BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
1973
And so Laurel went back to Boston with Charlie.
Charlie thought it was inevitable, this return. But as for Laurel, maybe she would’ve stayed in Paris had he not brought his grandmother’s ring. Or if he’d asked for her hand a second time instead of reminding her that she’d already said yes.
Perhaps Laurel would’ve stayed if he’d shown up with two legs instead of only one. Or if he still displayed that old Charlie Haley swagger. Laurel saw from the start he had a few chinks in the armor, a handful of wires shorted out. Some part of her didn’t want to tinker with the already-damaged man.
“I understand,” Win assured her when Laurel announced that she was choosing Charlie. “I understand completely.”
She was a runny-nosed mess as they sat on his bed—their bed—Charlie clomping up and down the hall outside the door as they said their good-byes. Laurel tried not to think of Win and instead her old feelings for Charlie. But they were too far down to reach.
“Don’t cry,” Win said. “It’s the right thing to do.”
He was strong. Stoic. Realistic. Nothing like the man Laurel loved. As Win would later tell his brother, he was a better actor than he was a writer. A better actor than he was a man.
“Win,” she said, crying into his shoulder, hands wrapped around his neck. “Convince me to stay. Convince me to hide out in this room until he leaves.”
If she had been looking at his face, Laurel would’ve noticed his lips trembling uncontrollably.
“I can’t do that, luv,” he said, for Win truly believed she was making the best decision—for her. For him it felt like the end of the world.
“But he can find someone else,” Laurel said. “Women love him. They fawn over him. It’s actually quite annoying.”
Where was it? Where was the love she used to have for Charlie? Of course, even at its best, it paled compared to how she felt about Win.
“He can find a girl much better than me,” Pru went on. “More pedigreed. You said it yourself, I’m an orphan.”
“A girl better than you? Impossible.”
“But his family hates orphans! They told me that! Tiggie Haley thinks they should be put in work camps instead of milking the dole. I’m not even kidding. That’s a direct quote!”
Win peeled Laurel’s fingers from his neck. He had to. Otherwise, he’d never let her leave.
“Laurel,” he said. “I’m no good for you. Just a grown-up writer-boy with nothing to offer. You have to go. Boston is where you belong. We can’t ramble about Paris forever. No one lives like this for long.”
This, an echo of her prior thoughts. In other words: they were too good to be true.
“So that’s it?” she said. “I leave with Charlie and never see you again? And you’re fine with this?”
“I’m nowhere close to fine,” Win said. “And we will see each other. When GD finally buys it you’ll have to fetch your art and dispose of your share of the Grange. We will meet again. The old gal’s practically written it into law. Maybe you were right. Maybe Lady Marlborough does believe in love.”
It was comforting to think that they had this promise for the future, thanks to Mrs. Spencer.
“Who are we kidding?” Pru said. “Mrs. Spencer’s going to outlive every person on this damned planet.”
Win managed a laugh, even as some part of him thought it might be true. Gladys Deacon Spencer-Churchill, aged ninety-two yet ageless all the same. They should’ve made out their wills to her, instead of the other way around.
“You can always come back,” Win said. “You know that, right? If things don’t work out. Or even if they do. I will wait here, in this spot, forever.”
“Forever is a very long time,” Laurel said in a whisper.
She thought of the duchess, and of the duchess’s mother. Florence Deacon chalked up Coco Abeille to standard Parisian flirtation. Laurel would try to convince herself that Win was the same.
“LAUREL!” Charlie shouted.
He clobbered the door with his hands. Laurel jumped. This would become a reflex for her. In the years that followed, she would very seldom feel at rest.
“The car is downstairs,” Charlie said. “If we’re going, we need to go now.”
She inhaled, her breath rocky on the way down.
“I love you, Laurel,” Win said. “I always will.”
“Laurel? Since when do you call me ‘Laurel’?”
“Since this very second. Pru? Well, she’s not here right now. She and Win, they’re at the Café de Flore, walking through the iron and glass door. Tonight they’ll go to Le Sept. Or that new cabaret show with the Brazilian transvestites.”
Pru—Laurel—gave a runny smile.
“Sounds perfect,” she said.
“You see, dear Laurel, Win and Pru are in Paris. And in Paris they’ll remain.”