The words came out with a finality that brooked no argument. But Mariana wasn’t finished. “Uncle Bertie and Aunt Dot paid me a visit this morning.”
“Oh?” Nick replied, caution in the monosyllable.
“What does Uncle Bertie know about your activities on the Continent?”
A gusty laugh erupted from Nick. It was intended to make light of her question. Instead, it landed with a flat thud between them.
“Nick?”
“Why would your beloved Uncle Bertieknowanything about your estranged husband?”
“There is something I need to tell you.” Mariana planted her feet and stopped them both in their tracks. “Uncle Bertie knows you’re alive.”
“Why would he have thought otherwise?”
“That was my first thought, too. But, Nick, heknew.”
“What did he know?”
“That you’re missing.”
“Anything else?”
“And now that you’re alive.”
“We’re talking in circles.”
“I seem to have confirmed to him that you’re alive.” Uncertainty and guilt hung about her. “I think I handled it wrongly.”
Her naked vulnerability reached out and grabbed Nick in the chest. “Mariana,” he said, low and insistent, “you did nothing wrong.”
“Then why does it feel so?”
“Too much information will endanger you. You’re going to have to trust me.”
She flinched. “That’s asking too much.”
“There is trust, and there istrust.” His eyes searched hers. “You know you cantrustme.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
She focused on the wall beside them where miniscule beads of mist collected and fattened into round drops. Too heavy for the pull of gravity, at last, they fell in random vertical streaks to the ground. “You sound so genuine that I could believe you. I could even believe that you believe your words.” Her eyes, cloudy with emotion, met his. “It’s better if we don’t speak of trust.”
Her words, soft and clear, struck him square in the solar plexus. She’d spoken the truth; he didn’t deserve her trust. That was the trade-off he’d made a decade ago. By avoiding meaningful interaction with her all these years, he’d been able to avoid his culpability. Until now. He deserved her words. And more.
Yet, she remained silent and began moving, the click of their heels the only sound between them, as block by block the sidewalk became ever more crowded with an increasingly spirited Parisian nightlife.
Just shy of the entrance of a lively café, its patrons spilling out onto the street in small groupings, Nick pulled Mariana into a quiet alcove. The space was snug enough that he felt the heat radiating off her body. “There is something you need to know about this place,” he said, willing her to follow his lead and put their past aside for now. “It doesn’t serve traditional drinks.”
“That’s a relief after last night’s whiskey binge,” she said on a light note.
Even if it did ring a bit hollow, she was playing along. Good.
“This place serves absinthe. Have you heard of it?”
“The Green Fairy? Of course,” she said, blithe and dismissive.
