isabella, and within its confines, I remain under her control. I need to get away from that and collect my thoughts.

  I’m so wrapped up in those thoughts that I overshoot my street. As I take out my phone, I scan shop names so I can orient myself on my cell-phone map. The one right beside me proclaims Authentic Italian Iced Treats. One glimpse at the candy-colored gelato has me sniffing in disdain. I chuckle. I have become an Italian, who knows that this neon-bright whipped stuff is not proper gelato.

  As I gaze at that shop, my mind tumbles back to an afternoon last month, meeting Marco after a Pantheon tour and having gelato at Giolitti. Sitting at a rickety table on the cobblestone street, we shared an insane dessert of chocolate ice cream and custard zabaione, entirely encased in a globe of whipped cream. Marco was telling me about studies that upend the prevailing theories on the Vesuvius eruption. The movie Pompeii shows people drowning in lava and perishing in a rain of fire, but any tour guide knows that’s Hollywood hyperbole. It’s long been presumed that people suffocated from the volcanic ash. New studies, though, suggest their brains may have exploded from the heat.

  Marco was explaining this new theory to me, his enthralled audience . . . until we caught the horrified looks of the tourists beside us, who apparently didn’t consider brain-boiling a proper dining conversation. So Marco switched to Italian . . . and got the same horrified looks from the locals on our opposite side.

  Now I’m standing in the rain, staring at this fake gelato pl
ace, and I’m back in that sunny afternoon in Rome. I hear Marco’s animated chatter, and then our stifled snickers and giggles as we realize we’ve inadvertently driven off our dining neighbors, leaving us free to continue the discussion.

  I remember what that moment felt like. Sharing our crazy dessert. Basking in the sunshine. Enrapt in our conversation. I’d sat there looking at Marco and felt . . .

  Happy. Giddily, unbelievably happy. I could scarcely believe this was my life. This beautiful, bewitching city? Mine. This gorgeous, fascinating man? Mine. All mine.

  What I felt that day wasn’t mere happiness. It was love, God help me. Love for that life. Love for that city. Love for that man.

  I inhale so sharply I startle an old woman, who mutters at me in Korean before tromping into the gelato shop. I watch her go, and I breathe, just breathe, until the stabbing panic subsides. When it does, I know my answer for Isabella. I understand that she wants this thing, and I want to give it to her, in apology, but I truly cannot take the risk.

  I will need to meet with her again, though. She has the power to upend my life, and I must talk to her face-to-face and bring her to fully understand what she’s asking me to do and why I cannot do it.

  I text her, warning that my position hasn’t changed but accepting her invitation to lunch. We arrange to meet at her hotel suite at noon tomorrow.

  Then I text Marco. As much as I’d love to call instead, tourist-season weekends are insanely busy for him. He won’t be in bed yet, but he’ll be exhausted.

  Me: It’s me. Busy day here, but I’m sure yours was busier! I just wanted to check in and say buonanotte e sogni d’oro.

  The reply comes right away.

  Marco: Yep, long day, but never so long that I’m not up for a chat. FaceTime?

  I hesitate, my fingers over the keypad. I’m on a busy New York street in the rain. Not the place for the conversation we need to have. I can probably get to my hotel in about fifteen minutes but . . .

  My heart pounds, as if I’ve been asked to publicly perform a new song from sheet music. I’m not prepared. I need to be prepared.

  Me: I’m out, having taken a wrong turn, and it’s raining. Not a good look for me.

  Marco: I’ll be the judge of that.

  I snap a photo and send it.

  Marco: Bellissimo. But, yes, not the environment for a video chat. Tomorrow?

  Me: I’ll be up by six, and I don’t have anything before eleven. That’s between noon and 5 p.m. your time. Anything work there?

  Marco: How about nine your time?

  Me: Excellent. And . . . it won’t be a short talk. I really do need to speak to you.

  Silence. Then,

  Marco: Those ominous words again. The same conversation, I presume? More urgent now?

  Me: Just an overdue conversation that became more pressing after I left Rome. Nothing ominous, I promise.

  I’m not sure he buys that. I’ve said it twice now, and a dozen possibilities will be flying through his head.

  We’re getting too comfy—I need you to back off a little.

  I’m moving to the US.

  I’ve met someone else.

  I love you and want to have your baby.

  Okay, he knows me too well for that last one.

  I try to reassure him by goofing around, asking for a photo of him now that I’ve sent one of me. He sends one of him reclining in bed with a book, and I tease that it doesn’t show nearly enough. I get another picture . . . of his head and bare shoulders.

  We go on like that for a while as I walk to the hotel, and ultimately, I get a full body shot . . . with the book strategically placed. I laugh at that, but I don’t ask for more. We’re old enough and savvy enough not to exchange X-rated pics. I’ll reciprocate tomorrow with something equally sexy and PG-13. After we have the conversation, though. Better not to send him a boudoir photo right before telling him that, with the right online search terms, he can find pictures of me topless in a hot tub, straddling Colt Gordon.

  I sigh. That is not going to be a fun conversation. None of it is, and I wish I could retract my promise to Isabella, fly home tonight and tell Marco in person.

  I’ll do it by video chat tomorrow, and maybe that’s best, giving him time alone to assimilate everything before I come home.

  Right now, though, I have another call to make. To my mother.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mom and I talk for almost two hours. Her responses are as perfect as ever. She’s concerned that I might be hurt again. Proud that I stood up to Isabella. Less forgiving of Isabella than I am, and let’s face it, that’s what every child wants, isn’t it? The mother who will stand at your side, snarling in full Mama Bear mode, leaving you to feel proud of yourself for saying, “No, Mom, it’s not all her fault—I accept responsibility, too.”

  That is hour one of our conversation. Hour two is quieter planning. Mom agrees I need to talk Isabella down from this mad scheme. She also agrees a public reconciliation would do me no good.

  After that, we plan for her to come see me. She has a lunch engagement tomorrow that I urge her not to break. She’ll arrive in the evening, and we’ll enjoy three days of New York City before I go home.

  That settled, I order room service for dinner and curl up on the massive bed to eat and watch a show on my laptop. I manage to stay up until ten, which is a miracle given the time difference. Then I sleep remarkably well . . . until my body jolts upright at four, shouting, “You’ve slept in!”

  I force myself to stay in bed a while longer. It doesn’t require much coercion. I slide between dreaming and waking. Then I admire the photos Marco sent. Indulge in a little sleepy daydreaming . . . until I’m awake enough to remember that call with him later this morning, the one I need to plan.

  I’m doing that when my phone chimes with an incoming text, and I grab it, hoping it’s Marco. Like when I’m waiting my turn to audition, and I get the chance to jump the line. I volunteer even as part of me screams that I’m not ready. Sometimes “not quite ready” is the best place to be, where you haven’t reached the overthinking and overplanning stage.

  The text, though, is from Isabella. I wince, and I lie there, looking at her name, not opening the message, wondering whether I can text Marco instead and see whether he might be free before nine.

  I sigh and open the message as I curse my mother for raising a responsible child.

  Isabella: Is it possible to see you for breakfast instead?

  Isabella: Jamie’s had an episode. I need to leave this morning.

  Isabella: Can you let me know when you’re up?

  Jamie’s had an episode. Those words send a frisson of worry through me. I remember Isabella saying she’d stayed with Colt longer than expected because of Jamison. I know from that poster that Jamison is an actor, and honestly, that’s a surprise. I remember a quiet, sensitive boy. Easily wounded, but kind to his core.

  I google Jamison Morales-Gordon. The first few results are about the new movie, his second apparently, and the first with his father. I dig deeper, and when I do, it’s like a punch in the gut.

  Drugs. Alcohol. Rehab. Attempted suicide.

  My eyes fill, and my heart hurts.

  Oh, Jamie. Baby. What happened?

  What happened? Well, let’s start with his trusted tutor allegedly sleeping with his father and nearly breaking up his family. I quickly text Isabella back.

  Me: Go to Jamie. We can talk another time.

  Isabella: I really would like to see you, and my car won’t be here until ten.

  Isabella: Could you come for breakfast?

  Isabella: Please.

  Me: Of course.

  I respond before I have time to consider. I still have one eye on that article, skimming it as tears brim.

  What did you expect, Lucy? Didn’t you just say he was sensitive, easily hurt? You befriended him, and he confided in you, and then you left . . . slicing a cleaver through his family as you went.

  I tell Isabella I’m on
my way, and she says to come straight up, and she’ll have breakfast waiting.

  I shower and dress as quickly as I can. As I’m roaring out the door, I catch sight of the bedside clock. It’s 6:15. Will I get back before nine?

  I send Marco a quick text saying I might call a bit late. Then I’m off.

  For 6:45 a.m., Isabella’s hotel is remarkably busy. People who flew in Sunday night for Monday morning meetings are now hurrying off to grab breakfast. I slip inside, and I’m on the elevator before I wonder whether I’ll need a card to access the penthouse. I don’t.

  When I reach Isabella’s door, it’s not quite shut, as if someone dropped off breakfast and forgot to pull it closed. That gives me pause, and my skin prickles remembering another door left ajar just a few days ago. But there’d been an explanation for that one, and there will be for this one, too.

  I ring the bell. Wait. Ring again and add a knock for good measure. When she still doesn’t answer, I press my fingers to the door and push it open an inch.

  “Isabella?” I call.

  Music plays upstairs, and I raise my voice, but I’m still not sure she’d hear.

  I send a text.

  Me: The door’s open. I’m coming in.

  She doesn’t respond, and I push the door and slide through.