Mr. Barnes declined a glass of wine and settled instead into Darby’s shabby armchair. He had the metal box with him, which was now sitting on the coffee table, staring at me like the eye of a hurricane.
“I read what was in here,” Mr. Barnes said. “Then I went through some of the other material I have from the family. I have some information but not all. I’ve brought it back to you in case you wanted to read through the rest of it yourselves. But the gist of it as best I can tell is this—after her husband Clive passed away, Annabelle Higgins went to Florida to see the man she’d fallen in love with twelve years earlier. The details of which are all here.” He tapped the top of the box. “From what I can tell from looking through the family letters and journals, she came back to Colorado and left only after Clive died.”
“This is a great mystery,” Darby said.
“It is indeed,” Mr. Barnes said. “I thought I knew all the family stories, but this one seems to have been buried away.”
“Do you think Quinn and Alexander disapproved?” I asked, feeling defensive of Annabelle. She’d come back to her husband, after all. What more did they want from her?
“Her wedding dress designs were famous by then,” Mr. Barnes said. “From family folklore I know she spent a lot of time in Paris after the Second World War and was considered one of the finest wedding dress designers in the world.” He gestured toward the plastic file folder on the desk. “I brought the only thing I could find from Quinn’s things. A letter from Annabelle, dated 1937. Would you like to read it?”
I nodded and waited for him to pull it from the accordion-type file holder. When I had it in hand, Darby asked me to read it aloud.
March 7, 1937
Dearest Quinn,
By now you’ll have discovered my departure. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I feared if I told you where I was going and why, you would try to convince me not to go. You would probably have been able to do so, for up until the moment the train pulled away from the station, I wavered between going or staying.
In the year since I lost Clive, my life has been tattered and hapless, like a ripped hem of a dress. I have been breathing and making dresses and spending time with all of you, but part of me has been absent. It was like this after we lost our little Mary. I thought I might not be able to go on but all of you, my beloved family and Clive, kept me upright until I was able to return to my work.
You know all this, of course, having been by my side then and recently. Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I couldn’t have made it through without you and Alexander and your unwavering support.
The reason for my sudden trip has roots that began thirteen years ago. Do you remember my trip to Florida in 1924? The Hunting family hired me to design a wedding gown for their daughter, as well as the bridesmaids and mother of the bride. The brother of Mr. Hunting, Bromley, was staying at the house and we became friends. He was unmarried, divorced actually.
We spent time together, Bromley and me. Our relationship remained chaste, I can assure you. Nothing either of us said or did compromised our families or my marriage. However, I felt a deeper connection to him than I’ve ever felt for anyone else, my husband included. It was as if Bromley knew me as well as I knew myself. He understood my nature and what I wanted for my life. I know, I was married and should have felt this about my husband. I wish I had. For this, I am sorry. I do not feel shame, though. We did not act on our feelings, as hard as it was. The discretion came only from my imagination. But as we know, this too is a sin. My unexpected rush of feelings shook me to my very core. Bromley and I agreed that we must never see each other again.
I left him and returned to Clive. To home, where I’ve belonged. At the time, it felt as if I’d only narrowly escaped with my life.
To this day, I’ve kept that promise. But the longing, dear sister, was almost the undoing of me.
Last month, I received a letter from Bromley. He had read of Clive’s death in the newspaper. It turns out you were right about that, too. I am moderately famous, as his death was noted in the New York Times, not as a partner in a butcher shop but as my husband. That would have made him smile. He was always so proud of me.
Bromley’s correspondence was a surprise indeed. As was his news. I’d thought for certain he would have married again by now. I was wrong. Bromley’s been alone all these many years, living in Paris and throwing himself into his art, he told me.
He finished his letter by asking me to come to Florida, the place we first saw each other. I pondered it for a month, wondering if it were wise to open up such a wound. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. My hand trembles writing this. Yet I’m still alive. I’m relatively young. Clive would not want me to hide away and concentrate only on my work. He knows more than anyone how heartbroken I was to lose Mary. He was there by my side through all of it. If anything, the loss of our baby brought us closer together. My time in Florida faded somewhat in the years afterward. Clive and I clung to each other. Our devotion deepened, as it sometimes does when tragedy appears. I’ve devoted myself to my marriage and have had no regrets for having done so.
But a new season has come to my life. Perhaps it’s time for me to be free, to see if the love I felt all those years ago was true or only a figment of the sea air and warmth of the Florida sun.
Lately, in the middle of the dark night when I no longer feel the bulk of Clive next to me, I wonder if his early death was my fault. He was so good, so true and loyal. Although he never fully understood my ambition or obsession with design, he let me be myself and never asked that I make myself smaller to fit better with him. On his deathbed, he asked me if I’d been happy married to him. I told him yes. This was the truth. We had a good life together, even after losing a child. A day does not pass that I do not think of him or our little Mary. I will miss them the rest of my life.
Still, there was this small part of me, even loving Clive as I did, that I left behind in Florida. I buried the memories best I could, after writing it all down. (As a side note, you were right that the exercise of recording our thoughts and stories allows us to move forward with our lives.)
I’ll be in touch, dearest. Please do not worry about me. After all, I’m a woman in my forties, no longer the impulsive girl I was when I married Clive. Or when I stepped off the train with Mother all those years ago to see about this life you’d made for yourself in the foothills of our glorious mountains. I do not know what will happen once I arrive, only that I will return to you and Alexander and the family you’ve made and allowed me to borrow all these years at some point. I cannot promise when or if I will come home alone or in the company of Bromley. I suspect it will be alone. These kinds of feelings surely do not last almost a decade? I’m quite prepared that he will seem ridiculous to me and I to him.
Much love,
Annabelle
P.S. Do not be angry at Delphia, who was the only one privy to my plan. She understood that it is something I must do. She had to be brave enough for both of us. Right now, I am shaking with fear of what is to come. Isn’t the unknown always the most frightening?
* * *
The letter fluttered to my lap. “I wonder what happened?”
“Is there any way to find out?” Darby asked Mr. Barnes.
“I have some ideas. Once I find out more, I’ll let you know.”
We escorted him to the door and then turned to each other. “I hope it worked out,” I said. “Do you think they got together at long last?”
“I don’t know. Do people really have happy endings? People like us?”
“Do you think they’re like us?” I asked.
“We had one night. They had two weeks.”
I stared at him, trying to decipher what he meant. “Except we didn’t fall in love that night, did we?”
“I’m starting to wonder about that.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “I wasn’t able to let it in. The enormity of our attraction scared me to death. Not after what had happened with Arianna. But I wonder if we’d met later—what would have happened then?”
“We’re here now,” I said. “Now is later.”
“Yes, we are.” He stooped down to kiss me. “And there’s no reason why we have to say goodbye.”
“What about Arianna?” I asked.
“What about her?” His forehead creased.
“Do you still have feelings for her?”
He took too long to answer before stuttering something about time healing all wounds.
This was a test, I thought. The next evening would give me a chance to observe him with her. I would be able to tell if he’d truly let her go and if there was space for me in his life.
“Don’t look that way,” Darby said. “She’s in the past.”
“Sure, I know.”
“Whatever happens tomorrow, we go home together, all right? You and me.”
I smiled, feeling slightly better. Still, my insecurities were raging like a teenager with hormones. This was an emergency situation. One that required my girlfriends.
* * *
That afternoon, Stormi was sprawled on the bed while Tiffany looked through my closet and pulled three different choices out to show me. I was perched nervously on the end of the bed, sitting on my hands to keep from biting my nails.
The first was a summer dress with ruffles, very feminine and romantic.
“She wore that one to your wedding,” Stormi said. “So it’s out.”
“A guy won’t remember what I wore to a wedding,” I said.
“Disagree.” Stormi sat up and crossed her legs, pointing to the closet. “Darby notices Jamie, no matter what she wears. Plus, he’s the sensitive type who pays attention to what’s happening around him. What else do we have?”
Tiffany grabbed the pair of skinny jeans and a sleeveless silky lavender blouse. “How about this?”
“It could work,” Stormi said. “I wonder what this Arianna will wear, though? How fancy is she?”
“Pretty fancy,” I said. “And we’re going to dinner at the upscale restaurant at the lodge.”
“We need a cocktail dress, not wedding attire or what you’d wear going out with the girls.” Stormi gestured to my closet. “Do you have anything sexy like that?”
I groaned, thinking this might have been a mistake to get Stormi involved. Of the three of us, she was the most unconventional in her clothes and everything else. She could pull off combat boots and a summer dress, for instance. I could not.
Tiffany scurried back into the closet. The sound of the hangers being slid one after the other, followed by a bark of triumph. “I’ve got it.” She came out holding my little black dress. My mother had bought it for me when we went to a charity auction back in California before my dad left and she could still afford to go to events like that. A halter top paired with a pencil skirt, it could be dressed up or down depending on shoes.
“I do like that dress,” I said. “I haven’t had anywhere to wear it really.”
“Put it on,” Stormi said. “To make sure it still fits.”
“Very funny,” I said, but stood to take it from Tiff, then slipped into the bathroom to change. Fortunately, it did still fit well, hugging my hips and showing off my toned arms and shoulders. All in all, I liked what I saw. I had a pair of strappy sandals I could wear with it.
I went back to show the ladies, and they were enthusiastic enough that we knew it was a winner.
“Okay, now we just have to do something about your hair,” Stormi said. “I’m thinking you should wear it down with beach waves.”
“I can do those for her,” Tiffany said. “I’ve had to step in a few times to help my brides when they’ve had hair disasters.”
Tiffany could do pretty much anything.
“What about makeup?” Stormi asked. “Something subtle but striking.”
“Can those be pulled off at the same time?” I asked.
“Totally,” Stormi said. “Right, Tiff?”
“Sure,” Tiffany said, already rummaging through my makeup drawer. “Come sit, Jamie. We’re going to get you prom ready. Not that I went to prom, but you know what I mean.”
She’d been raised in a cult. No proms or any other dancing allowed.
I took the dress off and put my bathrobe on instead and obediently sat down at my dressing table. The bathroom in this apartment was too small for doing much besides showering and using the toilet, so I always did my makeup and hair in the bedroom.
Tiffany started combing through my blond strands, assessing me with the gaze of a professional. Stormi had plugged in the flat iron and was looking at my assortment of shadows. Once she’d settled on something, she began by brushing concealer under my eyes. I hadn’t gotten enough sleep lately, I thought, noticing the purple smudges.
While they worked on me, I endured a barrage of questions about the nature of my relationship with Darby.
“So, you’re pretending to date to impress this Arianna Bush,” Stormi asked. “But you’re also kind of dating for real?”
“That’s about it,” I said. “So much for the fake boyfriend idea. Apparently, I’m susceptible to suggestion.”
“How was the kissing?” Tiffany asked, then blushed. Our formerly innocent friend still got embarrassed by any hint of sex. Even though she’d told us how happy she and Breck were in that capacity, it still made her uncomfortable to talk about it.
“The kissing was good,” I said. “Just like the night of hot sex we had way back when.”
Tiffany colored a deeper shade of pink. “I keep forgetting about that part.”
“I don’t.” Stormi stood back to look at her work and seemed to like what she saw, because she picked up a smaller brush and dipped it into a champagne-colored base blush. “I totally thought you guys would end up in bed together after one of our parties. I’d almost given up hope.”
“Do you like him?” Tiffany licked the end of her index finger and dabbed at the flat iron to check if it was hot. “Beyond the kissing.”
I thought about her question as an image of Darby’s grinning face appeared before me. “He’s warm and sensitive and yeah, I like him. A lot, actually. I’m not really thrilled about it, since I don’t think he could ever like me long-term.”
“Why would you say that?” Tiffany wound a section of my hair around the flat iron. “He’d be lucky to have you.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s got some issues, and so do I.”
“Don’t we all? Huck and I have a lot between the two of us. I mean, gobs and gobs.” She paused, looking philosophical as she picked up the blush brush. “But we help heal each other of past traumas every day we’re together.”
“Same with Breck and me. Well, he doesn’t have issues really,” Tiffany said. “He’s kind of perfect. Other than he lost his dad when he was a teenager, he’s so well-balanced and steady.”
“Lucky him,” I said. “And lucky for you, Tiff.”
“What do you know about Darby’s issues?” Stormi asked. “Like are they the kind that will keep him from being a good partner to you?”
I had to laugh. Since she and Huck fell in love, Stormi had become focused on relationships and what made them work.
“I mean, look at me,” Stormi continued. “I had to teach myself how to trust him and that he would be there every night without fail. Which is what I need, given my chaotic childhood with a million stepdads.”
“What do you think you need, Jamie?” Tiffany asked.
What did I need? “A guy opposite of my dad.”
“What does that mean?” Stormi asked.
“My dad was controlling and passive-aggressive—any hint of that and I’m out of there,” I said.
“Darby doesn’t seem like the controlling type, does he?” Stormi asked, and didn’t wait for a reply before telling me to close my eyes.
I did as asked and held my breath as Stormi applied eyeliner to my upper lids. When she was done, she stood back slightly to get a good look at her work.
“It doesn’t seem like it,” I said. “Not yet, anyway. But I wonder all the time—is he the leaving type? I need a man who I can relax with, knowing that he won’t just suddenly up and leave when I get older, like my dad did. And someone who really likes me the way I am and won’t try to change me.”
“That’s a good list,” Tiffany said.
“And someone who makes me laugh,” I said.
“Well, Darby doesn’t seem funny at all,” Stormi said. “Or witty.”
“He is funny and very witty,” I said before realizing she was teasing me. “We have a lot in common and like the same things.” I told them about our mutual love of vintage country music. “I mean, that’s pretty weird, right?”
“What’s weird,” Stormi said, “is that it took this long for you two to figure it out.”
“I don’t know,” I said, the doubt creeping in again. “What if he’s still hung up on Arianna?”
“You’ll be able to tell tonight.” Stormi handed me the mascara tube. “You have to do your lashes. I’m afraid I’ll tear your cornea or whatever it is.”
“Keep your eyes wide open,” Tiffany said. “Like Stormi said, if he still loves her, you will know it.”
“And if so, run, don’t walk, out of there,” Stormi said.
* * *
That night, we drove to the lodge in the orange glow of sunset. Darby’s car had been released from the shop and seemed to be running well. The valley between the two mountains had never looked prettier to me. I reached over and gave Darby’s knee a squeeze. “I feel nervous for some dumb reason.”
“Are you?” He glanced my way and smiled. “You sure about this? Because we can tell them you or I weren’t feeling well and go back to your place.”
“As tempting as that sounds, no, we have to go through with it,” I said. “Unless you don’t want to?”
He was quiet, contemplating my question. I’d learned this about him over the last few days. He often took his time to answer, as if organizing the words in his mind before speaking them out loud. Given my impulsive mouth, I appreciated this quality. Being with him made me feel like a delicate porcelain bowl resting in his capable and steady hands.
“I want to,” he said at last. “Just to show them how great I’m doing. Or, at least faking it.”
“Should we hold hands during dinner?” What a stupid thing to ask, I chastised myself. What was wrong with me, practically begging him?
His forehead creased as he seemed to think through the details of his answer. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve been part of a couple, I don’t know. Whatever you think. I’ll let you take the lead. I’m afraid I’m going to freeze and just stare at them like a startled deer confronted with a lion.”
“Do lions eat deer?”
“I think so.” He grimaced, chuckling. “Or antelope, maybe? I don’t think we have lions in Colorado.”
“Maybe a bobcat then?”
“That works. My metaphors aren’t too great, huh? I just teach English, not write it.”
I looked out the window. We were out of town now and traveling along the road toward the historic lodge. Late-blooming flowers and tall grasses grew alongside the road. The northern mountain, where the ski runs had long dominated the greenery of the trees, was pretty against the pink sky. In the side mirror, I could see that the southern mountain stood proud, although the fire had taken out a swatch of trees, leaving her partially bald with a feathery dusting of green from new foliage. Soon, snow would cover up the seedlings and saplings that had sprouted in the dead spots last spring. We might not have many more weeks of good weather, but tonight was glorious, with golden aspen leaves fluttering hello from the foothills. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” I asked. “I’m still in awe of it—amazed I live here.”
“I took my fifth period outside today, figuring I should let them soak up the crisp fall weather for as long as they could. If they get off their devices for long enough, they can still see the beauty of the world. Even more so than those of us who have been around longer. Youth see the world with fresh eyes.”
“We’re hardly old,” I said.
“No, not really.” He chuckled and turned into the driveway that led to the lodge.
“But I know what you mean. When I’m with my little niece, who’s not even three yet, she sees everything with such excitement that it’s contagious. Except when she’s pulling the cat’s tail just to see what she’ll do.”
“Poor kitty.”
“Is that why you love teaching?” I asked, serious.
“Seeing the world with fresh eyes, you mean?”
“That and being around when someone discovers something for the first time,” I said.
“Seeing the kids learn and take in new ideas gives me a huge high. I cannot lie.” He glanced toward me before scanning the lot for a parking spot in front of the lodge. “I also just love to nerd out about literature.”
“I agree. That’s why I majored in English even though I wasn’t sure what good it would do me in life.”
“You’re doing fine.” He pulled perfectly straight into a parking space and shut off the car, then turned to face me. “Also, you look absolutely spectacular. That dress.”
I flushed, pleased. “Thanks. You look nice too.” He wore a light-knit black sweater with a mock turtleneck collar that accentuated his spectacular jawline and a pair of dark denim jeans that hugged his muscular thighs.
“I should have said something earlier.” He reached across to brush something from my cheek. A piece of lint or hair. I wanted to grab his hand and place it next to my heart to show him how he made it beat wildly. Of course I didn’t. Way too much. Even I knew that.
“But you took my breath away, and my speech too,” Darby said. “It won’t be hard to pretend you’re my girlfriend.”
“Darby?” My voice was uncharacteristically quiet and a little husky.
“Yeah?”
“Is it just pretend? Us, I mean.”
His eyes softened. “It’s not pretend. To me, at least. What about you?”
“Not for me either.”
“But?”
“There’s no but,” I said. “Only an uncertainty about what’s really going on here. It’s been a long time since I cared about anything besides my business. You know, I’ve had to be singularly focused, on every decision about what would get me closer to my dreams. I’m afraid to let myself get wrapped up with you. That’s the truth.”
“Why? Because it distracts you from work?”
“Not that exactly, although part of me worries I’ll lose everything if I let myself fall in love. Mostly, though, I’m afraid it will destroy me when you leave.”
He breathed in my words and seemed to pull them from the air with his hand and bring them close to his chest. “Because ultimately, men leave. Isn’t that what you think, deep down?”
“That’s what I think. And it’s not that deep down. Isn’t it only a matter of time for women? Even if they get two good decades with a man, he leaves her when she’s no longer in full bloom?”
“You’ve seen that with your parents. I lost my mom when I was young. What does that leave us with, though? A life where we don’t love because we’re afraid to be left? Is that really living?”
“Probably not, but it’s less scary than being all-in with everything.”
He lifted my chin with his fingers, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Is it so hard to believe that a man could love you forever? The right man, that is. One who will relish your aging body and graying hair, thinking good Lord, I’m a lucky bastard to grow old with the most exciting woman I’ve ever met.”
“Is that what you think? Of me?” I blushed, hot and embarrassed. Why couldn’t I keep my words inside my head instead of letting them all spill out this way?
“Yes, Jamie, I think you’re the most exciting and interesting woman I’ve ever spent time with. Is that so hard to believe?”
“It is.” Out of the corner of my eye, a pink coat caught my attention. Arianna.
Darby placed his hand over my knee. “Even so, your feelings of inadequacy have no bearing on what I really feel, what I see. Okay?”
I smiled back at him. My bottom lip trembled from the surge of emotions flooding through me.
“Will it ruin your lipstick if I kiss you?” Darby asked softly, twisting a finger into a long lock of my hair.
“I wouldn’t care if it did.” I breathed in the scent of him, shaving soap and a subtle spicy cologne. The orange light slanted through the side windows. His eyelashes, fine and stick-straight but dark, seemed to wave at me when he blinked. He’d shaven before he picked me up, I thought, noticing a small nick near his cleft chin. “Does it make it hard to shave?” I gently rubbed the indentation with my thumb.
He covered my hand with his, holding my gaze. “A little, yes. Do you hate my cleft?”
“What, no. Why would I?”
“One time when she was drunk, Arianna told me it made my chin look like a butt.” His gaze flickered toward the entrance of the lodge, where pink-coated Arianna and the man who must be Rob, dressed in a gray blazer and jeans, were walking through the double doors.
“No way.” I giggled. “That’s ridiculous.”
He laughed too, his white teeth gleaming. “Now you see it, don’t you? Now my chin is a butt to you.”
“No, it’s the best chin ever.”
He moved my fingers to his mouth and kissed them, one by one, before moving to my lips, taking them softly between his own. The tip of his tongue met mine for the briefest of moments before he backed away. “We should go in.”
“Yes, we should.”
He traced his thumb under my bottom lip, wiping away the smear of gloss I felt certain was there. “I’ve smudged you.”
Reluctantly, I turned away and pulled down the shade to reapply my lipstick, but there was no mirror. He looked sheepish. “This car is so ancient.”
“Never mind that,” I said, pulling out my compact and quickly swiping my mouth with my favorite plummy color. “Let’s do this.”
He jumped out to open my door. The sweetest gesture. I loved it. Rare these days, whether because men were afraid to offend the modern, independent woman or were too preoccupied with themselves, I wasn’t sure. All I knew is that it felt nice to have a man behave chivalrously.
We held hands as we crossed the parking lot to the main entrance. The palm of his hand was dry and comforting. Darby is solid and strong, I thought to myself.
Built in the second decade of the twentieth century, the outside of the lodge had not changed much in a hundred years. The architecture was that of the American lodges of that time period, with logs, river rock, and wide beams, dramatic as opposed to quaint and elegant like my inn. There was room for both, right? Or was my little inn always going to be second place to this monolith?
The lobby had high ceilings and windows that looked out to the ski mountain and had been remodeled not long ago. They’d done a good job at keeping the vintage feel while updating with modern touches, like gas fireplaces, shiny hardwood floors, and white wainscoting and trim. Still holding hands, we made our way across the lobby, past the enormous river rock fireplace to the formal dining room. Arianna and Rob had already sat at a table by the window when we arrived at the host’s lectern. She greeted me with a friendly hello and asked about how business was going. This was a small town. All of us in the tourist industry knew one another.
Darby let go of my hand when we got to the table. Rob Wright stood to greet us, holding out his hand to shake Darby’s and then mine. When we were all seated, I looked over at Arianna. She was staring at Darby with what looked like love in her eyes. Was it possible she still had feelings for him? If so, what did that mean? Why would she marry someone else?
I thought of Annabelle. She’d loved two men. Was it possible that Arianna did too? And if she did, where did that leave me? I did not wish to share him with anyone, especially her.