The Pieces We Keep(5)

It had been Isaak’s suggestion, after all, to keep the relationship under their hats. His benefactor would be far from pleased, he had said, in light of Isaak’s studies; a romance was not to detract from his final academic year. Vivian had accepted this reasoning, admittedly enticed by the thrill of their secrecy.

But that thrill had run dry, and suspicions were trickling in.

While Isaak had asked plenty of questions about her life, her family-less a mark of interest, perhaps, than the habit of an aspiring journalist-he shared so little about his own. Did he view her as a passing fancy, a fling not worthy of investment? Maybe he was divulging a great deal, but to another girl.

“Isaak.”

He raised his pointer finger, a sharp signal to wait.

Vivian clutched her pocketbook. She would be a fool not to see where she stood. “A grand idea. Why don’t I wait outside?”

She rose and strode up the aisle.

“Vivian?”

In the span of her twenty years, she had rebuffed an abundance of other fellows. More than a few had likened her fair skin and fine features to a porcelain figurine, her copper eyes to a field of autumn leaves. Yet here she was, ashamedly willing and questioning her very worth.

No more. She was reclaiming her independence, a possession she swore she would never concede.

Sunrays blinded her as she burst from the theater and onto the sidewalk. The pain behind her eyes rivaled the squeeze on her heart.

“Vivian ...” Isaak’s raw, natural rasp tempted her to turn, but she resisted.

“How lovely. I have your attention.”

Dots of light faded from her vision, clarifying a view of honking Hilmans and double-decker buses. Hats of every sort floated through the West End: fedoras, flat caps, bowlers, and wide brims. Off in the distance the bells of Westminster chimed.

She raised her palm for a cab.

“For Mercy’s sake, where are you going?” He sounded bewildered yet almost amused, fueling her frustration. If she was acting dramatic, he alone was the cause.

He touched her elbow. “Darling.”

Shrugging him off, she lifted her hand higher. How could a single taxi not be empty?

“Miss, are you a‘right?” a man asked. He paused from pushing a cart of flowers for sale. “Is the gent ‘ere bothering you?”

“Yes, he is,” she replied pointedly. “But I’m fine. Thank you.”

Though reluctant, the man nodded. He disappeared behind a cluster of ladies, thick with pretension and talcum powder. Bags and boxes in their gloved hands denoted an afternoon spree at Marshall & Snelgrove.

“I don’t understand.” Isaak suddenly grew serious, his brow in a knot. “Tell me what I’ve done.”

For as long as she could recall, she had envisioned a future that broke the mold of convention. Yet because of Isaak, she had been tethered by emotion, her goal kept out of reach. She simply hadn’t realized it until now.

“I’ve meant to tell you,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “I think we need a break.”

“A break?”

“Really, at our age, there’s no reason to be tied down to one person.”

A shocked, humorless laugh shot from his lips. “Whatever are you talking about?”

She gripped her purse with both hands, firming her will. “It’s over, Isaak. Please let me be.”

To hear an objection would be as damaging as his agreement. Not waiting for either, she bit out “good-bye” and headed for the Underground, longing to escape into the deepest levels of earth.





3


It was a striking visual of the entrapment Audra felt, yet a disconnect from her old self. In the gilded oval mirror, her reflection gazed back like a stranger stuck behind the glass. She leaned closer, hands gripping the pedestal sink. Could this person really be her? Maybe it was just the lighting, here in the home of Devon’s parents. But, more likely, the harshness of reality.

Though just over thirty-five, she could easily pass for forty. Gone was her youthful glow born of skiing and hiking trips, now faded by duties and worries. Circles under her hazel eyes, like stains of grief, had darkened even more from the past four days. The airport interrogation, the media evasions, the lack of sleep. Every night since the in-flight disaster, Jack had wakened her with his chilling screams.

Audra had never seen nightmares like these. Eyes wide open, he would flail around as if fighting for his life. Get out! Get out! We’re gonna crash! Over and over he would yell in desperation until exhaustion seized him fully.

You’re not supposed to wake them. That’s what her husband had warned on the few occasions when Jack had sleepwalked. Devon even caught one on video. He thought it was adorable that their son, while asleep, tried to brush his teeth at midnight.