But she can’t be. The woman she found collapsed on the floor of the workroom yesterday morning can’t be the same woman she rode bicycles with the evening before, can’t be the same woman she had over for tea two days before that. Can’t be the same woman who always said “see you tomorrow” instead of “goodbye.” Anna had her whole life ahead of her, Anna was young and healthy and so, so alive, and that woman was still and empty and—
Beatrix shudders. Oliver drapes a towel around her shoulders, his anger gone. He is young, too. He had his whole life ahead of him. He is still dying.
He kneels in front of her. “Talk to me, Bea,” he whispers. “Please talk to me.”
She pulls the towel tightly around her body. Her voice is hoarse, her throat raw. “Did you know when you found Anna for me—” She chokes on the name. “Did you know she was going to die yesterday?”
The color drains from Oliver’s face. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”
She searches his anguished gaze. “What is the point of loving someone if you are just going to lose them?”
He takes one of her clammy hands in both of his. “The loving is the point.”
“And the pain? What is the point of that?” In all her years, she has never felt anything so terrible.
“It’s grief,” Oliver says. “And that’s love, too.”
She tips her forehead against his and squeezes her eyes shut. Shebreathes in the scent of an oak wood in spring and summer-fresh lavender, and her heart aches. She wants to rip it out of her chest. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “It hurts too much.”
Oliver squeezes her hand. “I know.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice a choked whisper. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to leave.”
“Hey.” Oliver catches her eye. “I’m not leaving.”
He helps her out of the tub and pulls her close, his arms warm and strong, wrapped around her. She wants to sink into him.
“I used to hate it when people told me it gets better,” he says. He kisses her wet hair. “But it does. I promise.”
She wishes she could believe him.
Beatrix peers through her bedroom door. Oliver sits hunched on the end of her sofa, his elbows on his knees, his gaze picking out some pattern on her parquet floor. She smooths the collar of her plaid dress and steps into her sitting room. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Oliver looks up sharply. “Understatement of the fucking century.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Beatrix assures him. She perches on the edge of the cushion next to him. “I would have been all right.”
He takes her face in his hands, warm and rough on her skin. “You would have survived. That’s not the same thing.”
She swallows against the ache in her throat. “I just wanted a moment of peace.”
“And then what?” Oliver asks. “After you drowned and lived and drowned, until someone found you in that tub.” His voice breaks and his hands fall away.
“Try to forget her.” The words taste like ash in her mouth. Her best friend. Her only family. Gone.
Her gaze trails to the low oval table set in front of her sofa, to the two matching cups of cold, half-drunk tea. Tears spring to her eyes. Thomas left only an hour before Oliver arrived. She had made him tea instead of Anna. Because Anna was gone, and they were both lost without her.
They sat together in silence. Until Thomas spoke, and Beatrix wishedhe hadn’t. He told her Anna had died in the best way possible. She was sewing at the shop, doing what she loved. The examiner said her death was painless, instantaneous, but Beatrix doesn’t care. She isn’t grateful. She is angry. Anna is gone, and that’s all that matters.
“Why would you want to forget her?” Oliver asks.
“She was a mistake.” The words twist like a knife in her chest, but if she says it enough, thinks it enough, believes it enough, maybe it will hurt less.
Oliver gives her a sidelong glance. “Is that what this is?”
Beatrix doesn’t answer, and that is answer enough for Oliver. He stands abruptly.
“You don’t understand,” Beatrix says. “How else am I supposed to survive?”
