“You do?” I stutter, my heart pounding.
“I fought it hard. I mean, I’m just coming out of a divorce from a decade-long marriage. And it seemed weird—you were his wife. And I didn’t want you or anyone else thinking I was taking advantage of you. Like I said, I wanted to kiss you that evening, and my feelings for you have just grown.”
My bandaged hand rests on my knee, so close to him our fingertips almost touch.
“After we talked the other night, it kept gnawing at me: what I wanted—you—versus what I thought I wassupposed to want—anyone but you. I wanted to drop it, to ‘move on’ and just be your attorney. I went upstate with Bonnie and did a lot of fishing in Philip’s favorite spot. I finishedWuthering Heights, and dang—those people are nutjobs, tearing up coffin sides so they can decompose with each other, howling at the wind...”
“Hey—watch it!” I joke.
He chuckles. “I guess they inspired me to do something nutty like fly all the way here to show you that you’re not filling a void. I miss Philip so much it hurts. I’m sad my marriage didn’t work out. But I love you apart from all of that. In such a short time, you’ve challenged me in so many ways. You’re just wonderful, Lizzie.”
I stare at him stupidly in the semidarkness. I never expected Henry of all people to be soromantic.
He blushes. “Come on, say something, Lizzie. I’mreallystepping out of a limb here...”
We jump at a loud knock on the front door.
Flustered, I get up to open it.
“August?”
He’s standing in the doorway, disheveled hair, face blanched white in the parlor’s dimness. He reeks of scotch. Red streaks ghoulishly from his mouth. Heathcliff would think he’s the Joker.
“God, August—are you hurt?”
“What? Oh... no...” And then as he wipes it—ah, lipstick, not blood—irritation flares up in me from the other night.
“What are you doing here?”
“You never returned my texts.”
“That’s because I blocked you.”
“Gosh, you look bloody ravishing, Elizabeth.”
“Why. Are. You.Here?”
“I’m truly sorry about the other night...”
He glances at Henry. “Who’s he?”
“Henry Lawton,” Henry says, standing up politely and putting out his hand as he walks toward us.
August ignores the gesture. “Henry? Wait... he’s the Southern chap you were on the phone with that night after the Jack the Ripper tour.”
Henry glances at me quizzically, before it clicks. “Hemmings?”
August sizes Henry up, looking over his rolled-up shirtsleeves and khakis. “Nice accent. It’s like you’ve stepped out of a bloody Tennessee Williams play.”
“I think you should leave,” I say.
“Can we have some privacy, Elizabeth?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
Henry shuffles his feet awkwardly beside me.
