by Mia Asher
Outside the hotel, the city comes alive, pulsating to the mad beating of my heart. I take out my phone and dial Sophie. She answers after the first ring.
“What’s up, handsome?”
“Your best friend … Her husband’s family is from Greenwich, right?”
“Sharon? She’s from New Canaan, her husband’s from Texas. But, yeah, they live there now. Why do you ask?”
“Listen, I need you to do me a favor …”
“Sure. Are you okay? You sound funny.”
I stare at the cars flying by.
I choose life.
I choose her.
“Yeah,” I pause. “I think I will be.”
“GOOD MORNING, VAL.”
I’m reaching for a pan in one of the cabinets when I see Evan approaching. He’s been working as our chef for the past three years. He used to work at an Italian restaurant that we frequented in Port Chester until William made him an offer that he couldn’t resist. Now he’s with us.
“Good morning, Evan,” I say lightly, placing the pan on the stove. “I’m preparing breakfast today.” I open another cabinet and reach for a bowl this time.
He comes to stand next to me and folds his arms across his slim chest. He reminds me of a young George Clooney, back when he was on E.R. And unlike Mrs. Croft, who has never really warmed up to me, Evan has become a good friend. One of the few real friends I have.
“Should I be worried about my job?” he jokes, his dark eyes sparkling with humor.
I laugh. “Not at all. I woke up and felt like cooking.”
He opens the glass container with the flour and hands it to me. “Pancakes?”
“Thank you, and yes.”
“You’re welcome.” His gaze follows my every move, watching me scoop the flour and depositing it in the bowl. “Family recipe?”
“Yep, my aunt’s. She used to wait tables at a diner back home.” I grin, remembering the day she came home, a smug smile on her face because she finally got Johnny, the cook and owner of the diner, to share his famous recipe with her. “She got the recipe from the owner, who got it from his grandmother, and so forth. Would you like to try them?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure. I really should be making them for you.”
I throw him a pointed look. “Evan, eat the damn pancakes.”
Evan chuckles. “All right, boss.”
I prepare a plate for him and place it in front of him. As I watch him reach for his knife and fork, I feel excited and nervous to find out what he thinks. He takes a bite and closes his eyes oohing and ahhing.
He swallows the first bite. “Fuck.” He takes another bite. “These are something else.”
“Pretty amazing, right?” I lean my hip on the counter as I watch him dig in, quite proud of myself. I reach for my coffee and take a sip, enjoying the taste of the Colombian brew. “Tell me, did you always know you wanted to be a chef?”
Evan takes the last bite, leaving his plate completely clean. Wipes his mouth with a napkin and turns his attention back to me. “No,” he chuckles, “I went to dental school, but flunked out. Too much partying and drinking. I think my heart just wasn’t in it, you know? My parents were pretty pissed, so they kicked me out and stopped paying my bills. They said it was time I got a dose of reality. It sucked really bad for a while.”
“Because you had no money?”
“Well, that and because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was crashing at Lara’s at the time. Every morning I woke up and watched her get ready for her internship, she was excited to go to work and learn. And there I was just sitting around, playing Xbox, waiting for my girlfriend to come home. Waiting for life to start.”
“I like that … waiting for life to start.”
“I felt useless, you know?”
If Evan only knew how much I understand. “I think I have an idea.”
“Do you really?” he asks, surprise registering in the tone of his voice.
I nod, not wanting to elaborate. “So, what did you do?” I ask quietly, holding onto his next words as though they were the answer to my own questions.
“Well, I enjoyed cooking. Until then I’d considered it a hobby, something I was good at but never really thought about it as a career. But one day, Lara suggested I talk to her uncle who owned a diner in Bayside. Maybe he could give me a job. I drove all the way to Queens, and the rest is history.” He stands up to place the plate in the sink. “Cooking is not only a job; it’s my passion. What about you?”
“What about me?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Any passions?”
“Well, I enjoy cooking for sure.” I put down the coffee mug on the counter and play with the handle. “But I wouldn’t call it a passion necessarily.” Memories of the lovely afternoons spent in Mr. Lemaire’s flower shop tending to the flowers, making them come alive once again swirl around me. “Flowers,” I say slowly, smiling. “Flowers are my passion.” Their beauty, their smell, the way they brighten a room with color, bringing it to life. “They make me happy.”
He pauses, seemingly measuring his next words. “You know, my sister owns a small flower shop in Rye. Nothing fancy, but she’s happy. Busy. Would you like me to find out if she’s looking for help?”
My heart begins to drum madly as my soul growls in hunger for the chance to taste this opportunity, to sink my teeth in, swallow it, and let it nourish me. Ever since I came back from Paris, there’s a hunger in me that wasn’t there before. I’m tired of sitting around and letting life pass me by. No, I want to be someone I am proud of. So the old Valentina and the new meet and collide like waves crashing against rocks. And I’m okay with it, because I know I will find my footing.
“Would you really do that for me?”
“Sure. Why not?”
I stare out the window, watching the morning sky, and get swept away by hope. Maybe things do have a way to work themselves out.
“What’s the special occasion?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I smile at my husband who’s standing by the entrance to the kitchen. He looks relaxed and confident and handsome. He’s the kind of man you picture as your knight in shining armor, the courageous hero in a novel come to save the damsel in distress. So unlike …
I catch the direction of my thoughts and steer them back to safety. “Hungry?” I ask, wiping my hands on the towel hung over the oven handle.
He closes the space between us, loosening his tie. “Starving.”
“Good. I made enough food to feed an army, I think.”
I watch as William takes everything in, me standing by the stove, the dress I’m wearing, our wedding china sitting on the white granite, a crystal vase filled with white roses next to the plates. “Where’s Evan?”
“He came in the morning, but I told him to take the rest of the day off. I made you dinner instead.” I turn the stove off and walk into his arms. Standing on my tiptoes, I tilt my head back and grin. “We’re celebrating.”
“We are?” William places a quick kiss on the tip of my nose as his hands go to my hips. His fingers knead my skin and pull me flush against him, his touch warm and inviting. He lowers his head to my neck and shoulder, showering me with small kisses that stir my body awake yet my heart remains calm, unmoved. “Are you pregnant, my darling?”
Flushing, I shake my head. Since I got back from Paris, William reaches for me almost every night. He paints my body with kisses and his tongue while filling me with his seed.
“No, not that.”
Needing to put some space between us, I go to retrieve the bottle of red sitting on the counter. With my back to him, I take a deep, calming breath. When I’ve schooled my features into a composed disguise, I turn to face him once more, pasting a smile.
“Remember all those floral design classes I took a while back?”
“Vaguely, but yes.” William grabs a carrot from the salad and pops it into his mouth.
“I know I haven’t said much about Paris, but during my stay there
I helped an older gentleman at his flower shop.” I smile, remembering Mr. Lemaire. “Obviously I didn’t really know what I was doing, but it felt good to have a purpose. To do something. I’d like to think the experience changed me.”
“What do you mean it changed you?”
“I’d like to do something with my time other than going to the gym and shopping and waiting for you to come home. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. I’m lucky to have that choice, but that’s not who I am.” It’s who I thought I should be. I stare at the bottle in my hands, tracing its label. “I want more. And, well, Evan mentioned during breakfast that his sister owns a flower shop in Rye.” I hesitate, unsure of William’s reaction. “I went to see her today, and she offered me a job as an apprentice slash assistant. Her name is Meg, and she’s really, really lovely. Her place is—”
“Absolutely not.”
About to pour wine into the glasses, the hand holding the bottle freezes in midair. “What did you say?”
William takes the bottle from my hand and fills our glasses. After chugging down his own, he adds, “This isn’t Paris. Your place is at home. Think what our friends will say. What my grandmother will say. She already thinks I give you more than enough freedom.”
I clear my throat. This can’t be happening, not after everything has been going so well. Maybe he’s teasing me. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, not really.” He shrugs. “Besides, I won’t be made a laughing stock because my wife is some kind of lowly clerk at a random place.”
He has to be joking. Any minute now he’ll look at me, throw his head back, shouting with laughter. But seconds turn into minutes, and nothing happens. William’s gaze holds mine captive, and I feel entrapped with nowhere to run. “What kind of caveman views are those? Next you’re going to say that my job is to give you babies.”
William sighs, running a hand through his golden hair, exasperation and annoyance radiate from his body. “That’d be a start. But it seems you can’t even get that right.”
I feel like he just punched me in the stomach. “This is where you apologize.”
I’m met by hair rising silence.
I take a step back and look at him with revulsion and hurt before I turn away. “We’re done here, William.”
“No, we’re not.”
My skin breaks into goose bumps as soon as he comes to stand next to me. Taking my forearm in his hand, he stops me before I get a chance to escape. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Let go.” I try to snatch my arm away from his hold, but he tightens his grip making it impossible for me to get away. “You’re hurting me.”
“Listen to me, and listen to me well.” Gripping me by the chin, he makes me stare at him. His eyes, usually soft, are now hard as stone. “Tomorrow you’re going to give this Meg a call and inform her you can’t take the position anymore.”
“Why would I do that?” I ignore the pain from his angry hold, a rebellion forming inside me. “I don’t need your permission to do anything.”
“You’re my wife, and you’re going to do what I tell you to do.”
“No, I won’t. You don’t own me.”
He tightens his grip even more, drawing closer to me. “Don’t test me, Val.” There’s a dangerous edge to his tone that sends a chill running down my spine. I stare at William and feel as though I’m seeing him for the first time. He has the same features as the man I married. The man who’s slept next to me for years. The man I promised to love and obey until death do us apart. But this man, with the mocking eyes and the cruel touch and the menacing words, is a stranger who frightens me. He can’t be my William. But he is. And the thought that I might not know him at all leaves me reeling.
“You’re scaring me,” I say softly without looking away.
He lets go of me and pours himself another glass of wine, watching me closely.
Shaken, I grab the counter for support. After a few sips, he comes up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. The uninvited touch sends chills running down my spine.
“I’m sorry, my darling. It’s been a long fucking day and I lost my head.” He kisses the curve of my neck, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. “Listen, I know it might not seem that way, but I only want what’s best for us. Hell, you want a flower shop? I’ll buy you one, and you can hire whomever you want. Now come, let’s put this all behind us and go finish our dinner.”
He takes my hand in his and guides us to the table. Numb and in a daze, I follow and sit on the chair next to his. Reaching for my napkin, I place it on my lap, and watch him fill my plate with salad. But my appetite is gone.
William sits down and reaches for his fork. “I thought you were planning my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday? It’s just around the corner.” He smiles his golden boy smile, all charm and sweetness. He’s back to being the William I know, and I could almost be fooled into believing I imagined the whole thing.
Almost.
“How about you focus on that party first, and when it’s all over we can talk about this again?”
“Sure,” I say listlessly, my gaze trained on his handsome profile before landing on the wall full of photographs behind him. Those perfect snapshots of our life. There’s a wiry woman dressed in white standing next to a man. The picture perfect blushing bride. Her long brown hair surrounds her young face like a halo, and she’s looking up at him adoringly as he smiles down at her. They look happy. In love.
A blindfold has been removed from my eyes as the image before me blurs through my tears.
Have I gotten it all wrong?
The next morning I’m coming back from a run when I notice two vans parked outside the front entrance and the doors to the house flung wide open. Slowing down, I frown as I follow a man carrying a huge bouquet of red roses inside. Mrs. Croft is standing at the top of the steps, her eyes glowing softly.
“Good morning, Mrs. Croft.”
“Good morning, Valentina.”
A different man walks past me at that moment, smiling politely as he goes down the steps toward the van.
I focus on Mrs. Croft. “What’s going on? I don’t remember placing an order for flowers.”
Mrs. Croft smiles, maybe for the first time since I’ve known her. “Why don’t you go inside and see for yourself?”
“Okay.”
Stepping into the foyer, my eyes widen as I take in the view. Everywhere you look there are magnificent bouquets with dozens of red roses. The entire room is bursting with them. There’s one particularly magnificent arrangement sitting on top of the maple table in the middle of the room. I lean toward it to smell the intoxicating aroma, noticing a note.
I accept his apology, but nothing feels the same. Nothing is.
“SO WHY DID YOU need me to get you an invitation to this party?” I hear Allegra say as I help her out of her coat.
I watch my agent, a very attractive woman in her mid-fifties, hand her coat to the young girl working the coat check tonight. She smiles kindly, reminding me that she can be nice when she wants to be. Known as one of the toughest agents to land in the art scene, she will stomp on your dreams without an ounce of remorse. But if you’re lucky enough to catch her notice, you won’t find a bigger advocate and supporter for your work. Allegra will either make you bleed or go to war for you.
She teases her silver gray hair, giving it some volume. “The Fitzpatricks aren’t exactly your crowd. Very boring people.”
I look around past a sea of guests, searching for her. “Does that make them more acceptable to you?”
“Of course,” she says unashamedly. “God, I need a drink.”
I grab two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and hand her one. “Here.”
We clink glasses. “Santé.”
“Santé.” She takes a sip while studying me. “Have I told you you’re my favorite client?”
“You have, but I’m sure you say that to all of your clients,” I counter smoothly.
She laughs airily. “Just the handsome ones like you. But tell me, why did you want to come? And don’t say it’s because you wanted to celebrate Loretta’s ninetieth birthday because I won’t buy it.”
I give my bowtie a tug. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Oh?” Her interest sparks. “And who may that be?”
Back in Paris, all I had was a name and a town to go by. Valentina Fitzpatrick from Greenwich. Sophie came through for me, though. Greenwich high society was a small, incestuous pool. Her friend didn’t know her personally, but they belonged to the same country club. Her husband golfed with William sometimes. Everything was relatively easy once I knew where to find her. I gave Allegra a call to ask her if she knew of the Fitzpatrick’s. She didn’t, but she’d heard rumblings about an upcoming party where the crème de la crème of New York and Connecticut would be in attendance. It was being hosted by Mr. and Mrs. William Alexander Fitzpatrick IV.
Allegra worked her magic and got us in.
When I first found out that Valentina had gone back to her husband, anger, hurt, and jealousy boiled inside me, burning me alive. But the same voice that kept telling me what we had was real urged me to go after Valentina. To not give up. She was planning to end things with her husband, so something must have happened to change her mind. It didn’t make sense then. It still doesn’t.
So here I am. Standing in Valentina’s home with nothing but my heart to offer her. I want answers, and this might be my only chance. I clench my fists. I don’t know where the night will take me, but one thing is for sure.
Tonight, I will leave this house either a whole or broken man.
I down the champagne in one large gulp as the image of Valentina dancing in my kitchen flashes before my eyes. “Someone I have unfinished business with.”
“Ooh … the plot thickens.”
Allegra scans the room, studying crowds of people mingle amongst each other. We’re about to move when she sees someone she recognizes and stops to chat with him. She introduces me to the man, but I can’t recall his name, my attention elsewhere. My gaze follows every woman who resembles Valentina, hoping—dreading—to finally find her in a sea of meaningless faces.
