Page 60 of Private Arrangements
He'd come for her. For whatever reason, he'd come for her. And they'd missed each other, as if Shakespeare himself had scripted their story on a day of particular misanthropy.
“What flowers did you bring?” she asked, because she couldn't think of anything else to say.
“Some . . .” His voice faltered, something else she'd never heard from him. “Some blue hydrangeas. They were already wilted.”
Blue hydrangeas. Her favorite. Suddenly she felt like crying.
“I wouldn't have minded.” She kept talking, to keep the tears at bay. “I was so upset I went to Felix as soon as I came ashore in England, only to find out he'd gotten married during the time I was away. I made a fool and a nuisance of myself anyway.”
He made a sound halfway between a snort and a grunt. “I almost hate to ask.”
“You've nothing to worry about. He didn't succumb to my advances. I came to my senses. End of story.”
“I came to my senses too, after a while,” he said slowly. “I convinced myself that what was done between us could not be undone, could never be undone.”
“And there is no such thing as a fresh start. Not really,” she concurred, her tears welling, the room a dark blur.
For the first time in her life, she saw exactly what she'd thrown away when she decided to have him by means fair or foul. For the very first time she truly understood, deep in her bones, that she'd not saved him but wronged him by consigning to him all the ability of a box turtle to make his own choices. She had been— just as she hadn't wanted to admit—impetuous, shortsighted, and selfish.
“I should not have done what I did. I'm sorry.”
“I wasn't exactly a paragon of rectitude myself, was I? I should have had the frankness to confront you, however unhappy that encounter would have been. Instead, I retreated to subterfuge and confused vengeance with justice.”
She laughed bitterly. For two intelligent people, they'd certainly made all the wrong choices that could have been made. And then some.
“I wish—” She stopped herself. What was the point? They'd missed their chance already.
“I wish the same. That I'd caught you that day, some-how.” He sighed, a heavy sound of regret. He turned toward her and turned her toward him, his hand clasped firmly on her upper arm. “But it's still not too late.”
For a long moment she didn't understand him. Then a thunderbolt crashed atop her, leaving her blind and staggered. There'd been a time in her life when she'd have walked barefoot over a mile of broken glass for a reconciliation with him. When she'd have expired from joy upon hearing those exact same words.
That time was years and years ago, long past. Her imbecilic heart, however, still leapt and burst and rolled around in clumsy cartwheels of jubilation.
Right into a wall.
She was promised to Freddie. Freddie, who trusted her unconditionally. Who adored her far more than she deserved. She'd reaffirmed her desire and determination to marry him every time she'd met him, the last time only two days before.
How could she possibly slap Freddie with such a gross betrayal?
“I tried not to,” said Camden, his eyes the most brilliant pinpoints of light in the night. “But all too often I wondered what might have happened, back in eighty-eight, had I not given up. Had I the nerve to come look for you in England.”
Why didn't you?she cried silently.Why didn't you come for me when I was lonely and heartsick? Why did you wait until I'd committed myself to another man?
She covered her eyes, but her head was still babel and bedlam, feral thoughts cannibalizing each other, emotions in a pandemonium of roundhouse and fisticuff. Then suddenly a siren song arose above the din, sweet and irresistible, and she could hear nothing else.
A new beginning. A new beginning. A new beginning. A new spring after the dead of winter. A phoenix arising from its own ashes. The magical second chance that had always eluded her futile quests now presented to her on a platter of gold, on a bed of rose petals.
She had but to reach out and—
It was this very same insatiable craving for him that had overcome her a decade ago, this very same impulse to damn everything and everyone else. She'd surrendered her principles and acted out of expediency and untrammeled self-interest. And look what had happened. At the end of the day, she'd had neither self-respect nor happiness.
But the siren song descanted more beautifully still. Remember how you giggled and prated together about everything and nothing? Remember the plans you made, to hike the Alps and sail the Riviera? Remember the hammock you were going to crowd in warmer weathers, the two of you, side by side, with Croesus stretched atop the both of you?
No, those were mirages, memories and wishes distorted through rose-tinged lenses. Her future lay with Freddie—Freddie, who did not deserve to be ignominiously cast aside. Who deserved the best she had to give, not the worst. He had entrusted his entire happiness to her. She could not live with herself were she to trifle with that trust.
What about—
No. If she must endure the siren song, like Odysseus, thrashing and flailing in temptation, then she would. But she would not abandon Freddie. Nor her own decency. Not this time. Not ever again.
