Ten

After a series of increasingly frantic text messages asking where Leigh had been for the last twenty-four hours—was she dead, kidnapped, or had she lost her phone?—Chloe agreed to meet her at Guero’s for dinner.

WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT? DID YOU EVER MEET UP WITH JAKE? Chloe had texted.

Leigh had written her back: NO TIME TO TALK. JOSEPH FLEW IN TO SURPRISE ME.

WHOA! DID HE CATCH YOU IN THE ACT?

I NEED YOU ASAP, Leigh wrote. NO JAKE TALK, OKAY? WILL TELL YOU EVERYTHING WHEN I CAN.

JUICY? Chloe asked.

YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

Chloe answered back, HONEY, YOUR LIFE IS THE WORLD’S SEXIEST DISASTER MOVIE. But she said she’d be there as soon as she could.

Meanwhile Joseph spent half an hour perusing the menu, trying to figure out the ingredients in the soy chorizo and asking about the difference between an enchilada and a burrito. Leigh gulped her margarita and was just beginning to feel the alcohol hitting her system—the wave of pleasant blurriness, the relaxing of her clenched jaw—when Joseph peeled the drink from her hand, then leaned in for a kiss.

“So,” he said, “ever since we talked last time, I’ve been dying to see you. We have so much to think about.”

“I know,” she said, looking down at their hands entwined on the tabletop, the clean white crescents of Joseph’s fingernails, her own hands red-brown from walking outside all afternoon looking for Jake. Had that been just yesterday? And now Joseph was here, and he’d want to talk about the proposal, about the future. What was it she’d said to him the last time they’d talked, two days ago? I’ll make it up to you when I get home, I promise. I think I was just scared. Maybe I just needed to let go of some old ghosts.

She hadn’t exactly let go of those ghosts, had she? No—she’d slept with them instead.

“The first thing we need to think about,” Joseph said, “is when we’re going to make the announcement.”

Leigh felt a wave of exhaustion overtake her. He couldn’t be serious—she hadn’t said a definite yes to his proposal, not yet. “Announcement?” she asked.

“That I’m moving up to publisher,” he said. “And about Leigh Merrill Books. Randall and Marty want to do it soon, maybe by next Monday.”

Her imprint. She’d nearly forgotten. “Isn’t that a little soon?”

“Yes, but it’s all been approved, so there’s really no point in waiting, is there? Randall and Marty signed off on it yesterday. We can get started as soon as we get back.”

“It’s so much responsibility,” she said. “I worry that maybe I’m not ready. There are more experienced editors at the press, Joseph. Don’t you think they might feel a little overlooked?”

“Not after the Millikin book. It’s your reward. And mine, too, to be honest—Randall and Marty said I had to be commended for supporting the career of—what did they call you?—‘the next Gordon Lish.’”

“Oh no, no, not me,” she said. “I just got lucky. Millikin was ready to start publishing again. I just gave him a push.”

“It was more than luck, it was damned hard work, and it’s all paying off now. You should be proud.”

“You should be, too,” she said. The least she could do—the very least—was be supportive of Joseph’s career, especially now. “I’m so happy for you, Joseph, really. Everyone at the company will be thrilled. You’ve done so much for everyone there. The writers, the editors. They have complete faith in you and your vision for the company, and now your name will be on the spine of every book.”

“And you?” he asked. “Do I have your complete trust, too?”

She put her hand over their entwined ones. “I know you’d never hurt me. I know you love me.”

“You love me, too,” he said. “I know it.”

“I do. You’re a good man—”

The next word out of her mouth was going to be “but.” She pressed her lips together, sat up straighter, as if only good posture stood between herself and the worst mistake of her life. She would not say “but” to Joseph Middlebury, the man who had given her a career and life in New York. She would not.

He blushed and looked down at the table, fumbling around in his pocket for something. “I was thinking . . . I mean, I was hoping—”

Just then, like an answer to a prayer, Chloe entered the restaurant in a rush, pink hair and red boots flying. “Well, hello, stranger,” she said to Joseph, who stood to greet her with his customary kiss on both cheeks. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. What brings you to the Lone Star State at the last minute?”

“Nice to see you, too, Chloe,” he said. “I didn’t know myself. But I had to come check on Leigh and make sure she was still alive. I called her for two straight days with no answer. Two days! I finally decided she must have been snagged by some rough-and-tumble Texas cowboy, and I was going to have to lasso her cowboy style and drag her back to New York kicking and screaming.”

“Is that so?” Chloe said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Can’t leave her alone for five minutes without worrying about her running off, eh?”

“Really, Joseph, I was just busy with work,” Leigh murmured.

“Well,” he said, taking Leigh’s hand across the table, “I couldn’t wait until you came back home to see you. We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

Leigh was grateful, for the millionth time, for his easy personality, his unruffled calm. “We do,” she said, and squeezed his hand. As soon as I figure out what I’m going to say, that is.

As he sat back down Chloe rolled her eyes at Leigh, who gave her friend the most imperceptible of head shakes. “Well,” said Chloe, “you’re here now. Is this your first trip to Texas?”

“It is. You’ll have to show me the ropes. Help me blend in with the locals.” He picked up his menu again.

“First thing you’ll have to ditch is that pole up your ass,” Chloe said, and winked at Leigh.

Joseph looked up from the menu. “What was that?”

“Ignore her,” Leigh said. “Who wants another margarita?” She flagged the waitress.

“Could I have a glass of Pinot Noir?” Joseph asked the waitress.

Chloe groaned, “This isn’t the Ritz, Joseph. Unclench, okay?”

“Chloe,” said Leigh.

“What? A little ribbing between friends isn’t allowed? He’s practically family, aren’t you, Joseph?”

“It’s okay, Leigh, I know she’s kidding,” he said.

She felt like a mom refereeing between two irritable kids in the backseat after soccer practice, but Leigh could hardly keep her attention on her boyfriend and her best friend bickering when all she could think about was Jake coming back to the cottage to look for her, Jake knocking on the door of her room and wondering where she was. He didn’t have a key to the room or Leigh’s cell-phone number, but maybe he would wait outside the door of her cottage until she came back, not realizing she now had Joseph in tow. Maybe he would sit on top of the hill to watch for her, and see her coming back arm in arm after dinner with Joseph. The scene that would follow would be awful for everyone involved, to say the least.

Or—and this was the thought that really scared her, that made her really want to weep—maybe he wouldn’t come back at all.

The neon lights blurred; the music playing in the background suddenly seemed too loud. She couldn’t quite focus on what Joseph was saying to her at the moment, the looks that Chloe was shooting in her direction. She kept picturing Jake showing up at the darkened cottage, Jake leaving her a note under the door. There was no way she could get up and head back to the vineyard alone so she could talk to him, ask him for a way to get in touch with him later, but Joseph would surely notice if she was in the bathroom for an hour.

No—she was stuck. Only Chloe would be able to leave without attracting suspicion. She had to get Chloe alone to ask her to go back to the cottage, to run interference with Jake. She was just about to excuse herself to the bathroom when the waitress came with their drinks and took their food orders.

“You okay?” Joseph asked when the waitress had gone. “You’re so quiet.”

“Just tired,” she said. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

“We’ll eat and go back to your room. Then you can rest.”

Chloe looked at her and mouthed the word rest? That’s hot! But Leigh shook her head, not now. Chloe rubbed her hand over her hair, the telltale sign that she was doing her best to hold her tongue.

“You okay?” Joseph asked Leigh. “You look flushed.”

She stood up, waving for Chloe to come with her. “I just need to use the ladies’ room. Chloe, come with me?” Chloe gave her a look, but stood up. “Be right back,” Leigh said, and squeezed Joseph’s hand.

In the bathroom Chloe looked like she was going to burst from the hundred questions she’d been holding back. “All right,” she said. “Talk.”

“You’re never going to believe this,” said Leigh, and told her friend about the letters Jake had left in her cottage, about searching for him all over Burnside, about how, when she’d just about given up, she’d finally found him waiting for her at the end of the boat dock jutting out into the river. “There he was, as if he knew that’s where I’d be,” Leigh said. “I couldn’t believe it. He looked so different—he’s grown up, like you said.”

“And?” asked Chloe. “What happened next? Don’t tell me you shook hands and said good night.”

Leigh’s face burned. “Not exactly.”

“Dirty details, please. The man’s been in jail ten years; he had to be all pent up. I hope you made it a nice homecoming for him.”

“I did. I mean, we did. Very nice.”

“How many times?”

Leigh had to think. “Three. No—four, including this morning. After that we had a big argument, and he took off.”

“This morning? And then Joseph shows up out of the blue, and now—”

Leigh started waving her hands around. “I know, it’s all a complete mess. But, Chloe, seriously, I need you right now. I don’t have any way of getting ahold of Jake, and if he comes back to the cottage looking for me, and Joseph’s there—”

“What on earth did you have to argue about? It should have been all sex and cuddling.”

Leigh didn’t want to explain about Russell Benoit and the blackmail, not yet, so she said, “I know, I know. He asked me if I was still going to marry Joseph, and I told him I needed time to think about it.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

“He was making me angry. He just assumed I was going back to him, didn’t even ask whether that was what I wanted. I don’t like having other people make up my mind for me,” Leigh said, her eyes flashing. “But that doesn’t matter now. I need you to go back to the vineyard and find Jake. Take my key. If he’s there waiting for me, get his number and address and tell him to go home and that I’ll come see him tomorrow morning at eight. Then text me to let me know when he’s gone so I’ll know it’s safe to come back.”

“What if he’s not there? What if he won’t leave?”

Leigh sighed. She wished she hadn’t had so much to drink. “Then text me that, too,” she said. “At least then I’ll know what I’m up against.”

“What are you going to tell Joseph?”

“I don’t know. I still haven’t figured anything out. If I leave Joseph I will be basically torpedoing my whole career. But with Jake . . .” She groaned and leaned against the wall, rubbing her temples. “The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m not ready for the two of them to bump into each other in my room. My plan is to keep them apart until I can figure out what to do.”

“That’s a great plan, by the way.”

“Here’s my key. I’ll wait for your text.”

Chloe took the key out of Leigh’s hand and looked at it like it might bite. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I don’t, but that’s never stopped me before, has it?”

When Leigh came back from the bathroom and sat down, Joseph looked up from his phone and asked, “Now where did Chloe run off to?”

“Oh, you know Chloe. Got a message from some guy she’s been seeing about meeting up. She said she’d text me later.” And now I will burn in hell, thought Leigh, for once again lying to the man who loves me.

But that was just the problem, wasn’t it? There were two men who loved her. And she loved both of them, she was realizing now as she sipped her margarita—loved them in completely and totally different ways, for the completely and totally different men they were, and the completely and totally different women she was when she was with them. With Joseph she was calm and competent and smart and successful. With Jake she was young again—unbridled, innocent, passionate. Very passionate.

Saying good-bye to one of them would mean saying good-bye to part of herself. But which part?

It was an impossible decision. Jake was her past. Joseph was her present. And the future could include either one, or neither. Or both.

Dear God, she thought, putting her head in her hands, I don’t even know what I want. I don’t know what’s right anymore.

Joseph took one of her hands in his own. “Let me see your face,” he said. “I love to look at you. You’re so beautiful.”

“No, Joseph. I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” He coughed and looked at his lap. “What were we talking about? Before Chloe came. There was something I wanted to talk with you about.”

“My imprint. Your promotion,” she said wearily.

“No, that wasn’t it. It was something else. Something about us promising to love each other the rest of our lives.”

Joseph was rummaging around in his pockets for something, finding it in the inner pocket of his coat. In the light of the restaurant she saw him pull the ring out once again, watched mutely as he knelt beside the table, took her hand (oh God, everyone’s watching!), and said the words again that he’d said in that restaurant in Manhattan, what seemed a lifetime ago. “Everybody said I shouldn’t do it, that you’d come to me when you were ready, but I can’t wait that long.”

Joseph Middlebury, you have the worst timing of any man I’ve ever known.

“Leigh Merrill,” he asked again, “will you marry me?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer but slid the ring on her finger to a sudden eruption of applause around them, all the people at Guero’s thinking they were witnessing the happiest of occasions. The waitress was there, popping the cork on a complimentary bottle of champagne, and Leigh felt the weight of the ring on her hand, the weight of her future crashing down around her. She had not said yes—she had only hinted on the phone, two days before, that she was thinking of doing so—and Joseph had taken that for agreement, Joseph whom no sane woman would ever reject.

Leigh felt sucked under by an enormous wave of exhaustion. She didn’t have to say yes or no. She didn’t have to say anything at all, and twenty or thirty years could go by while she sat at the table with her burrito going cold in front of her, accepting the congratulations of a hundred perfect strangers.

It was in that moment that she looked up and saw, in the light of the red and yellow neon, the man with the gray ponytail. Russell Benoit—that was the name Jake had given him. He was sitting at the bar with a beer in his hand, his eyes narrow and mean, staring at her. When he noticed her noticing him, he waved a smug little wave, mouthing the words talk to you soon, and turned to the bartender to order another beer. Leigh looked away quickly. She couldn’t let Joseph see her watching him, couldn’t explain who he was and what he was doing there.

What is he doing here?

The elderly couple at the next table were beaming at Leigh, offering both her and Joseph their best wishes. “I proposed to my wife in a restaurant, too,” the old gentleman was saying, and the wife said, “He hid the ring in a glass of champagne, and I swallowed it by accident.”

Leigh gave the couple her best smile. She would ignore Russell Benoit, forget he existed. “Is that so?” she said. “What happened next?”

The old couple chuckled. “We spent the night in the hospital!” said the man. “I was getting that ring back come hell or high water.”

The four of them were still laughing when someone else joined their conversation. “Wonderful, wonderful,” said a man’s voice, and Leigh felt her hand being pumped vigorously up and down as she looked up into Russell’s face. “You two are just the cutest couple,” he was saying. “Congratulations. Let me buy the happy couple a drink.”

He pulled out the chair that Chloe had been sitting in and plopped down in it. Leigh froze. What was he doing? What did he think he was going to accomplish, ambushing her like this?

Leigh found her voice, nodding at the bottle of champagne the waitress had just cracked, and said, “We’re all set, thanks. Bye, now.”

Joseph said, “Don’t be rude, Leigh. He’s just offering his congratulations.”

“I’m not being rude, I would just like to celebrate alone with you. I don’t see why everyone else has to get involved.”

Russell sat back in his chair, a wide Cheshire-cat grin on his face as he said, “Oh, I’ll let you two alone in just a second, but you have to let an old bachelor like me bask in your glow for a minute. It’s a lucky man who lands a beautiful woman like you, Miss . . . ?”

Leigh didn’t speak. He knew damn well what her name was—she wouldn’t play his game.

Russell turned instead to Joseph. “Where you two from?” he asked.

“New York,” Joseph said. “Just visiting.”

“You don’t say? I was just talking to some people from New York earlier today,” he said. “Newspaper people. Lots of great newspapers and magazines in New York. Publishing capital of the world.”

“I guess you could say that,” said Joseph. Leigh stayed very still, like an animal that had been scented by a predator.

“I was thinking about taking a trip up there. Where do you think I should stay when I get to town? What should I do there?”

Joseph looked somewhere between amused and irritated that the guy was still talking. “There are a lot of great museums to visit, shows to see. I’m particularly fond of the Guggenheim.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” said Russell, affecting a mocking touch of Joseph’s East Coast accent. “What about real estate? I was thinking of investing in some nice condos. Maybe something on West Sixty-fifth.”

Joseph gave a slight frown. “That’s where we—” he started, but Leigh cut him off.

“The Times real-estate section is the best place to start looking, if you’re seriously looking. Will you excuse us, please?”

“Oh, I’m always seriously looking,” Russell said, glancing from Joseph to Leigh and back. She could see him making mental calculations, trying to decide if now was his moment or if he should wait. She felt like a hostage strapped to the train tracks, hearing the whistle of the oncoming locomotive. Go ahead and say it, she was thinking. See if I care.

But she did care. She cared too much—that was the whole problem.

Finally he picked up his beer and said, “Well, then. Good luck to you two kids. Hope your life together is just perfect!” He raised his glass to them and walked away, his gray ponytail flicking across his back. Leigh watched him go, but the relief she felt was, she knew, entirely temporary.

“Hmm,” said Joseph, taking a drink of his Pinot Noir and watching Russell leave, “I always feel sorry for weird old guys like that. How lonely their lives must be. No wife, no kids. He’s in here drinking alone on a Wednesday night.”

“I don’t feel sorry for him,” Leigh said. “Not at all. We didn’t ask for his company. I wish he’d just leave us alone.”

“Don’t be such a grouch. He just wanted to congratulate us. No harm done.”

No harm done. Well, Joseph didn’t know what was really going on, and Leigh didn’t bother correcting him. She watched Russell until he went out the front door, back into the Austin night, but she knew she wasn’t seeing the last of him. She was sure he’d show up again and again, until she gave him what he wanted. But would it be enough?

Leigh’s phone was buzzing. JAKE’S NOT HERE, Chloe wrote. SHOULD I WAIT?

NO. LEAVE THE KEY UNDER THE DOORMAT, Leigh wrote. I JUST HOPE JAKE DOESN’T COME BACK TONIGHT.

YOU OWE ME ONE DINNER AT GUERO’S, Chloe wrote. AFTER THE CONFERENCE IS OVER.

DEAL, Leigh wrote. LOVE YOU. THANKS.

LOVE YOU, TOO, HUSSY, Chloe wrote. CALL ME TOMORROW. I STILL WANT DIRTY DETAILS.

At least there was one thing in her life Leigh could still count on. Chloe was family, always there when she needed her, no questions asked. The thought of leaving her behind again in a few days—of having to face the wreckage of her life without Chloe—gave her an actual physical pain.

You can go home again, Leigh thought, but no one said it would be easy.

Arriving back at the conference, Leigh felt hyperaware of every person she saw, every man and woman she and Joseph passed on their way up to the cottage. She was conscious of the weight of the diamond on her third finger and kept fiddling with it, twisting it around and around and catching the twinkling fairy lights strung in all the oak trees glittering in it.

Jake still wasn’t anywhere to be found, but Leigh worried, every moment, that he might pop out from behind a tree or come around a corner of the path. Even at the cottage, when she unlocked the door to her room and peeked inside, she worried that Chloe might have missed him in the half hour it took Leigh and Joseph to get back to the vineyard from the city.

She flipped on the light and looked around the room: no sign of Jake, nothing but her own mess, and Joseph’s carry-on propped up on the luggage rack.

She took a breath, but she didn’t get any relief. Jake could still come back at any time.

As soon as the door shut Joseph was catching her in his arms, kissing her deeply. After the events of the day Leigh was utterly exhausted, spent physically and emotionally, and she was realizing she had nothing left, not right now.

“Wait,” she said. “I don’t think I can. I’m completely worn out.”

Joseph frowned. “But I thought—”

“I know. I’m so sorry, but I barely slept last night, and I worked all day, and—”

“If this is about the other night,” he said, stepping closer to her, “about me stopping you—well, I told you I wanted to try again. I promise to be a little more open-minded this time.”

“It’s not that, really. I’m just really, really tired. These conferences take so much out of me.”

He slid his hands down to her hips, kissed her neck, pushed her ever so gently back toward the bed, more aggressive than Leigh had ever known him to be. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” he murmured, pinning her hands behind her back. “I promise to be very convincing.”

“Joseph, I—”

His mouth was on her neck. He bit her, gently, on one earlobe. “You taste so good,” he said.

“Stop. I don’t—” She twisted from side to side, trying to get away from him.

He made a noise of frustration and let her go suddenly. “Don’t what, Leigh? I don’t understand you. I thought this was what you wanted. I thought you wanted me to be a little more aggressive, a little more passionate.”

“It was,” she said. “Last weekend it was what I wanted. Tonight I said I was tired.”

“I flew all the way here to see you . . . I thought that’s what you wanted, too. On the phone, you said you wanted to marry me.”

I didn’t, she thought, I only said I was sorry and that I would make it up to you. But it didn’t matter what she’d actually said, what Joseph had heard was I’ve totally reconsidered, and when I come home I’ll tell you I want to marry you. He’d taken that for a yes, when all she’d meant was maybe.

The look in his eyes was so wounded, so fragile. There was something in his expression that reminded her of pictures of him as a boy, pictures his sister and mother had shown her of the young, awkward, bookish Joseph Middlebury, and she hated herself for rejecting his advances.

She wanted to say yes this time and mean it. It was the right thing, the smart thing. It made complete sense. She would make him so happy. She would make herself so happy.

So why in God’s name couldn’t she do it?

“I don’t want to fight,” she said finally. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you came today. I’m so glad to see you. But all I’ve wanted to do all day today is lie down and read some manuscripts and go to bed.”

“Read some manuscripts instead of sleeping with your fiancé,” he said. “How sexy.” He had no instinct for sarcasm; Chloe must have been rubbing off on him.

“I have meetings tomorrow with authors. I haven’t had a chance to look at anything today. Just let me skim this one, and then I can get a good night’s sleep.”

“All right,” he said, but he couldn’t quite hide the disappointment in his voice. “Maybe a little wake-up call instead?”

“It’s a date,” she said, and kissed him.

In a minute she was in her nightgown, teeth brushed, and the two of them climbed into bed side by side. Joseph read a magazine for a few minutes and then rolled over to sleep, shutting off his bedside lamp, but Leigh stayed awake with Jim Stephens’s memoir open on her knees. She hadn’t lied to Joseph about that much, but after a long and passionate night with Jake, she wasn’t up for any more lovemaking that day, not even with the man who’d just proposed marriage to her for the second time in a week.

            I saw the man I’d been sent to kill. I saw him, and he saw me. We locked eyes across the river, looked at each other. I raised my rifle to my shoulders, touched my finger to the trigger. I could feel the heavy thump thump of my heart beating in my chest, the wet heat of the jungle in my lungs, the cold, greasy metal of the gun in my hand. I could still taste the cold corned-beef hash straight from the can.

                 I was here to kill. I was here to kill another human being, a man who quite possibly had a family, children, a wife. I had those things back home, and even though I was the one with the gun, I didn’t think I’d ever been so afraid in my life.

                 Then he waved to me. He put two fingers to his forehead in a salute, his eyes never leaving mine. I had him in my sights, but he was completely unafraid.

                 For a long moment we stood and looked at each other, and before I knew it I had put my gun down, stood up, and saluted him back. He looked at me for one long moment, then turned and disappeared.

                 That was my last mission. Two days later I was on a plane for home, in chains. I was being court-martialed, and I’d never been so happy in my life.

Leigh put the last pages down. It was two in the morning, and she hadn’t been able to stop reading. Jim Stephens was every bit as good a writer as she’d hoped he be—better, even. The story was gripping as well as brutally honest, carefully researched, and well crafted. The man who’d gone to war as a sniper had found his conscience and refused to fight. He’d been court-martialed and then spent three years in the hellhole of Fort Leavenworth prison. His wife hadn’t left him while he was in the war, like he’d said—she’d divorced him when he’d gone to prison, ashamed of the dishonor he’d brought on himself and the family by laying down his arms and refusing to fight. But how could I blame her for thinking so, Jim had written, when the same thoughts went through my own mind every day? Who was I, if I refused to do the one job I’d been sent to do, if I refused to kill?

She’d found the first title for Leigh Merrill Books, Leigh thought, gathering the pages together. If that was still something that was going to happen.

She looked over at Joseph, asleep next to her, his mouth open slightly in a snore, his eyelids moving slightly in a dream. She did love him, she really did. She loved his charm and his calm; she loved that he was in love with her. There was something intoxicating about being wanted so very much, being loved. But was that all there was to it, really?

She caught sight of the ring on her left hand, a large clear diamond surrounded by a circle of smaller ones, in a heavy setting of platinum. It was a little big—it kept sliding around her finger—but she could always get it resized. A little fix and her life would go on as it had before, more or less. It wasn’t settling, like Chloe had said. It was the choice of a certain kind of future, a certain kind of life.

She thought of her apartment back in the city, the old lady who lived across the hall with her little dog, her doorman, the friends she’d made in the office, the little silver cart in front of the office where she bought her bagel and coffee every morning. She thought of it all with a pang of longing, remembering Sunday mornings with the light streaming in the high-floor windows of her apartment, autumn in Central Park, the air growing cool, leaves crunching underfoot as she walked to the museum. It was a good life, a happy life. An easy life.

It could continue being easy, too. The only thing she had to do to keep it was give up her grandfather’s money, pay off Russell Benoit, and go on back home like nothing had changed, go on back to her apartment in Manhattan, her job, Joseph. There was nothing wrong with that. In many ways it made perfect sense to her.

And what was the alternative, after all? She couldn’t stay in Texas, that was clear. Nothing had gone right since the minute she stepped off the plane. Since the minute Joseph had proposed to her, actually, in front of all their friends and coworkers. But that was her fault, mostly—for always holding back from Joseph, for not recognizing a good thing when it was standing right in front of her. She’d never really given him all of herself, not the way he’d deserved.

She had an image of herself at forty, fifty, sixty, sleeping next to this man, raising kids with him, publishing books with him. They’d have a great apartment in the city, beautiful children, interesting friendships, extensive travels, every luxury imaginable. They’d be the envy of their friends and neighbors, the kind of couple that never fought, the one invited to every dinner party. They’d be the Middleburys, bastions of the society pages, going to charity balls, hosting salons and literary galas. It would be—could be—very satisfying, that kind of life.

How she wished all that were still enough for her, that nothing, in the past few days, had changed. A sudden feeling of grief squeezed her, took her breath away, and then was gone, replaced by determination.

She reached over and turned out the light. Everything’s changed. Everything.

 

AUGUST 25, 2006

Starlight Motel

Huntsville, TX

Dear Jake,

My grandfather had a stroke, a little blood clot in his brain that’s rendered him about as helpless as a nine-month-old baby. He’s been in the hospital for two days, and the doctor says it’s very likely he’ll die, and I guess hating him forever doesn’t extend to the grave. I couldn’t let him go without coming to say good-bye, without forgiving him. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right thing to do, and I’m glad I did it. He barely knew me—he kept calling me Abby—but I think some part of him knew I was there. He seemed more peaceful. My uncle thought he was waiting for me to come home so he could die. I’m hoping rather than believing that’s not true.

I’m afraid even now that the phone will ring and Sonny will tell me he’s dead.

It was hard to lose my mom, but she was always this kind of dreamy, silent figure in my life, and when she died, it was like she just drifted into another room, like she’d come back at any moment. This is different. This feels like I’m dying along with him, and if I go, I might never come back.

My aunt and uncle are decent people, but I can’t impose on them. They have their own kids to worry about. Without my grandfather, and you in prison and not answering my letters, I won’t have anyone but Chloe.

Since I was in Texas anyway, I thought I’d drive up to Huntsville and see if you’d changed your mind at all about seeing me. Maybe a few months have given you a different perspective on things, I thought. Clearly I was wrong. I never asked you to take on this burden alone, Jake. I never expected you to go so far for me. I would never have asked it of you. I would never have let you do it, if I thought it would be the end of us.

I know now that you aren’t writing to me. You don’t want to see me. Maybe you’re angry, and you deserve to be. But don’t make me go on without you. It’s the one thing I can’t bear.

Love,

Leigh

 

AUGUST 25, 2006

Huntsville State Penitentiary

Huntsville, Texas

Dear Leigh,

During the day I walk in circles. I walk the track, I talk to no one. I work in the laundry, cleaning other men’s clothes. The clothes are stained with shit and urine and semen. They don’t come clean, not really.

At night I don’t sleep. I’m always afraid. When I close my eyes I see you with the gun in your hand. I see you point it at me. I see you cry. I can’t sleep, knowing I’m the one who’s hurt you. I can never take it back.

For months now I’ve been keeping my head down and my nose out of other people’s business. The other inmates leave me alone, for the most part. I keep thinking about time off for good behavior. That and the image of you in your blue dress like a meteor shower, your long hair in my face. Drowning me.

Yesterday I was in my bunk reading a magazine. One of the jokes made me laugh out loud. The old man, Harold, looked up and asked what I thought was so funny. I told him. A judge asks the defendant: “Do you have anything to offer the court before sentencing?” and the defendant answers, “No, sir, my lawyer took my last dollar.”

It was then that Russ walked in. A little guy, not even five-foot-five. He has the outsized attitude of little guys everywhere, always starting trouble to prove that he’s a badass. His arms are so big he can barely put them down at his sides. He’s covered with tattoos, including one of his girlfriend’s face on his belly, bent over like she’s giving him head. He has small brown teeth.

He heard us laughing but not what we were laughing about. What’s so goddamned funny? he said, and got up in my face, pushing me. I tried telling him. He kept saying he must be a joke to me, was that it? Did I think he was funny? He didn’t care what we were really laughing about. Sometimes guys need to blow off steam. He got right up in my face, pushing his nose into my chest, shoving my shoulders with both hands, trying to get me to hit him back. Snorting like a bull.

It would have gotten worse if one of the guards hadn’t heard. He threatened to send us both to solitary if the argument continued. Just try me, he said. He tapped his baton on my bars. They rang like a xylophone.

Russ shut up after that. He was fuming like Yosemite Sam. The guards can’t be around all the time. You think you’re so smart, don’t you, pretty boy? he said. You think you have all the answers. You sit alone on your bunk and pretend you’re better than the rest of us. But you’re not. You’re not.

The trouble is, I know he’s right.

My dad wrote the other day. He found a new job, some little outfit where they train Arabian horses. It was all he could find. He comes sometimes to visit. I hate seeing him. He’s always angry, always bitching about the people who’ve done him wrong. I don’t think I have to tell you who’s on that list. I don’t bother telling him it was all his own fault to begin with. He doesn’t want to hear it. It’s easier for him to blame you, or your grandfather. Or me. Me most of all.

He told me your grandfather was sick. Something about a stroke. It’s hard for me to forgive him, even if he’s your family and he loves you. He was trying to protect you from me, to keep you safe. Maybe he was right. If I had left you alone to begin with, none of this would have happened. I’d be free and you’d be happy.

This morning the guards told me I had a visitor, and I knew it had to be you. Maybe you came home to visit your grandfather, decided to come to Huntsville to see me, try to talk to me. I told them I wouldn’t come out. They kept asking if I was sure, didn’t I want to see who had come? A gorgeous thing like her could keep a man going in here a long, long time. They said you kept insisting you wanted to see me. I couldn’t. I told them to tell you to go away, and they did, shaking their heads like I was crazy.

Maybe I am crazy.

I’m not myself here, Leigh. I’m bitter. I’m angry at my father for caring more about himself than me, angry at myself for allowing my father to abuse our relationship. I’m angry at your grandfather for trying to keep us apart. I’m angry at my lawyer for telling me he thought I could get off on a self-defense plea. I’m mad at Russ for picking a fight. I’m angry at myself most of all, for being so gullible. For loving you so much.

I’m not angry at you. I hate to think of you lonely and scared. It isn’t like you. It’s not what you were made for. You should be happy. If it weren’t for me, you would be happy. That’s why I can’t send these letters. If you go on without me, you’ll be happy again.

If I die in here, I’ve told Harold about the place where I hide my letters, in a slit in my mattress where the stuffing is loose. He promised to mail them to you. He didn’t seem too happy about it, but he promised. I want you to know I was still thinking of you. I want you to understand the decisions I’ve made and why. I hope you can forgive me my ugly feelings. It’s only fear that makes me think this way.

I hope you know what you mean to me, what you’ll always mean to me. I’d die for you, Leigh. I always said so.

Every night I pray I will be strong enough to let you go.

 

Love,

—J.