With Love from London(74)

He smirked, tossing a scrap of paper in my lap. “Then why did I find this in your purse?”

I gasped, eyeing the note Peter left on my car that day at the beach with Val. “You went through my purse?”

“Say what you will, but I have the facts; my private detective confirmed everything. The man in the photos is the same man who wrote you the note you kept in your purse. I have all the evidence.”

“Well, the ‘evidence’ is wrong,” I said. “The photos show nothing, because there’s nothing to see! Frank, for the love of God, why are you doing this?”

“I’m the one asking the questions, Eloise.”

“So you’re interrogating me.”

“I’m presenting the truth.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re creating your own narrative, as you always have. I did absolutely nothing wrong last night. And the other photos that your brilliant detective took of me were from estate sales. You know it’s a hobby of mine!”

I felt cornered, out of options, but Frank was undeterred. He was in control now, and I couldn’t say anything that would change things.

“Look, your chin’s quivering,” he said. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

He was right. I was scared—of where this inquiry was going. Frank had snapped, gone completely off course, and I was struggling to pull him back on the track.

“The newspaper listings will confirm the dates and addresses of every one of those estate sales,” I said. “Tell your PI to go match them up. That will prove I’m telling the truth.”

“I have a photo of you standing close to a man in the dark,” he countered. “That’s all the proof I need.”

“Frank!” I cried. “Stop this nonsense!”

“Eloise, the only nonsense to speak of is the way you’ve prioritized your own selfish pursuits above your family.”

There he went again, creating his own story—the one he wanted to believe. It made no difference what I said, but I defended myself anyway. “You know that family means everything to me!”

He didn’t seem to hear my words. “Eloise, I suggest you start packing. Lord knows what you’ve amassed in that closet of yours.”

I thought of all my carefully curated treasures—from beloved first-edition books to antique vases and jewelry. How could I possibly pack it all, and where did he think I would go?

“I’m not leaving, Frank.”

“Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be,” he said, his face momentarily softening. “Listen, I know this is very hard, for both of us. We could both use some space.” He handed me an envelope thick with cash. “Why don’t you take that trip to London you’ve always talked about—go home and visit your friend Millie for a while. In time, we’ll sort all of this out.”

I searched his tired face for any shard of the man I’d met in London so many years ago. His youth had long since disappeared, but I failed to remember exactly when he’d changed, really changed. Our fragile connection, it seemed, had withered like daffodils do under the burgeoning late-spring sun.

“Please go pack. When you’re ready, I’ll call you a cab.”

I didn’t know what to say or do. But I did know that I had no other choice than to do as Frank said—I knew it in my bones. My husband might have become a stranger, but I still knew him, and well. When he made up his mind, it was final.

I climbed the steps, one at a time, as if my legs were made of bricks. When I finally reached my bedroom, I scanned the closet, unsure of where to begin. It felt ironic, and sad, that I came to Santa Monica with two suitcases, and I’d be leaving with the very same ones.

I pushed past the row of dresses I’d worn to dozens of painfully stuffy cocktail parties and instead surveyed my books, collecting the essentials, which, of course, included The Last Winter. I reached for my jewelry case and a small painting of a French country scene I’d fallen in love with, even if Frank hated it. It pained me to leave so many of my other books and treasured finds, but I had no other choice. I’ll be back, I told myself. It was only a…break. Frank would come to his senses. He always did, in time.

I ran my hand along my bedspread, and eyed my bathroom cabinets, selecting the necessities, and leaving the rest—including an extra bottle of my perfume. I spritzed my neck a final time, then set it back—for Valentina to find.

My heart practically burst when I thought of her coming home from school to find her mother gone. I’d call her later and explain that I’d decided to take a quick trip, and that I’d be back before she knew it.

I zipped up my bags and lugged both large suitcases downstairs—each so heavy with the weight of books. Frank called a cab, then we sat in silence for several minutes until I finally found my voice.

“Please, Frank, can we talk rationally for a moment,” I pleaded. “This makes no sense. I can’t just leave my daughter. Frank, I—”

“Eloise, there’s nothing more to say. We both need time.”

His cold gaze softened, somehow, but I couldn’t make sense of his words. What did he mean by “time”?

“You were my California rose, my everything,” he continued. “But I should have known that a flower cannot grow in foreign soil. Your heart is in London, and that’s where you belong.” He wiped away a tear.