R Is for Rebel (18 page)

She laughed then chastised him.

“If your Mama or Papa ever hear you say that, you will be in much trouble, mister.”

“Shhh! Abigail! Secret!”

More often, her little man would stay with her in Fulham, where she'd finally found the perfect home. On those nights, Abigail would swing him up in her arms and kiss him hard in the crook of his little, soft neck, then carry him down to the kitchen, where they made hot chocolate, ate ice cream out of the container, popped popcorn, and watched old episodes of
Bob
the
Builder
.

They usually spent the night at her house every couple of weeks, but Abigail had been so consumed with her work that a couple of months had slipped by without her realizing it.

Wolf, on the other hand, was keeping track of her absence.

When she got home from Devon's that night, she had four messages on her home answering machine from Wolf, bemoaning her absence. He always called her by her full name.
Just as Eliot had
, she thought wistfully. Wolf tried very hard to be formal, especially on the telephone, but his little baby voice was never quite as intelligible on the answering machine as it was in person.

“Abigail… This Wolf. You-shoo-be-home-now. I wanna come over. Please call.” Then a fumbling pause, then, “Okay, bye.”

Then, “Hi, Aunt Abigail. This Wolf, your nephew. I'm ready for sleepover, so you-shoo-call or come home so we can have sleepover, okay?” Then some fumbling with the phone, Bronte's encouraging voice in the background, then, “Mama says she miss you too. Bye.”

Two more messages along the same vein took up the rest of Abigail's answering machine.

In the spring of last year, after spending a few months contemplating her options and spending some enjoyable wine-soaked afternoons traipsing all over town with her mother and a very patient estate agent, Abigail had finally purchased a small freehold mews house a few streets away from Bronte and Max in Fulham. The price had seemed outrageous at the time, especially given her scrimping nature, but after discussing the long-term benefits of owning versus renting with everyone from her banker to the chemist in Shepherd Market, she'd finally done it. An older widow had been living there, alone, for years, and it was exactly as Abigail wanted it to be.

She didn't update the kitchen, or refurbish the two small bathrooms. She loved the three tiny bedrooms upstairs with their yellowed wallpaper and ancient windows with years of chipped paint. Unfortunately, Max had demanded she have the windows replaced (“On account of security,” he'd claimed, but Abigail suspected it was really because of the potential lead-filled chips of paint that might find their way into a particular little nephew's curious mouth).

Abigail had compromised, going to the trouble and expense of having all the original windows stripped and refurbished, then reinstalled in their bare wooden state.

That night, after mentally revisiting her dinner conversation at Devon and Sarah's, and the fun, chatty ride home with Max and Bronte, Abigail fell naked into her bed after tossing her clothes on the worn-out, hand-me-down chair in the corner of her small bedroom. It seemed impossible that they were the same clothes she had put on in Paris that morning. Time was starting to telescope and spread at odd angles. She reached for the charms around her neck, as she so often did when she fell asleep. Like a security blanket, she rubbed the familiar gold scales of the tiny fish, feeling the metal warm to her touch.

Feeling Eliot.

Her body was starting to crave his touch. She was naked under the old sheets that she had reclaimed before they were going to be thrown away after years of use at Dunlear. The antique linen felt like cool dry satin against her skin. Her body was becoming foreign to her, she thought absently. She didn't feel unattractive; she just felt pale. Out of use. Except when she thought of Eliot. She knew it was unhealthy, that she had built him up in her mind to embody a very unrealistic, near-perfect ideal. A nonexistent dream.

But she couldn't help it. She tried, she really did. She tried to picture erotic images that did not include Eliot, to read erotic novels that did not feature Eliot, anything to kick-start her desire: anything to help her move on from the obsession that was Eliot. But the primordial, hungry, visceral part of her, the part without a past or future or a hang-up in sight, the most basic atomic matter that defined Abigail Heyworth, before she had a name and long before she had any nicknames, knew what it yearned for.

She tried silly don't-think-of-Eliot mental games and exercises: think of beautiful, blond Tully, your lover of ten years.

Nothing.

Think of that hunky movie star who always gets loaded and throws phones at chambermaids.

Sigh.

Think of that Bond girl with the knife and the conch shell.

Ho-hum.

Think of everyone beautiful and sexy and naked and groaning and having a fantastic orgy right here on your bedroom floor.

And? So?
her libido seemed to answer, unimpressed.

Think of Eliot.

Yes! Do that!
her body cried.
Think
of
Eliot!
Think of Eliot doing all those things that he would have done, that he wanted to do, that he had only just begun doing. And she would think of Eliot. And her hands would wander. And she would have a few moments of pleasure and then almost immediately, after her breath would subside and the longed-for mindlessness of pleasure would drift away, she would remember again that she had been small and selfish and shallow all those months ago. She had been a coward.

And then there she was, alone. And sad. In her lovely bed, in her beautiful sheets, in her comforting room, in the bosom of her family, in the city that was opening its arms to her, in a world that she might actually be in a position to improve.

Yet, she was not with Eliot, so all of it felt… off. She pulled the sheets into her fists and tucked them under her chin. She would have to tell him, to his face, how wrong she had been. How scared of the truth. How much she loved him and how she understood that he had moved on, and she would try to do the same, but she didn't want either of them going to the grave with that love of hers going unspoken through eternity.

***

Eliot heard the shower turn off and stayed in the kitchen, nursing his glass of champagne. There was no way he could move forward with Marisa without at least giving her a heads-up about what was going on, maybe not about Abigail in particular, but about his ambivalence in general. She deserved that at least. She might be the least romantic woman, by her own accounting, but no woman was going to marry a man who spent all his time envisioning someone else. Or at least imagining the possibility of a very particular someone else.

Marisa had changed into a charcoal gray cashmere sweatshirt and matching loose lounge pants. Her hair was combed straight and hung damp down her back. She had the glass of champagne in one hand and the bottle in the other.

She lifted the bottle in Eliot's direction. “Would you like a refill?”

“Sure.” He walked toward her and held the glass up as she filled it.

“What would you like to watch?” She had already turned back toward the living room, expecting him to follow.

“Mari.” He walked behind her as he spoke. They might as well get comfortable in the living room, rather than standing around in the kitchen with all those knives at the ready.

She sat in a large, comfortable armchair, pulling her legs up under herself.
Totally self-contained
, thought Eliot, which gave him a bit of courage to say what he had to say. He sat at the edge of the sofa nearest her, looked down into his champagne glass. He twisted the thin stem once then looked up at her.

“What is it?” she asked directly. “Are you really pissed that I interrupted you at work today? I'm sorry about that. I was so excited and I know I'm so me-me-me—”

“No!” He laughed. “I mean, yes, you are me-me-me, but I kind of love that about you. I think for the first time in a while, I'm the one who is going to be me-me-me.”

She took a careful sip of her champagne and looked at Eliot with a keener interest. Then she waited for him to speak.

“The thing is, Mari…” He paused to put his glass of champagne down on the coffee table then clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “I might want to postpone the wedding.”

She continued to look at him, almost scientifically observing him.
Uncharacteristically patient
, thought Eliot.

As far as she could tell, he already had all the rope he needed to hang himself. She certainly wasn't going to have to provide him with any in the form of prodding speech.

Seeing that she was not going to say anything until he asked her a direct question, or even a rhetorical one, he continued ahead as best he could. Perhaps he shouldn't have fended off all of his mother's recent attempts to speak to him honestly about his emotional state; he was sorely out of practice.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “Without going too deep into it, there was a woman I was involved with before I met you, and I thought it was resolved, or over, or what have you, and I think I might still have feelings for her and it didn't seem right to move forward”—he gestured loosely between the two of them—“you know, with us. If that was the case.”

Marisa narrowed her eyes for several moments, but that was it.

On he went. “So, I will defer to your wishes. I'll do whatever you want to do. If you want to call it off altogether, if you want to postpone, if you want to talk about it, or whatever. What do you think?”

She refilled her glass of champagne with methodical precision, took a sip, and opened her mouth to speak.

Then she shut it without saying a word.

Eliot supposed he was grateful she was not prone to hysterics, but her controlled response only proved to be one more nail in the proverbial coffin. What would incite a passionate, unplanned, ill-considered response in this woman? He'd like to see that, but he was fairly certain he would never be the one to bring it on.

She collected her thoughts and started to speak, almost casually. “Here's the thing, Eliot. Why do you think you waited until it was in the newspaper, for the entire world to see, to tell me about… this…” She looked away, as if casting about for the word. “…Information? Did you forget about this woman for the past year and only now, as you are checking off your prenuptial packing list, consider that you had unfinished business in the ex-lover department?”

She was right, of course. It was not the tack he had expected, but she was right.

“Perhaps the reality of the newspaper announcement forced me to face the truth in a way that all of the planning and our hypothetical discussions had not.” Eliot tried to consider this. He was a thoughtful, contemplative person by nature, and this type of off-the-cuff discussion was particularly difficult for him. In business negotiations, he was always overly informed and ready to react to every eventuality. Why had he not thought to bring the same level of preparedness to this, one of the most pressing negotiations of his life?

“Those discussions were not hypothetical to me, Eliot.”

He looked into her stunning eyes and saw through to a tender heart. She was all brass tacks, but she was also a good person and it wasn't for Eliot to constantly try to compile all her bits of narcissism and self-satisfaction into a wad of unappealing characteristics that might make it, if not honorable, at least tenable to abandon her.

He wanted to put his arm around her, to comfort her, but she had chosen to sit in an isolated chair that made it impossible. She had thought they would be watching a movie at the time she sat there, but the fact remained.

“Aw, Mari, don't say it like that. You know what I meant. I feel like a total heel, not that that's your problem,” he added quickly. “But wouldn't it have been worse if I came to you after we were married and said I don't know what to do about this, well, my feelings for, well…”

“Good god, Eliot!” She was finally angry. “You don't even know what ‘this' other thing is. How the hell am I supposed to respond to ‘this'?” She regretted losing her temper. She always regretted losing her temper, but particularly now. “I'm sorry to raise my voice. I refuse to be the shrew whose incivility makes it easier for you to excuse yourself from this relationship. I'm sorry.”

“Mari, please. You have nothing to be sorry for. I would have expected at least a little fire. And I certainly know you're not the type to enjoy unnecessary histrionics. Which was probably why I put off addressing this, either to myself or you, because…” He took a breath. “Well, because I just thought it was so long ago, and so over, it seemed, it seems still, so ridiculous to even address it… her… whatever…” Eliot looked away from Marisa's penetrating look for a moment, to catch his breath, or corral his stray thoughts. He continued with care, “But the fact that it was all so unresolved has not led to the forgetting that I'd thought time would provide.”

A brief silence ensued.

“I want to move ahead with the wedding as planned.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Marisa said in her businesslike tone. “I want to move ahead with the wedding. You go deal with whatever
this
is, whomever
this
is. I'm a grown up. I can handle it. We're too good for each other, Eliot. It's so easy, so right with us. We're both mildly annoying—”

He smiled, but it hurt.

“—and overly ambitious and we care about each other. I genuinely care about you, I really do. I want you to be happy. But I would much prefer it was with me, of course.” She gave him a winning smile that was so perfectly Marisa—confident, optimistic—but with a new hint of longing. She wanted this wedding, perhaps more than she had been willing to let on up until now.