Page 59 of Letters From Victor

“It wasn’t a secret,” she said, exasperation threading through the static. “It just wasn’t important. My family isn’t me.”

This conversation was slipping in the wrong direction. I loosened my tie, inhaling deeply, and searched for a way to pull us back from the edge. “Barbara, I’m not accusing you of anything. I just wish I’d known?—”

“Why?” Her question punched through the line.

“Because it puts us under a magnifying glass.” A beat. “And it might complicate the divorce.”

Her voice was soft and vulnerable when she spoke again. “What do you mean? What does my family have to do with it at all?”

I switched the receiver to my other ear and sat up straighter in my chair. “Lawrence says that with your parents’ influence, there will be more scrutiny. It’s not just us anymore. There’s no way to keep this out of the public eye. These things can get messy…”

The hush on the line stretched thin, taut as a wire.

“I just need to be prepared. That’s all. Forewarned is forearmed, right?”

Her tone turned brittle. “Well, pardon me for making your life difficult.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.”

Silence again. If not for the low hum of static, I might have thought she’d hung up on me.

“I need to see you, darling.” My voice was softer, coaxing.

“We can’t, Victor. Lawrence was crystal clear about that. No contact until your court date.”

“I know, I know. But I need to hold you in my arms. Now more than ever.”

The line crackled as she hesitated. “Victor, if we’re seen?—”

“We won’t be,” I assured her. “Give me some credit. I do know how to do things on the sly when I need to.”

She sighed, and I could almost see her biting her bottom lip, weighing the risks against the pull of desire. “When and where?”

I grinned. “Tomorrow at noon. Do you have a pen?”

25

BARBARA

Iglanced at the slip of paper in my hand—2375 Glendale Boulevard. A slight frown creased my forehead as I looked up and down the street. Bohemian boutiques and cafés dotted the block, tucked between stucco bungalows with rust-colored Spanish tile rooftops. This wasn’t an area I frequented, even during my more artistic days. It was bohemian in a way that felt almost foreign—far from the polished refinement of Hancock Park or even the structured grandeur of downtown.

I checked the address once more. It matched.

The small whitewashed building sat like a forgotten relic among the riot of color, as if time had passed it by while the rest of the street moved on. Above the door, a faded wooden sign read “Rosemary’s Art & Antiques” in delicate, hand-painted script. A string of tiny bells tinkled as I pushed the door open. Peeling white paint flaked off and fluttered to the ground.

A musty warmth enveloped me as I stepped inside. The scent of old wood and aging fabric mingled with a faint trace of lavender, wrapping around me like a moth-eaten shawl. The interior was cluttered but charming—an organized chaos of vintage furniture, framed paintings, and porcelain knickknacks jostling for space like overgrown plants in a hothouse.

I let the door close behind me, and the bells faded into a soft clatter. This wasn’t Victor’s style at all. Where was the sleek sophistication, the understated opulence? I hesitated, glancing once more at the slip of paper in my hand. 2375 Glendale Boulevard. It was right—but nothing about this place felt right. Had I written the address down wrong?

“Can I help you, dear?” A frail but sweet voice broke through the stillness. An elderly woman with wispy white hair and large, round glasses emerged from behind a beaded curtain, her hands as gnarled as ancient vines. She wore a lavender shawl draped over her shoulders, its fabric whispering with each step.

I hesitated. “I’m supposed to meet someone here,” I said, slipping the paper back into my bag. “Perhaps I have the wrong address.”

The old woman peered at me through her glasses, which were fogged from the steam trickling up from the cream-and-rose porcelain teacup in her skeletal fingers. She smiled, her lips thin as parchment. “No mistake, dearie. You’re in the right place.” Her voice carried the ghost of a Scottish accent softened by decades of distance.

I bit my lip, unconvinced, as I glanced around again. As far as I could tell, the shop was empty except for the two of us. “Do you know where I’m supposed to meet my…friend?”

She nodded slowly. “Come with me.”

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