I breathe into the microphone and tell the world who I really am. It’s something I should have done years ago, while I was still young. As I climb back into Joe’s car, I have an un-shakable feeling that I’m too late.
Chapter 48
LIA
The rest of the world came back into focus after she left. Robbie swallowed the remainder of his creamy coffee without taking his eyes off me.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t respond. My mind was frozen. I wasn’t really sure what had just hit me. As Robbie stared at me, waiting for a response, I looked around cautiously. A lot of people looked fine, as if nothing had happened. But others were gossiping frantically about Scarlett, enraged by the scandalous news she’d dropped five minutes prior.
I felt the color drain from my cheeks, and my face lost all feeling. I wasn’t sure if the numbness was from the cold, or was the result of something else. Finally, I decided it was most likely from the realization that after thirty years, Scarlett Daniels had finally revealed the truth about us. Publicly.
“Lia!” Robbie sounded equally frustrated and concerned. “Are you all right?”
“No,” I managed to say. “No, I’m not.”
He parted his lips before quickly turning away.
“What is it?”
He didn’t respond.
“Robbie?”
“She called my apartment. Told me to bring you here . . .”
My mouth went dry as the cold air chapped my lips.
“Look, I refused at first. But then she kept calling and calling. She sounded so sad and genuine, Lia. I agreed to bring you, but Jesus. Scarlett didn’t say anything about a full-blown press conference. Sounded more like a lunch—”
“My god,” I cried.
Robbie stepped closer and I moved away.
“I can’t believe this!”
“Lia—”
“You too, Robbie? After you saw me broken for weeks?”
“I’m not the bad guy here,” he said firmly.
“Just when I’m finally starting to heal, she creeps right back into my life!”
People started to stare as I continued to shout, but Robbie didn’t seem to care about the observers. He took my hand and squeezed it tightly.
“I’m sorry. But you wanted Scarlett back in your life too. You went all the way to Hong Kong to find her.”
“Before she hurt me again.”
Rain prickled my forehead, and slick umbrellas began to pop up around Times Square. I wiped my eyes and heard the jazz musicians resume their tunes. Robbie put his arm around me and we walked back to the parking garage. I lingered in front of a stand with cinnamon almonds, but shook my head when he asked me if I wanted some. He started the car quickly and we left the chaos of Manhattan. As we drove across the bridge, I realized that it was Valentine’s Day.
THE truth is, I didn’t know how I felt. What started as shock morphed into rage and then confusion. Fear and fury and revelation raced through my mind as intrigue and doubt collided. I felt everything.
Robbie was right. He wasn’t the bad guy here. This was a matter of good intentions and secret agendas. I knew that he had my best interests at heart. It took a few hours for me to come around, but a simple phone call was apology enough for my understanding friend.
My instinct was to drown my sorrows in a bottle of red. The couch looked so inviting, and I still had some leftover wine. But I resisted, because I knew that it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself. I’d lain around long enough. Maybe resuming my old routine would help me sort things out.
I went back to work the next morning. Giselle perked up as I walked into the office, her cherry-painted lips turning up into a grin. Articles and scribbled memos covered my mahogany desk and stained coffee cups lined the windowsill. After tidying up, I was ready to tackle my job again.
It felt great to be back. Hours passed without me even realizing it. One of the staff writers brought in tea sandwiches, so I took a break to join everyone in the lunchroom. I told my coworkers that I’d returned from an extended holiday. Most of them smiled for the sake of formality, nodding politely but not really caring about the reason.
Soon, I was back in the swing of my old schedule. I woke up early, sipped tea or coffee, and walked to the office. The cold was equally vexing and refreshing. I kept telling myself that a beautiful spring season was just around the corner. After a week or so, it felt like nothing had ever changed. I was amazed at how easy it was to fling myself into work again.
I arrived ten minutes late one morning, delayed by yet another rainstorm. Voices chirped as I approached the front door. I cracked a smile and wondered what the office was gossiping about this time. But everyone muted immediately when I walked in. I waved and took off my yellow raincoat, shaking my head slightly at their sudden silence.
I shut my office door as people continued to stare. Unfortunately, the clear glass did nothing to put me at ease. It seemed like every time I looked up, someone was gawking in my direction. Right as I was about to confront them, Giselle raced into my office. Her garnet heels made a clicking sound every time she took a step, like fingernails tapping on plastic.
“So,” she said quietly. “Is it true?”
I glanced up from my reading to see her towering over my cluttered desk.
“Is what true?”
Giselle raised a pencil-thin eyebrow in disbelief. “You know . . .”
“I don’t,” I said as I made a quick edit on the story I was reading.
“About you and Scarlett Daniels, the movie star.”
My pen made another pass across the page before I processed her words. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“This,” Giselle said, planting the cover of New York Weekly smack in front of me. The headline read, “Famous Actress Is Homosexual.”
Pictures of Scarlett took up the entire page—an old head-shot from her modeling days, a snap from her latest movie set, and a recent photo taken in Times Square. I ran my fingers over the black-and-white photos, then moved my palm to reveal another image. It was a bit blurred, but I could make out two distinct faces. It was a shot of Scarlett and me in Hong Kong. A caption below read, Daniels with her lover. I was utterly lost for words.
“It’s you! I knew it!”
Giselle clicked her heels out of my office and said something inaudible to everyone out front. I stuffed the paper into my handbag and took a deep breath. This was it, the moment I’d desired for years. The truth was finally out . . . and circulated to thousands of readers.
Gossipy voices hushed again as I stepped out of my office. I wanted to hurry out of work unnoticed. But this time, I spoke up.
“Yes,” I said loudly. “It’s me in the photo.”
A couple of writers whispered to each other; others were stunned silent. My heart pounded against my rib cage as I looked around the room. I inched toward the doorway.
“And I’m in love with Scarlett Daniels.”
Gasps circled the news office as women covered their open mouths with dainty, manicured hands. Most of the men just sort of raised their eyebrows. With that bold declaration, my sweaty palm turned the brass doorknob in front of me and I strutted out with my head held high, a coy smile dancing across my lips. I thought I heard Giselle call my name, but I was walking too quickly to turn back.
Chapter 49
The high lasted for twenty blocks. I was all smiles as I made my way home. The rain stopped for a moment and I gazed up at the misty sky, wondering if Scarlett was looking at the same sherbet mass that I was. Baby blues and soft pinks whirled around behind a cloudy curtain.
Scarlett. I needed to find her. As I raced through my apartment’s entrance, I knew that I had been wrong to get angry. This was her way—her grand gesture. I stepped into the shower minutes later and let hot water run over my tense shoulders, thinking of what I would say to Scarlett as I inhaled the steam. Different ideas tangoed through my head until my fingers started to prun
e.
I toweled off and slipped into a turquoise swing dress. It had been a while since I’d chosen something so bright. I rolled a pair of nude stockings over my knees and waited for my hair to dry. Then I brushed out each strand and secured a tight twist at the nape of my neck.
My makeup arsenal was sparse and underused. Nonetheless, I managed to apply liner and black mascara that made my eyes sparkle. I smiled and swirled a poppy blush over my cheeks. Then I selected a pair of clip-on pearl earrings and their matching necklace. It hung just above my collarbone, right beside a light brown beauty mark I’d hated as a girl. For some reason, it didn’t bother me anymore.
I phoned the local cab company and stepped into a pair of black pumps I hadn’t worn since 1925. A while later, I grabbed my herringbone trench coat and locked the door behind me. My keys rattled around my evening clutch as I pranced down the stairs. After months of despondency, I had come back to life.
THE taxi ride to New York City dragged on like dripping molasses. I shifted excitedly in my seat every time we passed another avenue. Robbie had told me which hotel Scarlett was staying at. When we finally pulled up in front of the Waldorf Astoria, I nearly jumped out of the cab.
I kept a low profile as I walked through the ornate lobby. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings and a pianist played soft classical music. The scent of expensive perfume and cigars emanated through the room. My heels wobbled under the weight of my anticipation as I reached the elevator towers.
I stepped inside and took another look around the lobby. Wealthy patrons sipped their scotches and bourbons, engaged in light business chatter. Ladies in flouncy dresses trailed reluctantly behind their husbands, rolling their smoky eyes. My lungs tightened as the elevator doors closed and I left the ritzy reception area behind.
When they reopened, I was standing on the seventeenth floor. I adjusted my pearl necklace and walked slowly to room 1795. Somewhere during the elevator ride, my overactive nerves had been replaced with a welcome sense of calm. I was ready to see her.
I paused outside Scarlett’s room, allowing myself one last deep breath. After a few quiet knocks, I heard her padded footsteps on the other side of the hotel door. It flung open moments later to reveal my truest love, standing sweetly in a pair of striped pink pajamas. As I threw myself into her warm embrace, Scarlett’s familiar touch and disarming affection enveloped me all at once.
She hugged me tightly as the door closed softly behind us. Our bodies pressed together and I inhaled her signature scent, the one that used to intoxicate me beyond belief. Over the years, the aroma had become pure comfort and ease.
Eventually, Scarlett pulled back to meet my eyes. I felt the inevitable quickening of my heart as we connected.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” she whispered.
After that, there were no words. And although mere weeks had passed since our last encounter, we shared a different sort of love that night. No coyness, no games. Only us.
I woke up to the sound of Scarlett humming. She was perched by the window, staring out at the New York skyline. The pale sunlight told me it was still morning. I smiled as she put her hand gracefully on the glass pane and traced the skyscrapers from left to right, pausing slightly at the Chrysler Building.
I closed my eyes and listened to her serene humming. I wanted to wake up to that calming sound every morning for the rest of my life.
When I stirred up again, she was back in bed, tucked cozily by my side. Her blond hair, still lustrous as ever, was shorter than it had been in Hong Kong. It curled subtly at the ends and framed her stunning face. As I began to visually trace her chiseled bone structure, she opened her eyes and beamed.
“Let’s run away,” she whispered.
I looked at her illuminated eyes—sparkling green, just like when we were young.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” I inched closer to her.
“Really?” Scarlett asked in disbelief.
“We’ll run away together to any place you’d like.”
The corners of her mouth crept into a beautiful smile, and then she kissed me deeply. I was convinced that we could be happy anywhere, so long as we were together. We both sighed as I pulled her into another long embrace. It was a moment of pure, untainted bliss.
Chapter 50
Bermuda, March 1950
The island breeze blew through my hair as I waded into the cerulean shallows. Hot sand beneath my feet turned into smooth, algae-covered rocks and tiny white seashells. I smelled nothing but salty air and the fresh fruit hanging from the abundant trees above. I loved the carefree vibe of the beach, locals fishing on the north shore while vacationers sipped rum and sangria.
I looked at Scarlett, floating atop the quiet waves as sun tanned her alabaster skin. She was wearing the striped bathing costume we’d found in our hotel gift shop. It hugged her petite curves as her thin frame bobbed gently up and down in the turquoise ocean. Her large oval sunglasses and perfect blond hair made me laugh. Scarlett couldn’t pull off incognito to save her life.
We retreated to the sandy bank once the tide rose. Our villa was near the south shore, conveniently isolated from other tourists. We had arrived the week prior after finally choosing Bermuda from a long list of exotic locales. We were city lovers at heart, but the tropical setting agreed with both of us.
In the mornings, we sipped local coffee and read on the patio. Then we headed to the beach and lay under the sun until one of us—usually me—became restless. Then it was fresh fish for lunch in a casual restaurant before returning to the beach. Scarlett took some convincing to go into the water at first. But now here we were, just a few days later, immersed in the sea until the tide forced us out.
The evenings were magic. When the island sun set into the broad stretch of lapis ocean outside our villa, the purple sky lit up fiery orange just for a moment before the sun disappeared. Twilight in Bermuda was something out of a dream as well. Moonlight shone onto the black waves as wooden torches illuminated the empty beach. The sky had more stars than either of us had ever seen. There was nothing more radiant and possessing.
WE returned to the villa early for an alfresco dinner. Scarlett bought fresh fillets from the outdoor market and I scoured the vegetable garden near our holiday home. She told me that she was feeling especially tired, so I urged her to take a nap while I cooked.
I fetched seasonings from the pantry as the skillet warmed— a sprinkle of chives, two dashes of sea salt, and a generous pat of butter. I delighted in the sizzling sound the ingredients made as they melted in the hot pan. I lightly seared each fillet until golden brown streaks appeared. Then I plated the fish over a bed of mixed greens and caramelized onions.
Scarlett was fast asleep when I tiptoed into our airy bedroom. Sun shone through the sheer peach curtains, and specks of light peeked out between the thick plantation shutters. I could hear the regular afternoon commotion as local children played games outside, but Scarlett didn’t seem to mind. She was sleeping more soundly than I’d ever seen her do.
Her body took up only a small fraction of our roomy mattress. An open suitcase sat at the foot of the bed, summery clothes hanging out of it. I walked over to straighten up, careful not to wake Scarlett. As I lifted her luggage flap, a small bottle fell out the suitcase and rolled under our bed. I bent over to pick it up, glancing at Scarlett before kneeling down quietly.
I reached far underneath the bed frame and felt around aimlessly for a few moments before finally making contact. The clear glass bottle was covered in dust by the time I grabbed it. I wiped off the tiny label and squinted to read its impossibly small lettering. It was a prescription:
Scarlett M. Daniels—Take two tablets per day or as needed for pain.
Chapter 51
My first instinct was to toss the pills back into her suitcase and leave the room. But I continued to stare at the bottle, clenching it until my knuckles turned white. I turned it over as I wondered wha
t the pills might be for. When I opened her suitcase to put them back, a tiny pink paper caught my attention. I plucked it up and read the messy pencil script:
As discussed, the cancer has already spread rapidly We’ve covered the lack of treatment options, so I’m Prescribing you medication for pain management. Take it as needed, Per bottle directions. Do not exceed six tablets in one day.
When Scarlett started to stir, I panicked and stuck the note and pills into my dress pocket before hurrying back into the kitchen.
I put our dinner back into the oven and waited patiently for her to come out. She never did. An hour passed by while I sat at our glass dining table, shifting uncomfortably in the wooden chair. I played with my apron strings as the fish lost its fresh taste and the greens wilted.
I reached into my pocket hesitantly and fingered the sturdy lid of the bottle. My heart raced as I turned it slowly around. I wondered how many times Scarlett had opened it. I shook my head and pulled the bottle back out. The tiny lettering stared at me menacingly until I set it down on the glass table. I rested my face in my open palms, hoping that Scarlett would emerge before sundown.
Another hour, and still nothing. I felt guilty when I realized that the cancer was probably draining her energy. It was good for her to sleep. I wrapped up our meal and stuck it in the fridge; all the worrying had spoiled my appetite. Then I sat on the patio to take in Bermuda’s inimitable sunset.
Spidery vines and island flowers covered the deck. The dim, humid air encased me as I sat underneath a pretty ivy arch. I sank deeper into my wicker chair as ginger swirls tangled with rich amethyst blocks of sky. In that moment, the sunset relaxed me more than anything else could.
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