“Perhaps, but you could take a great big leap forward right now and make that distance shorter.”
“Why have you suddenly become so wise?”
“I’m only telling you what you would tell me in the same situation. I am the voice of your Higher Self.”
“If my Higher Self sounded like you, I’d listen to it all the time.” She laughed and took a deep breath, no longer angry.
In comparison to Olivier, Jack shone like a knight in shining armor. While Olivier had exploded with fury and accusation, Jack had cared only for her safety. For the first time she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be married to Jack. She didn’t attempt to work out how such a thing could be achieved, but she fantasized about it. She remained on the bench a while, arms folded, gaze lost in the dark, imagining what life would be like with Jack. Her visualization infused her spirit with joy. Did she love Olivier? Or was she so used to being married to him that she mistook familiarity for love? Right now, she felt no love at all, just resentment and the desire to wound him back.
She looked at her watch. She had been gone an hour. There was no avoiding going home. Slowly she walked back up the road, head bent against the wind and drizzle. She saw the lights on and thought of the children wondering where she was. Their need pulled her home, as if she were attached to them by an invisible cord, rooted in her heart.
Olivier heard the door close and appeared in the hall looking anxious. His face was white, and his eyes had lost their shine. “Where have you been?” He sounded defeated.
“For a walk. I had to get out.” He watched her take off her coat and hang it in the cupboard.
“I’m sorry I overreacted.” She shrugged, unable to dislodge her resentment. “I should not have accused you of being a bad mother.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t mean it. I was just angry. I can buy another coat.”
“Whatever.”
“I can’t buy another wife and children.” He grinned sheepishly, hoping for a sign that she had forgiven him, but she remained stiff and unyielding. “Do you want to know what the policeman said?”
“Not really.”
“They’ve arrested the man. You have to go down tomorrow morning to identify him.”
“I’ll ask him for your coat.”
“I don’t care about the coat!” he growled impatiently. “Besides, he won’t see you.”
“That’s a blessing.”
“I care about you. I’m sorry, ma chérie.”
She let him draw her into his arms but remained detached, as if she were above, watching him hold someone else. “Aren’t you going to forgive me?” he asked gently, pulling away to look into her eyes.
“I’m hurt, Olivier. I can’t simply snap out of it like you can.”
“What more can I do?”
“You said the most awful thing. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear it.”
His face reddened with frustration. “I wish I hadn’t said it. Let’s throw that moment away. It never happened.”
“You should think more carefully before you accuse.”
“I know. I’m an idiot! But you can’t fly off to South Africa feeling angry. What if something happens? The last words we will have said to each other are in anger. I would never forgive myself.”
She stared at him a moment, as if seeing him anew. “It’s always about you,” she said boldly, empowered by the apprehension on his face. “Everything is always about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going upstairs to bathe the children. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I think a week in South Africa is just what I need—what we need. I’m tired of running around you, Olivier.”
Angelica climbed the stairs without glancing back. When she had disappeared, he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a large whiskey, leaned back against the sideboard, and hung his head.
Angelica bit her lip, suppressing her guilt. She had allowed herself to drift past another frontier, down the river towards the inevitable waterfall—and she hadn’t even tried to grab the hand outstretched to stop her.
20
One often finds one’s destiny on the road one takes to avoid it.
In Search of the Perfect Happiness
The following evening Angelica was in the plane, on her way to South Africa. She sat in her business-class seat, drinking a second glass of Sauvignon Blanc, trying to dull the ache in her heart as she replayed the parting scene with masochistic fervor. Joe had cried, burying his face in her neck, asking her over and over why she had to leave him. His stricken face and unyielding grip had weakened her resolve, and it had taken all her strength to pull away. If the book tour hadn’t been so meticulously planned, she would have canceled, but so many people depended on her now, it simply wasn’t possible. And it was only a week. She had pressed her lips to his wet cheek and whispered, “I’ll be back for the Full Joe.” Isabel had cried, too, but only because Joe cried and she didn’t want to be left out. Although only six, Isabel was made of stronger stuff. She was content with her bribes and the fact that she’d have her father to herself. He had promised to come home early every evening in time to read them a bedtime story. Isabel was happy to be left with her father; for Joe, only his mother would do.