Practice Makes Perfect (10 page)

“H
ello?”

Helen cursed. Every time the door opened, her traitorous heart flipped, thinking it might be Henry. But it never was. Yesterday it was Lindsey, bringing her a pile of brownies that were delicious, not that she told Lindsey so. No, Helen had stayed hidden in her bedroom with the door closed while Lindsey talked to her dogs and promised to call later.

Not that Helen picked up the phone.

This time it was Grace, and Helen had made the mistake of emerging from her bedroom to stare at the living room walls for a change, because staring at the bedroom walls reminded her of Henry and that was not helping her at all.

“I've come bearing wine,” Grace said, then tutted when she saw Helen.

“What, you've never seen sweatpants before?”

“There's no need to be nasty,” Grace said. “Not when I've got wine. And Gloria Gaynor.” Grace pulled a CD out of her purse. “Now put on your disco dress and let's do this right.”

“What are you talking about.” Helen didn't even bother to make it a question. Of course Grace knew. If Lindsey knew, Grace knew. Grace was probably the one who'd told Lindsey.

“Mary Beth told me Henry brought something to the committee, and now they're thinking about redoing the plan for the brothel.”

“I know.” Helen had gone to work yesterday morning and heard the news. Lou kept staring daggers at her, as if it was Helen's fault that Henry had found the diary.

Well, it sort of was, but it had been an accident. She just didn't have the heart to try to explain another unintentional mistake to someone who wouldn't listen.

Besides, she couldn't begrudge Henry his success.

She'd gone home after lunch and locked herself in her bedroom.

Until she started thinking about the walls.

“Henry said you were instrumental in tracking down the information.”

Helen scoffed. She'd hardly tracked it down.

“He said he tried to call.”

Helen shrugged. He knew where her house was. He knew how to get in. Hell, George and Tammy would probably figure out a way to unlock the door for him.

“This must really be serious if you're wallowing without disco music.”

Helen glared at Grace and reached for the wine bottle.

“Do you want a glass?”

Helen peeled the wrapper off the cork.

“Well, you at least need an opener, unless you plan on biting the cork off.”

Helen considered it.

Grace sighed and went into the kitchen, mumbling something about stubbornness and stupidity.

Helen heard the door open again, and she cursed again. What was this, Sad Grand Central Station?

Then George and Tammy sprinted down the hall, whining and barking and tripping over their ears.

Oh god.

“I called him,” Grace said, emerging from the kitchen with a corkscrew. “I'll just let myself out the back.” She took the bottle of wine from Helen—which was very unsporting of her—and left her alone to deal with the man Helen didn't want to admit had broken her heart.

So Helen did what any mature woman who no longer kept secrets did.

She jumped off the couch and locked herself in the bathroom.

H
elen got out of the shower and took her time doing her hair. She put on a little mascara. She changed into a fresh pair of sweatpants.

Henry was still there.

He looked like crap, despite his sharp bow tie and blazer. He had dark circles under his eyes, just like hers. They were twins. Twins in misery. Identical in every way, except one was an asshole.

“I've been thinking a lot about romance novels,” he said.

Helen felt the sudden urge to throw every book she'd ever read out the window. Or if not every book, then every Henry.

“One thing I've noticed is that the conflict often centers on a big misunderstanding, and the hero and heroine are keeping things from each other, and instead of talking about it, they just let it simmer until it boils over and then, bam, the end.”

“Yeah,” Helen said. The Big Misunderstanding. It was one of her pet peeves—in the wrong hands, it could look like lazy storytelling. But wasn't that the crux of romantic drama? Two people want to be together, but all of these things get in the way? And the people believe the things are more powerful than love?

That's the magic of the romance novel, though, she thought. In the end, the writer makes you believe the fantasy that no things, no lack of communication, no social barriers, no fear of ruining a perfectly good—no, essential—friendship can get in the way of love.

“In so many of these books I've read, I just want to throttle the main characters. I mean, just talk about it! All of your problems would be solved if you would just talk about it!”

“Wait, books that you've read? How many books?”

“Lots, now. I told you. When you told me you were working on one, and you asked for my help, I thought I should know what I was doing. Do you know how easy it is to download e-books? Those things are addictive.”

“But I didn't want you to help—”

“I know you just wanted my help with the sex part. The lovemaking.”

Lovemaking. Stupid word.

“Anyway, I just decided to read a few, and then I liked them so I read a few more, and . . . look, that's not what I came here to talk to you about.”

“Then what?” Helen didn't think she could take more hateful words lobbed at her like the last time she and Henry had talked.

Henry took a deep breath. “I'm an idiot.”

Helen reeled back. That was not what she was expecting. She didn't know what she thought Henry wanted to talk to her about. She was perfectly happy with the idea of never talking to Henry again.

She too was an idiot.

“Of course you didn't hide Madame Renee's journal from me. That's—” He waved his hands, looking for the word. “That's stupid. I know you would never do anything like that. Not to me, not to anyone.”

“Then why did you say that?” Don't push it, she warned herself. Just let him say his piece, then you can be friends again. That's good enough.

“Because I'm an idiot. And because I thought I knew everything. I thought I knew that the house was more than just a house and that you believed me. And that you were my friend, just my friend. And I don't mean to diminish the importance of your friendship, because it is the most important thing I've got. But I thought I knew what it was. But then we started having sex and I was just helping out a friend, right? But it became something more to me, something different, something I didn't understand. It messed me up, and I thought, well, if I didn't understand that, what else didn't I understand?”

“Yeah, you thought I was just using you. I remember. You told me.” So much for not pushing it.

But he had hurt her, dammit.

He grabbed her hands. “That's just it. I was so stupid. I was messed up by everything I was feeling and I didn't understand it, so I did that dumb romance-novel-hero thing where I just didn't think, and didn't talk about it, and just . . . gah, I was just dumb!”

Sometimes, when the conflict is just a big misunderstanding and the hero reacts in a very stupid and hurtful way, he can redeem himself in the eyes of the heroine—and the reader—by . . .

“Is this a grovel?”

He hung his head but held on to her hands. “I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I can't justify it. I can't even really explain it, except to say that I realized something that completely changed how I think about you, and I dealt with it in the worst way.”

“What did you realize? That I'm suddenly a conniving—”

“That I love you. That I'm
in
love with you. Not just friends.”

Helen opened her mouth to respond. Then she shut it. She had no response. She just had fish mouth.

“I'm so sorry that I didn't tell you sooner. I didn't know. Or I knew, but I didn't understand. And I let my confusion fester and get weird and then I found the diary and I used it as an excuse to push you away.”

He loved her. Was
in
love with her. “But why?”

“I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't have a lot of friends.”

“That's not true,” she scoffed.

“It is. You have a lot of friends, and they tolerate me because they like you. And that's OK. I don't really like most people, anyway. Except that I do like the people around you, and I think that's because of you. You make me see what's good about other people. You make me give them a chance. You make
me
better. That's what I love about our friendship.”

Back to the ol' friendship thing.

“So when I felt it changing,” he continued, “I was terrified. Because if it changed one way, it could change in another, and then you'd be gone. I was just starting to like people, and they would be gone too. I would be alone. And I didn't even care that much that I wouldn't be able to hang out with Grace or Jake or Mary Beth or Lindsey again. I mean, I cared a little, but not that much. But if I couldn't be around you . . . It sounds a little psychotic now that I say it out loud.”

“I always knew you were a little crazy.”

“I know. I know! The one person in my life who not only tolerates my craziness but seems to actually enjoy it!”

“So you were scared.”

“Terrified!”

“And you acted like an idiot.”

“A total jerk!”

“This is a pretty good grovel.”

Henry shook his head. “It's not about the grovel. I mean, yes, it is also about that, and also about how sorry I am that I hurt you. So sorry. It's the worst thing I've ever done in my life.”

“I get it. I accept your apology.”

“That's not what I want.”

“Okaaaay . . .” She tried to pull her hands away, but he wouldn't let go.

“Wait. No. Yes, that is what I want. That is also what I want. The other thing that I want is for me to be very clear with you so you understand: I love you, Helen.”

“Like,
love
love?”

“Yes. Love love! So much love love.”

Now it was starting to sink in. But maybe if he said it a few more times.

“Did I mess it up too badly? I hope I didn't, but if I did, I understand. And I hope that we can at least be friends—”

She couldn't take any more. Not Henry groveling, not his apologizing and explaining and tearing open his chest and pouring it all out at her feet. And not leaving him there, wondering how she felt. That was too cruel.

So she stopped him.

With her face.

And when he finally let go of her hands, it was to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close so she was trapped against his body, that body she loved, and she poured all that love into her kiss and felt it coming right back to her in spades.

“What about the brothel?” she said when she finally let him come up for air.

“I don't care about the brothel anymore.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Don't lie to me, Henry Beckham.”

He sighed and sat down on the couch. But he didn't let go of her, and she came down with him. “I don't know. I took the diary and what it could mean to the committee. It's up to them now.”

“Surely they can't tear the house down now? It's a landmark.”

“They're really determined to build a new archive.”

Helen sat back and pulled her knees up to her chest. They still needed an archive, and rehabilitation was still more expensive than demolition.

“You'll be heartbroken if they tear that house down,” she told him, as if he didn't know.

He nodded. “It will be a mistake. But the house is falling apart. It's tragic that it was left to rot, but there's nothing I can do about that. Whatever happens, we have the diary, and there's a lot we can learn from it, even without the house. Still, I'll keep fighting. And I won't let the house get between us.”

She brushed the side of his face. “You'll try not to let it get between us.”

He turned her hand and placed a kiss in her palm. “I'll try,” he promised. “Please don't let me.”

“I love you too, you know.”

She felt his smile against her palm. It was even better than the kiss.

He was her Henry.

M
adame Renee's brothel still stands.

Although now it is the more genteelly named Pembroke College Department of Archives and Local History. That's a bit of a mouthful, though, so everyone just calls it “the Brothel.”

True to his word, Henry fought the demolition of the building, using Madame Renee's journal as evidence of its historical import. He and Jake drew up plans to make it structurally sound enough to support bookshelves without destroying the integrity of the architecture. Soon other historians from across the state got on board, finding evidence that Madame Renee was hiding fugitive slaves in the attic while she entertained Confederate generals in the parlor. They connected her with early advocacy in support of birth control and disease prevention as a woman's right, in addition to being good business. They found evidence that she wore pants.

Although initially scandalized by her racy reputation, the fierce white-haired old ladies of the historical society soon embraced their rebel foremother.

The most surprising voice for the building, though, was Lou. She posited, loudly, that supporting the rehabilitation of the house in no way interfered with her vision for a new archive; it just adjusted it slightly. Once she was convinced that housing the Pembroke archives in a building that was, in and of itself, a historical document of sorts, there was no stopping her. She volunteered to lie down in front of the wrecking ball, if necessary. It never came to that. This did not stop her from offering, at least once a month.

Renovating a house according to historical standards takes a long time. Moving all of those boxes of dusty, disorganized documents took another forever. But it happened, and it opened, and there was a big, fancy reception where everybody got all dressed up and toasted Henry Beckham and his brilliant historian's mind and keen eye.

Helen even cut her book tour short to come to the reception. She told Henry it was just an excuse to put on a fancy dress, but really, she was so proud of him that even a pack of wild Kentucky horses couldn't keep her away. Besides, Henry had dropped everything to celebrate her book deal, then her book's appearance on the bestseller lists, then to fly to New York to be wined and dined by her publishers while they hammered out a new, three-book deal.

Once the reception was over and the last hand was shaken and the last glass was washed and sent away with the caterers, Helen and Henry went home. George and Tammy met them at the door, whining and howling and shaking their little basset hound butts. Henry let them out while Helen went to change out of her very un-librarian heels. A few minutes later, she heard the dogs come back in, then Henry's footsteps behind them. She turned to meet him at the door to her bedroom, and she led him inside, his hand warm in hers. She pulled on his bow tie. It came undone easily, with just a flick of her fingers. She tossed it aside and drew Henry close while the dogs settled in for a long night on the couch.