With Love from London(48)

The wheels in my mind were turning so fast that when Frank began caressing my shoulder, at first, I barely noticed his touch. But then our eyes met, and I saw the longing in his gaze. It was clear, then, that he wasn’t about to say goodbye.

“Eloise…” Frank continued. “These years have been hard, for both of us. I haven’t been there for you. I only pray that you can…forgive me. If you’re willing, I…want to try to mend things.”

My book fell to the ground. I’d been rereading my favorite, The Last Winter, about the lonely ballerina Cezanne, who found herself caught up in a complicated love affair. But in some ways, mine was even more so. There was Frank, finally opening his heart to me, but I didn’t know if I could open mine to him.

I felt caught between Cezanne’s fictitious world and my own, but then I reminded myself: The ending to Cezanne’s story will never change, but mine can—if I try.

“Darling,” Frank said. “I work and travel and leave you here alone far too much. You’re lonely, and it’s my fault. I’m so sorry about…us. I’m deeply sorry about what our marriage has become.”

I slowly nodded, taking in his words, but struggling to process them. I’ve never felt that Frank understands me, but is he finally trying?

“Let me take you out tonight. Let’s get dressed up and have fun like we used to…in London.”

I thought of our weekly dates when he was courting me. It felt like a lifetime ago. I did appreciate the care he took, the way he surprised me with reservations to all the best establishments. The way he adored me. How I missed being adored, being noticed. In California, I felt veritably invisible, wandering in and out of the pages of novels, one endlessly sunny day blurring into the next.

But in that moment, I was suddenly back at Rhett’s Supper Club. Frank’s adoring eyes were fixed on me. It was also the night I saw Edward with another woman. The night I accepted Frank’s proposal of marriage and took a bold step forward—to a new life.

Then I remembered what Bonnie told me shortly after I’d arrived in California. “Frank needs you.”

Edward never needed me.

I began to wonder if I needed him, too. Needed him in more ways than I’d ever imagined, my American cowboy. We’d had better days, but maybe we could have them still?

“A night out sounds…nice,” I said, my face softening into a smile.

He smiled back at me, his pale green eyes matching the hue of the pool. As he reached for my hand, I wondered what had sparked Frank’s change of heart, what had melted all those years of ice. But whatever it was, it didn’t matter. We were at a fork in the road. I could explore the next leg of our journey, or I could turn back—alone.

“So, what do you say?” he asked, searching my eyes. “Will you let me take you out?”

I felt pulled in both directions—the road forward, and the road back. True, I wanted to go home, desperately so. But Frank’s eyes beckoned. His expression was filled with anticipation, but also something I hadn’t seen in so long: love.

“Yes,” I finally said.



* * *



—

We drove to a quiet Italian restaurant in Venice Beach. Frank did most of the talking, content to remain on a surface level—work, his plans to install a sauna in the backyard—which was fine. It was as if we were two wartime friends getting reacquainted after knowing each other on the battlefield. Some subjects were better left untouched.

Instead, I told him about my walks around the neighborhood, my favorite café—small details that two strangers might share upon meeting, not two people who’d been married almost a decade. But if we were to start over again, we’d have some catching up to do. I shared how I took joy in finding objects from estate sales and shells from the beach. I didn’t dare bring up Diane, especially after broaching the subject a few weeks after the miscarriage, when I was still on pain medication and highly emotional. Do you still love her? Am I merely a replacement? Why did you keep this from me? Frank’s response was far from reassuring. In fact, he shut down entirely. I realized then that the subject was, and would always be, off-limits—a vault that had long been locked, even if he still held the key. If we were going to reconcile, I would have to abide by those rules.

When our dinner conversation waned, I decided to talk about flowers.

“In London, daffodils were my favorite,” I told him. “Here in Los Angeles, I’m partial to roses, oh, and fuchsias. Did you know they’re the only native plant that flowers at the height of summer?” I smiled, my singsong voice sounding foreign in my ears, but at least I was trying. If Frank could take a step forward, I could, too. “They’ll be in bloom soon.”

“I wish I had a bouquet to give you now,” he said, cautiously reaching across the table for my hand. “My California rose.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if Frank showered his first wife with the same sort of compliments, at this very restaurant, even. The thought threatened to poison our evening, and so were the lingering memories in my heart—but I decided not to let them. Instead, I smiled back at him warmly.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” he continued. “Just as lovely as the day I first met you. Remember that?”

I squeezed his hand as I took a sip of the wine he’d ordered, a crisp Nebbiolo that immediately warmed my cheeks, or maybe it was just Frank’s gaze.