Seeing Julia (18 page)

I’m here, in the here and now,and I want Jake Winston. All of him.

“We can’t do this,” he says again, more resolute this time. “God damn it, Julia.” He abruptly pulls away from me. “You were his
wife
. I can’t do this.”

He stands over me now, still aroused, partially undressed
by me.
He finds his shirt, pulls it back on, and tucks it into his pants.

“If we do this, it’ll be for all the wrong reasons.”

“What?” I ask. I gulp at the air, knowing he’s right but angry with him anyway and even more furious with myself.

I pull on my t-shirt, my Capri pants, then, my running jacket. I jam my bra into the outer pocket and grab my running shoes from the floor.

Before he can stop me, I’m at the patio door sliding it open and racing through it. From behind me, Jake calls me back, but I run along the shoreline just out of reach of the waves at double-time. His voice fades away. I steal a look back and can barely make out his dark shadow just standing there, watching me go. He’s more than a half mile away from me, but so much farther than that.

In less than ten minutes, I’m back at my house, wet, weary, mortified, and definitely pissed off at myself, but also with him.

The phone is ringing, when I slip through the unlocked deck door. Lianne looks at me in confusion as she goes to pick up the landline. I attempt to smile, but shudder with too many competing emotions blazing away inside, all but incinerating me now.

I’m sure I look like a crazed woman and confirm this when I glimpse my reflection in the window glass. My windblown hair is going every which way. I reach up to smooth it back into place, but finally give up. Mascara streaks down my face. It’s a combination of my eyes tearing up from the windy conditions outside and something else I refuse to recognize. I wipe at a tear with the back of my hand and try to rub off the remaining streaks with my jacket sleeve.

“Yes, she just got here. Just a second.” My nanny gets this thoughtful look. I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling and struggle to keep it together. “Mr. Winston wants to talk to you,” Lianne says gently. She hands me the phone and heads for the stairs.

I’m grateful to her for the silent offer of privacy and experience a modicum of dignity as I pick up the phone. I just hold the receiver to my ear because some distant part of me needs to hear his voice, while all the other parts berate me for this outward sign of weakness for him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t … have done that,” Jake says. His remorse makes me feel worse. Tears trail down my face. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I
want
you. I do. I just…I want it to be right. I want it to
mean
something.”

“It doesn’t
mean
anything
. And, I don’t want to see you anymore, Jake.” I hear him suck in his breath, shocked by my coldness, I suppose.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Are you
done
?”

“I’m sorry, Julia. I don’t want it to be this way. I’m sorry.”

I don’t bother to answer. Instead, I hang up the receiver and unplug the phone cord from the wall. Exhausted on so many incomprehensible levels, I climb the stairs. Minutes later, I strip off my clothes, stand under the shower spray, and attempt to wash away the grief and shame that have already found me again.

≈
≈*

“Five days,” she says. She stares at me for the umpteenth time this day with an anxious look.

“Five days?”

“That’s all you get. In bed. Five days. I’ll let you have them, but that’s it.”

“Fine. Five days.” I give her a quizzical look, wondering why she has caved on this point in letting me stay in bed. My lethargy has messed with my sense of time. I can no longer recall what day it is. One day just slips into the next. My nights are spent trying to find solace and elusive sleep, but nothing’s working, most of all, me. The little magic pills from Dr. Stevenson and pure exhaustion make me practically incoherent, while grief and guilt take the rest.

“Lianne can take care of Reid and I’ll take care of you.”

I nod. “Thanks, Kimmy.”

It’s only later that I figure out I literally slept through the first anniversary of our wedding on the tenth of January. Kimberley actually gives me six days in bed. Then, on the morning of day seven, she unceremoniously pushes me into the shower. I’m reminded of Jacob Winston all over again.

Time, sleep, neither completely erase his image or the shame that arrives with it from my mind. The peaceful feeling between us for those precious first few hours at his place the day after Christmas is long gone. In its place is this unknowable sorrow I try to ignore, while I forcefully embrace seething fury for him and the latest round of guilt that accompanies it.

≈ ≈

Existing in a semi-fog with the assistance of the little white pills, I dully count the days as they drift by. There have been sixty-three of those.

Christian handles the day-to-day operations for Evan’s company. But, as time goes on, it begins to filter through to me that there is much to be decided with the hedge-fund firm and he can’t possibly deal with it all and run his own company, too. The market is going crazy with the continual financial angst the New Year brings as it reverberates on a global level and Evan’s private equity clients get more and more anxious since the leader with the golden touch is most definitely deceased. I’ve relinquished all the responsibilities over to Christian to solve, but the guilt of burdening him with my problems starts to seep in to me. The pressure for decisions on what to do, both tactically and strategically, increases tenfold. “Talk to Christian”
has become my mantra whenever someone reaches out to me directly to discuss Hamilton Equities. I’m overwhelmed with grief and the idea of serving as chairman of Evan’s company in any real working capacity terrifies me. Christian takes on the brunt of the responsibilities as acting chief executive officer and provides me updates on his and Jake’s progress, while I dully listen and try to comprehend what he’s telling me.

I’ve made one decision. I’ve hired
Liaison
, Kimberley, to do all the public relations coordination for Hamilton Equities. Evan and I had talked about doing this before he died. I need my little entourage—Kimberley, Stephanie, Christian, and even Jake—more than ever now, not just for my own consolation, but for the survival of Evan’s company.

≈ ≈

Paris in late February. I sit out on a garden bench wrapped in a thick wool blanket on the patio at Gregoire’s chateau, where he so graciously invited all of us to stay, while we’re here. I stare out at the winter landscape of France and try not to think about the things and places that start with the letter
A
that continue to haunt me. The earlier sessions with Dr. Stevenson and now, Dr. Lila Grayson, here in Paris, have brought all this pain of the past decade to the surface for me. Pain, I thought I dealt with long ago, emerges now.

Gregoire’s chateau vibrates with activity and people. Kimberley still insists on staying with me as much as possible, while things continue to pile up at the Paris office of
Liaison
. My hand swipes at a stray tear. The opening and closing of the French door leading out to the garden patio and Kimberley’s lyrical voice breaks into my asylum.

“Yes. She’s getting better. Probably a few more weeks. Yes. I’ll tell her. She’s been edgy. Don’t feel bad; she’s not taking anyone’s calls, but mine and Steph’s.” Kimberley looks over in my vicinity with an intense we-will-be-talking-about-this-later stare. I return it with one my own determined defiant look.

“Thanks. No problem,” Kimberley says with a laugh. “So two weeks, huh? Manhattan sounds good about now. Amagansett would be even better. I totally agree. Okay. It’s not a problem. I have a team that helps me with everything. Well, we try to. Okay. Yes, I’ll tell her.” She presses the end-call button on her cell phone, then, walks around the garden intent on examining last summer’s long-dead flora as if she can somehow resuscitate it by staring at the vegetation long enough. I appreciate the silence, knowing it won’t last and Kimberley’s going to be lecturing me about something soon enough.

“Who was that?” I finally ask.

“Jake Winston.”

“Jake? Is calling
you
?”

“He wanted to talk about the upcoming press release announcing the closure of the London office and find out how you were doing.”

“I’m fine.” I glare at her, still undone by the man even now. “Why is he doing
that
? Checking up on me?”

“He’s the executor of Evan’s estate. He’s handling the things that keep cropping up at Hamilton Equities. He’s helping Christian with
everything
, so whether you like it or not or much less appreciate his efforts, Jake’s doing everything he can to help you. We all are.” The stress of taking care of me for the past few months catches up to us both. “Do you have to be so fucking
difficult
on top of everything else?”

Only Kimberley would dare say this to me, although I’m pretty sure there are a few others thinking it about now. Remorse sets in.

“I’m sorry. You can tell him to stop sending the flowers, the cards.” I wave a dismissive hand through the air.

Flower bouquets and note cards continue to arrive from Jake on a weekly basis. I spend an inordinate amount of my time cutting the heads off these very flowers and tossing them away with an unspeakable perverse sense of pleasure. I leave the note cards unopened, keep them tied up with a blue satin ribbon, and hide them in the farthest corner of my suitcase, like some buried treasure I intend to read someday. A secret part of me enjoys collecting these repentant acts of kindness from him. It’s as if I’m extracting a piece of his soul with each one.

Somewhere, deep down inside, my ego acknowledges the unbelievable pain—this mortal wound of some kind—in knowing the man
actually
turned me down. These profound thoughts of him, in that regard, distress me at inopportune moments. These are the astonishing
secrets I do not share with anyone else.
He turned me down
.
It’s unbelievable. Unforgivable, surely.

“If he would just stop sending the flowers,” I say. I glance over at the pile of beheaded roses, acknowledging the cruelty I’ve doled out on these innocent flowers that should be directed at
him
.

“Tell him yourself.” Kimberley stops pacing and comes to stand in front of me with her hands on her hips, essentially blocking my view of the garden and forcing me to look at her.

“I’m not going to tell him,” I practically shudder as I say this. “How will that sound? Ungrateful. Bitchy.”

“Oh we wouldn’t want that,” Kimberley says. “But
not
taking his calls or responding to his emails or much less
thanking
him for the flowers and cards all looks
so much better
.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If he would just stop sending them, the flowers, I mean…I wouldn’t have to
think
about calling to ask him to stop sending them.”