pleaded. “It doesn’t have to.”
“But it does,” I said. “I’m sorry, Charles. I’m not the woman for you.” He would have given up everything for me, but I loved him enough that I wouldn’t let him do it.
He stood dumfounded as I ran past the clipped boxwood hedge, pushing open the iron gate. I walked along the road, unsure of how I’d get home, miles away from the city. When I heard the sound of Charles’s car approaching and his voice calling my name out the window, I ducked behind a tree. “Vera!” he screamed. “Vera!” His desperate tone broke my heart. I wanted to shout, Here I am, Charles! Let’s run away together. Let’s start a new life on our own terms. But in my heart, I knew that Josie was right. I crouched lower until the Buick was out of sight.
On the main road, cars barreled past, splashing mud onto my dress. What does it matter? I held out my hand, trying unsuccessfully to flag down a car, and then another. Finally, a truck pulled over. White, with a rusted hood and piles of tile stacked in the back. A man waved to me from the front seat. “Where to, miss?” He spoke in a thick foreign accent that reminded me of the Russian families who lived in my building.
“I’m trying to get back to the city,” I said, wiping away a tear. “Can you take me?”
“That’s where I’m headed,” he said.
I climbed inside the truck and closed the heavy door with all my might. It smelled of must and gasoline. As he revved the engine and turned in to traffic, I cast a backward glance on the entrance to Windermere.
“The name’s Ivanoff,” the man said, casting a sideways glance at me. “Sven Ivanoff.”
Chapter 16
CLAIRE
Istuffed a piece of pizza in my mouth, then washed it down with a sip of red wine. “He called,” I said to Abby. We both sat on the floor in front of the TV in my apartment, pizza box open on the coffee table, wine bottle at the ready.
“Wait,” she said. “Which one?”
“Ethan.”
“And?”
“He left two voice mails. The first: ‘Claire, I stayed at my parents’ suite at the hotel last night after the party. Had too many drinks. You understand.’”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I frowned. “It gets worse. The second, which I just got an hour ago, went like this: “Claire, I’m heading to Portland tonight for a conference. Will be back on Sunday.”
Abby shook her head. “What conference?”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “I did some searching, and take a wild guess.”
“No,” Abby said. “Don’t tell me he went with—”
“Cassandra? You guessed it. Well, I’m not one hundred percent certain, but the only conference that I could find in Portland is a food writers’ convention. So, you do the math.”
“That doesn’t bode well,” Abby said, taking a sip of wine. “If it’s true.”
I shrugged. “After seeing them together last night, I have no doubt it is.”
I set my foot on the lower ledge of the coffee table and a stack of photo albums toppled over onto the rug. One flipped open, spreading its pages out as if to taunt me. I picked it up and leaned over the page. There we were, Ethan and I on our wedding day, I in my strapless white gown. Ethan’s mother had made a fuss about strapless being inappropriate in a Catholic church, but Ethan had put a stop to it. He’d been on my team. I longed for those days. I longed for him. I ran my hand along the photo, letting my finger rest on his cheek. I’d tucked a photo of my grandparents on their wedding day next to ours when I put the album together. The black-and-white print had faded over the years. I’d looked at it hundreds of times as a girl, memorizing the look of love on both of their faces. True love. But not until that moment did I notice a piece of paper in my grandmother’s hands. I squinted, trying to make out the words.
“Abby, look at this,” I said, pointing to the photo. “Can you tell what that says?”
She reached for her glasses on the table and took the album in her hands. “Well,” she said, “I think it says, ‘Sonnet 43.’”
“What does that mean?”
“A little rusty on our English lit, are we?” she said in a mocking voice.
I rolled my eyes. “Well, while you were reciting poetry, I was hunched over the copy desk,