by Roxy Sloane
I came out from behind the desk and we sat together on the settee.
“This is what I know,” she said. “After you left the Berkshires, Jackson was so energized about his work and about you. I kept joking with him because the first night I met you, I’d told him you were a keeper, and then the first thing he did was turn around and let you go. But the day after he left to surprise you, he showed up at my house. His eyes were red, he was muttering. He was a mess.”
“What did he say?” I asked. “What did he see?”
Olivia continued, “When he first got to your place, he saw a man in your apartment. And he could hear your voices through the window, so he thought he’d better wait until your visitor left.”
A sick feeling curled in my belly as I said, “Except he never did. Luke spent the night.”
Olivia nodded. “At some point the light in your bedroom went out, so Jackson put two and two together. . . he spent the night sitting in his car. He was in shock. The next morning he saw you leave your place with the man. He said he had his arm around you, that you were laughing and you looked happy. Like you and this guy were a couple.”
Her eyes searched mine, questioning, but I just shook my head again slowly.
“Olivia, Luke is my ex-boyfriend. He showed up at my place drunk, and we fought, but when I tried to make him leave, he passed out in my hallway. I dragged him back inside and put him to bed—alone—and spent the night on my couch listening to him snore. That hug the next day was friendly, he told a bad joke. That’s all it was. I didn’t sleep with him. He’s my ex for a reason. Many reasons.”
“Oh, God. Jackson got it all wrong, didn’t he?” What I saw in Olivia’s eyes then wasn’t judgment or suspicion. It was dismay. And I knew she really believed me. “This is awful. I’m so sorry.”
I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks, and I nodded as I wiped them away.
“This isn’t over,” she said gently. “I’ll tell Jackson. It was just a misunderstanding. You two can work it out.”
My insides went cold. “That is not going to happen.” My vehemence surprised even me. “Not after what he’s done.”
“But you have to realize that from his perspective, it looked like—”
“No,” I cut her off. “I don’t care what it looked like. Jackson Ford blew up my world. Humiliated me in front of my colleagues, fired me from our project, threatened my career. And throughout it all, he refused to discuss any of this with me like an adult. It’s not just about me, though. I have an elderly parent who requires constant care, and I spent weeks in hell with no idea how I was going to care for her if I lost my job.”
“I know his behavior was unacceptable,” she replied carefully. “And I’m not excusing him. But after you came along, Jackson was different. I hadn’t seen him so happy in years. He was so positive. And now he’s. . . the old Jackson again. The bitter one. Running away from home and hiding out in some cabin upstate, refusing to take my calls, burying himself in work to avoid reality. You two had a real connection.” Olivia sighed. “Do you think you’d ever give him another chance?”
“I don’t think I can,” I said finally. “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know which Jackson Ford I’ll meet. The one who wants to punish me or protect me. Resent me or respect me. I just can’t do it. I cannot ever put myself through that again.”
“I understand,” she said. “And I wouldn’t hold your decision against you. But I hope you’ll think it over. Maybe with time. . . ” She stood, and a dark look crossed her face. “This is all Christina’s fault.”
“Christina?”
“Von Altmann. His ex.”
Christina Von Altmann. . . the name jogged my memory. “She wrote Three Little White Lies, right?” I said. It was years ago, but the book had won many awards.
Olivia nodded, still frowning. I remembered the book, a postmodern novel written in short stories, none of which had resolved endings or relatable characters. But Christina’s debut made her a literary darling—the critics had fawned over her.
I vaguely recalled reading in the gossip columns a few years ago that Jackson Ford and Christina Von Altmann had parted ways, but there were no further details.
“I wish he’d never met her. Did you know she walked out on him the day he was going to propose? It destroyed him. He changed after that. The Jackson I knew was gone. Until he met you. And now—” Olivia’s voice broke with emotion, and she cleared her throat. “Sorry. I shouldn’t even be talking about it.”
I nodded, taking it all in. The pieces were starting to fit together. But it still didn’t change anything, didn’t fix what had been broken.
Finally, I said, “Thank you, Olivia,” with all the dignity I could muster. “You’ve helped me so much, made sense of so many things for me.”
“So will you go to him?” she asked hopefully. “He’s suffering there in that cabin. You’re suffering here in the city. You love him and he loves you, so why shouldn’t you two be together?”
“Because I can’t trust him. And after what he’s been through, I’m not sure if he’s capable of really trusting anyone ever again. Maybe you and he have a chance now to fix whatever broke between you. It’s clear he still cares for you very much, and. . . I just want him to be okay.”
For a moment, Olivia’s face was blank. And then she broke into a grin. “Ellie. No. Jackson’s my friend, my very longtime friend, but we have no history like that. I’m married. I have a wife.”
It was as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes. “What?”
“Jackson’s like my brother, not my lover. I’ve been with the same woman for seven years.”
Dozens of moments between them were suddenly reframed in my mind.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” she said, standing and straightening her blazer. “But just think about what I’ve told you. Will you do that?”
I nodded that I would. Then she looked around the shop, her gaze thoughtful.
“And I really do want to get some things for my clients.” She went quickly through the shelves and I helped her select three pairs of boots, a pair of two-tone oxfords, and six pairs of heels, stacking the boxes up on the counter.
As I rang up her purchases, she took a deep breath.
“Listen,” she said, “I won’t try to change Jackson’s mind about anything, but I’m going to tell him we talked. He’s my best friend, so I can’t hide this from him.”
“I get it,” I said. “But please tell him not to contact me. Promise.”
The indecision was evident on her face. Finally she nodded. “I’ll tell him. I can’t guarantee he’ll listen, but I’ll tell him.” Then she gave me a hug, told me a messenger would be by to pick up the shoes, and left.
When the doorbell jingled her exit, Maggie appeared at the counter.
“I heard everything. I didn’t know if you wanted me to rescue you or if that would just scare her off, so I just. . . ” She shook her head. “Are you okay?”
“I am. And thank you.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I do. But not now.”
Maggie nodded. “Then let me take you to dinner so you can tell me more about my future husband Rob Parker. This fishing trip can’t come fast enough.”
“Thai?” I asked.
“You got it. Let’s lock up.”
I smiled, grateful at Maggie’s effortless ability to give me space, change the subject, and perk me up all in one fell swoop. We shut the shop up for the night and headed out the door.
29
I finally had my answers. Bianca, Maggie and I had believed that knowing would change things. But Olivia’s revelations changed nothing that really mattered.
Yes, I finally understood the reason for Jackson’s anger, his pain and his retribution. That brought me a sense of closure and a degree of peace. But it couldn’t erase the hurt of everything he’d done to me, or mend our shattered relationship. It didn’t matter that I still missed him every day, that I still
wanted him back, that I still thought of his face, his hands, his tongue when I made myself come. I couldn’t let myself be weak. It was over.
Because something deep inside told me that I would not, could not, survive it a second time, the pain he was capable of inflicting on my heart.
The weeks passed. I threw myself into work. Only once did Louise mention to me that she hadn’t seen a single page from Jackson, but other than that she kept a respectful distance where he and I were concerned. The sale of the cabin finally closed, after one last hurrah there with my friends, including Rob—he and Mags had hit it off so well on our fishing excursion (which Bianca actually enjoyed, surprising us all) that they were texting on a daily basis and making plans to meet up again soon, and I couldn’t be happier for them. Bianca also finally introduced Maggie and me to William, her screenwriting art collector boyfriend. We gave him the full seal of approval.
One night, as I was brushing my teeth, my phone beeped with an email notification. I went to the side table where it was charging and opened my inbox. When I saw the sender, I froze: J. Ford.
I sat down, closed my eyes, and took a few slow, deep breaths. I couldn’t read his email. I wouldn’t. I would delete it.
I opened the message.
Darling Ellie.
I understand you probably won’t read this. But I had to try.
I spoke with Olivia. She explained what I saw, or thought I saw, the night I visited your apartment. I can’t begin to describe how sorry I am for the pain I’ve caused you. How deeply I regret my behavior. I took my own pain and fear, and I lashed out at you. I don’t know how I can ever make up for that.
It’s so ironic that my inability to trust you resulted in these actions which have made it impossible for you to trust me. I understand. I was vicious. I was cruel. And I was blind or I would have seen the love you were so clearly showing me. I did know your heart. I recognized your heart, but somehow I couldn’t believe in it.
I don’t expect you to forgive me.
I want you to know that I miss you every day. Even in those days when I hated you, I missed you. And then I hated myself for needing you. Wanting you. In my life. In my bed.
It’s so hard to accept that everything we had is gone. Because of me.
Whatever you’re doing and wherever you are, I wish you success and strength, Ellie. I want only the best for you.
Yours, Jackson
I covered my face with my hands and let the tears drip down my cheeks.
And then I hit delete.
The following morning, I got a call from B.
“Guess who’s in town?” she said excitedly.
“Your mother?”
“Would I be excited if it was my mother?” she scoffed. “It’s Veld. Rogier’s back! I booked you guys a table at Emiliano’s for tonight!”
I felt panic rising. “Um, wow. That’s great,” I said weakly. “Thank you.”
“What’s wrong?” asked B. “It’s not a date! It’s a nice dinner with a very nice guy. No expectations, no pressure, amazing Salvadoran food. . . ”
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I said.
“Maybe you aren’t. And that’s okay. But promise me you’ll at least try,” B begged. “The worst that can happen is you don’t have fun and you never have to see him again. But it’s been months, Ellie. This might be you going through the motions, but it might be really great. I’m not throwing you at some random stranger. You guys had a real connection, you know? Can you at least give it a shot?”
My mouth was dry. “Okay.” Bianca squealed with glee. I shook my head, as if that could rejigger my brain. “But if I hate it, I’m leaving early with a headache.”
“And if you do, I’ll tell him later how epic your migraines get.”
That evening, as I got dressed, I felt nauseous with nerves. I considered cancelling. “This is a friendly dinner,” I kept telling myself. “This is not romance.” But it didn’t help.
I was finishing my eye makeup when the intercom buzzed. It was Rogier.
“Come on in,” I said. “I’m the first apartment on the left.”
I opened my door and watched him approach through the vestibule. He radiated effortless cool. He was wearing a woven leather cap, black jeans and a sweater. His beautiful brown eyes glowed with all the warmth I had remembered. He smiled and reached out for my hand, and then gave me a kiss on both cheeks, as when we’d first met.
“Hello there,” he said. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to relax. Bianca was right. I could do this. It would be fine. “Can I get you a drink? I just need to grab my shoes.”
“Maybe,” he said. “What do you have?”
“Do you like scotch whiskey?” I asked, lifting a bottle of Glenfiddich.
He thought about it. “I’ll just have water.”
I laughed and pointed him toward the kitchen while I went to gather my things.
A cab brought us to the restaurant, and once inside we were led to a corner booth. The place was busy and bright, decorated in saturated hues of coral, deep blue, and tangerine. There were touches of folk art on the walls and the wooden tables were polished to a dull gleam. It was the antithesis of a romantic candlelit dinner, and I was glad Bianca had chosen it. Rogier deferred to me and I ordered us plates of carne asada, tamales, and pacaya.
“I noticed the bookshelf back at your apartment—you have so many books,” he said.
I smiled. “It’s not just a job for me. Books are my passion. They’re everything.”
“I feel the same about art,” he nodded. “And I would love to get some recommendations from you. I’m spending more and more time on planes and I never know what to read.”
“Oh, I’d be happy to make some suggestions. What do you like? What genre?”
“I love a good thriller.”
I felt my intestines tying themselves in knots. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “Going to grab a beer from the bar. Can I get you one, too?” He assented.
When I returned to the table with our drinks, I changed the subject.
“So where are you traveling?” I took a big sip of beer, and then another. I’d get through this. I’d make Bianca proud.
“Japan, Australia. Back and forth between the States. It’s a lot.”
“So exciting,” I said. “Is it for shows?”
“Shows, interviews, commissions. It’s a bit overwhelming.” His brow creased.
“It must get draining, being on the road all the time. Especially if you want to be working on your art.”
“I’ll be going home soon to return to my work,” he said with a great sense of relief. “It’s almost physically painful if I’m away too long.”
I was silent.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“I went through a rough patch,” I admitted. I didn’t want to say too much because I didn’t want to dissolve.
“I could tell,” he said. “When I saw you; your smile is the same but your eyes are sad.”
I knew there was little I could hide from him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I might not be very good company tonight.”
“I didn’t come here because I wanted to be entertained,” he said gently. “I came because I want to learn about who you are.”
His goodness moved me. I wanted to be like him.
“Yes, but there’s an attraction between us,” I said. “Am I right?”
“It’s true for me,” he answered.
“And I just don’t want to keep disappointing you.”
The waiter brought our food then, breaking up an awkward moment, and although everything smelled wonderful and looked twice as good, I could hardly touch the plates. The beer was going to my head though, and that relaxed me. Rogier discussed his latest project and told me stories of his travels, and soon I forgot that I was only pretending to have a good time.
At the end of the night, we stepped outside into the bitter chill and Rogier kissed me
on both cheeks and hailed a cab. Before I could explain that our relationship would have to stay platonic, he opened the car door and gestured me into the back seat, closing the door behind me.
“Whoever he is, Ellie, he’s a fool for being apart from you,” he said. “But for what it’s worth I hope we meet again, even if only as friends.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I gave the driver my address and then waved good night to Rogier as the cab pulled away.
30
On Saturday, I met Maggie for breakfast. Then I borrowed the Jeep and headed to Brookside to see my mom. The parking lot was full to capacity when I pulled in—weekends were always busier than during the week, but I’d never seen so many cars. I circled several times without luck. Then on my fifth pass, a spot opened up right in front.
In the lobby, a long table had been set up with folders, name badges, donuts, and coffee. I went over to investigate when suddenly Penny came zipping through carrying an armload of binders.
“Ceci!” she called joyfully. “Ceci, how are you? Emma Rose is going to be thrilled! We’ve missed you.”
“Oh, thank you,” I replied. “I’ve missed you guys too. What’s going on?”
“Alzheimer’s conference,” she replied. “We’re hosting the Biomarkers session. There’s already four big-shot research scientists and some of Dr. Williamson’s colleagues set up in the gathering room. Did you find parking?”
“Yes, eventually,” I laughed. “Penny, how’s she doing?”
“Oh, she’s doing great. She hasn’t had a panic episode in weeks. She’s alert and focused, and Doctor says he’s optimistic it’ll stay that way. Vi was up there a minute ago. Why don’t you go on up?”
When I got to my mom’s room, I steeled myself, painted on a smile and peered around the doorway. She was in her bedclothes, sitting up in an upholstered chair by the window. When she turned toward me, I noticed that she had lost even more weight, but her eyes were bright and aware. Slowly, a warm smile transformed her face.
“Ah, there’s my friend,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
