by Anne Calhoun
Impossibly, unapologetically, effortlessly stylish, his wife. At West Village Stationery she sold exclusive, handmade paper, couture stationery, invitations embossed or engraved. By twenty-eight she had established herself as the trend-setting expert for millennials fascinated by the art of pen and ink. The shopping trip with Colin, scoping out the luxury goods trade, potentially looked incriminating, but there was no sex involved. Daniel knew this for two reasons: Tilda’s cheeks, throat, and collarbone turned a very specific shade of dark pink when she had sex, and her personal code of ethics had no room for anything as cheap as infidelity.
Was that the only thing he knew about her?
Colin managed to start the car and turned on his blinker to merge into traffic, only to have a fast-moving cab slam on its brakes, then begin the requisite honk-showdown. The blinding sunlight slid off the windshield, and for a split second Tilda’s face was visible. She wore an expression of such naked anguish, her enormous gray eyes dark with despair, that Daniel’s thigh muscle clenched to take a step forward and intervene. A jolt of primitive awareness shot up his spine, straightening his vertebrae as he remembered exactly where he’d last seen that look on Tilda’s face.
The taxi swerved around Colin’s Mercedes, freeing room for Colin to merge into traffic. Sunlight flashed off the windshield like a blade, blinding Daniel for a moment. When his pupils relaxed, they were gone. His heart started slowing back into a normal resting rate, and he forced himself to relax, lean back against the building.
The last time he saw that look on Tilda’s face, they were at the Waldorf, the night of her birthday, after he’d given her his gift. It should have been a lovely night, and it was, except for one moment when he’d thought it was a trick of the lighting, the dim pool of soft white light casting shadows across her face, the downturned corners of her wide eyes, the desolate set of her mouth just after he gave her his gift, a Cartier LOVE bracelet, purchased in a rare fit of romantic possessiveness.
Hey. You okay?
I’m fine. It’s lovely, Daniel.
You sure? We can exchange it if you’d rather have the cuff.
No. No, I like it very much.
He’d let it go. Taken her answer on faith. Chalked it up to lighting and the desire on a slow simmer since they sat down, her ankle pressed against his calf during dinner, her gaze heated with promise. He knew how desire could tendril through the pit of your stomach, heating the marrow from your bones. It was who she was, and he loved her that way.
He automatically walked with the lights, avoiding the heavy foot traffic on Fifth Avenue for the quieter stretch of Madison. Anguished look. The divorce papers were sitting on their dining room table, anchored in place by an expensive paperweight that was a wedding present, and a framed screen of two eighteenth-century silk-embroidered robins. The skin at the nape of his neck hummed with awareness, a sensation he’d long ago learned to respect. He didn’t believe in coincidence, or in rescuing damsels in distress. Tilda didn’t need rescuing. She needed someone to stand next to her, toes over the abyss, while she took a good, long look.
He had two problems. The first was obvious. Making an appointment with a marriage counselor was a knee-jerk impulse that proved to be the wrong thing to do. The second was that Tilda thought they were wrong for each other, that six months of marriage proved not lifetime compatibility but fundamental, irreconcilable differences. Which meant he’d misunderstood something.
He hated not understanding something.
The direct hit to his ego landed in his gut. He’d built his reputation as a cop, FBI agent, and a man on taking puzzles apart, piece by piece, datum by datum, and reassembling them so they made sense. But when it came to his marriage, he’d missed something big, something bone-deep, something life changing about Tilda Davies.
That was on him. The end of the marriage wouldn’t be. He needed to think. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to their mutual friend Louise, who came from old New York money, and was the most down-to-earth person he’d ever met.
Can I borrow your terrace tonight?
The reply came almost immediately.
I’d suspect you’re going to propose to Tilda except you two lovebirds already got married. I haven’t forgiven you for eloping, but of course you can borrow the terrace. Will leave key with doorman. Come over anytime. xx L
He needed time, and space, a literal and metaphorical distance from his current life so he could think things through. In order to get answers, he would have to go back to where it all began.
After doing time at Fortune 500 companies on both coasts, national bestselling novelist Anne Calhoun landed in a flyover state, where she traded business casual for yoga pants and decided to write down all the lively story ideas that got her through years of monotonous corporate meetings. She holds a BA in History and English, and an MA in American Studies from Columbia University. Anne is the author of many novels including Jaded and Unforgiven. When she’s not writing her hobbies include reading, knitting, and yoga. She lives in the Midwest with her family and singlehandedly supports her local Starbucks.
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