Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Gigi is so much better than baby doll.
I don’t lift my head from the papers for hours. Maybe more than hours. Maybe days. Who knows? I’m so engrossed in all this new information . . . the details . . . the messages . . . the emails. There are so many work emails. How did the private investigator get his hands on those?
“I think it’s time we crack open the brandy.” Arsène swoops up everything in front of me in one go, arranges the pages and pictures neatly, and tucks them back into the manila folder. He stands up and returns with two snifters and a decanter. He pours both of us a generous amount, shoving mine across the table until it hits my elbow.
“You need a distraction,” he muses.
“I need a bullet to the head,” I murmur.
He studies me for a long moment. “You know, Mars is red because it’s covered in iron oxide, which is essentially rust. It is also the prime candidate to be the next place humans would live on.”
“What’s your point?” I look up at him with a sigh.
“My point”—he takes a sip of his drink—“is that just because something doesn’t work properly, or is rusty—like your heart—doesn’t mean it can’t survive.”
“Still not following,” I lie.
“Come, Bumpkin. You dodged a bullet. Can you imagine finding out all of this when you’re forty-five, after you’ve given Paul all of your best years, plus two unplanned C-sections, saggy breasts, and a shattered Broadway dream to show for it?”
To this improper joke, I answer with a snarl.
I cover my face in my hands. My snifter knocks over, spilling all over the floor. The glass breaks. I don’t even have it in me to mumble an apology. At least up until now, I could tell myself that Paul had been letting off some steam with Grace, after all the tension that had been building up in our marriage. Now, even that weak excuse is gone. What he had with her wasn’t dirty and salacious. They were in love. All in. Just merely tolerating Arsène’s and my existence.
“Winnifred.” Arsène’s voice is harsh now. He stands up. I don’t lift my head to look at him. “Stop this right now. You must’ve had an inkling. People don’t carry on months-long affairs if they don’t care for each other.”
“That’s not why I’m broken.” I use the sleeve of my black sweater to clean my nose. I don’t even care that I’m a snotty, ugly mess. A wad of clean tissues materializes in my periphery, and I snatch it, dabbing my nose with it without so much as a thank-you. And still, no tears. No tears. No tears.
“Why’re you like this, then?” His voice is patient but not at all emotional.
“Because I can’t blame him.” I look up at Arsène, with his tar-black eyes, hard jawline, imperturbable expression. “I hadn’t delivered on all the things he thought he’d get when he married me. I’m not the woman you saw in Italy. I’m not all sweetness and warmth and peach cobblers. I don’t . . . I don’t even know how to make a peach cobbler!”
I throw my hands in the air, then bury my face in them.
“I wasn’t ready for this kind of confession,” he drawls sarcastically. “Should I loop in the feds? Maybe Interpol? This is too big a secret to stay within these walls.”
“Be serious for a second. I’m telling you I’m a huge disappointment.”
“I am serious,” Arsène says tonelessly. “You’re a complex human being, not a stock he gambled on. If he thought he had a sure bet, he’s the idiot. Not you.”
“Just stop!” I dart up from my seat. Glass crunches beneath my shoe. “Don’t defend me. I’m not that little southern girl Paul had fallen in love with. I’m the bitch who tried to get a job at Calypso Hall—and succeeded—so she can get closer to you!” Now that the confession is ripped out of my mouth, I can’t stop. “I wanted to meet you, Arsène, because I knew you were a man of resources who could shed some light on what happened between Grace and Paul. I wanted your knowledge, your information, your means. Wanted to use you to get closer to the truth. I knew you owned the place. It was all premeditated. I wanted you to think it was your idea to exchange notes. But I only took the job because I needed my hands on this file.” I point to the manila folder. “I’m a manipulative, weak, gross excuse for a woman, and I wanted to use you. I’m selfish, just like you said!”
Rather than look stunned, hurt, annoyed, surprised—any of those things—he smiles that lopsided, worldly smirk of his that makes me crazier than a sprayed roach.
“Why, this is wonderful news, Bumpkin! Drink.” He thrusts his brandy glass in my direction. I gulp half of it in one go.