On a Cold Dark Sea(48)



“What time is it?” Esme asked. Her tongue felt puffy and dry.

“Ten o’clock,” Charlotte said. “I sent a note to your house, saying you were ill.”

Esme sat up. She was still in her cocktail dress from the night before; only her shoes had been removed. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

“How are you feeling?” Charlotte asked.

“Much better, thank you.” Esme shifted her feet from the bed and smoothed her skirt. She could see a toilet through a narrow door in the corner—the room had a private bath, thank God. “May I freshen up?”

“Of course.” Charlotte seemed to find the whole situation as uncomfortable as Esme. “I’ll ring for some coffee, shall I?”

Esme retreated to the bathroom and warily approached the mirror. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared: her hair had for the most part kept its waves, and her face was pale but resolute. At least she’d gotten a good night’s sleep. More than a good night; she’d been out for more than twelve hours. She couldn’t remember ever having slept that long.

After gulping three glasses of water and washing her face, Esme felt anxious to leave. She remembered, with a sense of unease, how honest she’d been at dinner. What had made her talk that way? And then to break down completely, in the middle of a restaurant . . . she’d put herself in a very awkward position. Best to do what she always did when she woke up with vague but discomforting flashbacks of the night before: pretend it never happened.

When Esme stepped back into the bedroom, Charlotte was fiddling with two china cups on a silver tray, looking exhausted. Anyone would think she was the one who’d needed a doctor the night before. Esme saw a bottle of pills on the nightstand and slipped it into her handbag.

“Sugar? Cream?” Charlotte asked.

“I really should be going.”

There was nothing on Esme’s social schedule, but she felt a growing distaste for Charlotte’s company. Last night, Charlotte had come across as sincere and sympathetic; Esme had thought of her as a friend. But she wasn’t, was she? Charlotte was a journalist, for God’s sake. Even now, she might be planning her next story: “Titanic Widow Spills All!” If so, her paper would soon receive a visit from the Van Hausen family lawyers.

“Oh, I thought . . . ,” Charlotte began.

“Enjoy the rest of your visit,” Esme said. Best make it clear that she had no intention of seeing Charlotte again. “Are you staying in town long?”

“I’m leaving for California soon,” Charlotte said.

“Surprising another old friend?”

Charlotte gave Esme a nod of acknowledgment: Point made. “You could say so.”

She was being deliberately coy, daring Esme to ask. Who from the lifeboat might be living in California? One of those Trelawny children, maybe? Esme picked up her bag and hat, the familiar motions boosting her confidence. Last night’s breakdown was only a temporary lapse.

Esme faced Charlotte head-on. “Everything I told you was said in the strictest confidence.”

“I know.”

“You can’t tell anyone. Or write about it.”

“I already promised I wouldn’t. You have my word.”

Esme pulled on her hat in an emphatic gesture of dismissal and walked out. She felt surprisingly hopeful as she stepped into the elevator. Telling the truth might not have been such a mistake. It left her feeling lighter, less beholden to the past. Invigorated by the bustle of Park Avenue, Esme decided to walk home. She wanted to recapture the lovely feeling she’d had when she first woke up, when she’d still been basking in Charlie’s adoring smile.

Esme paused at the front window of a stationery shop, bright with an array of pastel-hued paper flowers. She’d come here many times, to order invitations for New Year’s Eve dinners and charity teas. This was where she’d picked up a box of notecards a few weeks after her wedding and smiled gleefully when she saw “Mrs. Charles Van Hausen” engraved in gold. Charlie’s name had become Esme’s, and it would always be. Charlie was her greatest love and her greatest disappointment, the person she’d revolved around for half her life.

The truth hit Esme like an errant wave: I’ll never see him again.

The hours stretched out before her, a bleak expanse of empty days leading to empty years. Yet for the first time since Charlie died, she didn’t feel drawn to the cushioned shelter of her bed. She wanted to be swept up in the flurry of the city: the nannies and their charges, the businessmen and the newspaper sellers, the wealthy housewives flaunting new hats, the delivery boys scurrying in jagged trails around anyone who dawdled. She wanted to move through them without speaking or touching, like a ghost, experiencing their humanity from a slight remove. New York wasn’t always the easiest place to live, even when you had money. But it was her home. She belonged here.

Esme considered a detour through Central Park. Walking through the zoo would remind her of the many times she’d taken Rosie and Robbie there when they were little. She glanced at her watch and realized it was nearly eleven o’clock. Sabine would be opening her shop, only a few blocks away. Esme had a sudden urge to see her. Unlike so many other of Esme’s so-called friends, Sabine didn’t wear her out. She was quiet and deferential, never interrupting, always happy to listen. You could tell Esme’s kindness meant a great deal to her, given their gap in social status. Esme quickened her pace. Wouldn’t Sabine be surprised to hear about Charlotte! Esme wouldn’t tell Sabine everything, of course; there was no reason to get into Esme’s suspicions about Charlie’s death. Her job, as Charlie’s widow, was to protect his memory, for the sake of their children. Besides, she didn’t know what really happened. For all she knew, it was an accident after all.

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