Page 38

We study each other, and he looks away first.

“The knight learned,” he says soberly, “that what women want is sovereignty —power over their own lives and decisions. I robbed you of that when I didn’t trust you to protect yourself and instead made choices for you, based on what I thought was best.”

My throat is tight; for a moment all I can do is offer a thumbs-up. “You got the message loud and clear,” I manage, little more than a whisper.

“My patronizing actions were misguided, though inspired by a love I was far too clumsy at expressing. But… my deception was inexcusable. After long consideration, I see why this was a killing blow to your feelings for me. Nonnegotiable and irreparable.”

Why does a part of me not want him to be phrasing it quite that strongly? Hormones must be messing with my head.

“Thank you for accepting that,” I say, not sure if I mean it.

“A painful lesson, but critical.” He takes my hands in both of his, which are so comparatively warm that it highlights how cold mine are.

“If I may ask: Did you feel you had ‘sovereignty’ in this… unexpected development? I hope you’re not sidelining your journalism career due to a perceived lack of options. ”

Aside from the fact that he’s touching me, he’s gone “businesslike,” and I know it’s a defense mechanism. Suddenly I wish I could take back my Thank you for accepting that , words I scattered between us because I thought they’d make me sound strong, brave, equipped for what’s ahead.

I could have said, Not irreparable…

I could have said, A stunning blow, not a killing one…

But I’m too afraid.

I watch our joined hands, remembering the feeling of his arms around me while we slept. The rightness of it. Memories bleed through the cracks in my heart, and for a long minute, I can’t manage a word—I’m waiting for him to somehow hear what I can’t say.

I was so angry in Budapest when I found out he’d made a choice for me. How can I possibly be wishing he would right now?

What would be weaker? Forgiving him and trying again, or letting this go?

When I realize he’s not going to save me from my own uncertainty—I told him not to rescue me, after all—I collect the pieces of myself and force a confident expression, even while the sorrow is killing me.

“I did have options,” I state firmly. “Plenty of women don’t have as much freedom, and I recognize how lucky I am. There were many things I could’ve chosen to do, and I considered several of them. I didn’t take this path because the others were wrong.”

His thumbs move back and forth over my knuckles, and I feel it all the way up my arms. “I respect that. Still, if you wish to live in London and work at ARJ , but you’ve stricken that from your list due to a lack of support, you have that support in me.

Whatever resources you need, should you prefer to return to work at the magazine next season, I will make it happen.

A bigger flat. Three bedrooms—one for a nanny. I will pay for it all.”

My eyebrows go up. “I get that you’re trying to be nice. But offering to pay for everything is presumptuous.”

I’ve seen a lot of unfamiliar vulnerability in Klaus tonight, but the expression that overtakes him now is startling. He’s like Scrooge glimpsing his grave, terrified of a future he feels powerless to avoid.

“I don’t mean to sound controlling,” he rushes to assure me. “It wasn’t my intention. But… you do want me to be involved in the child’s life, I hope?”

I sink my head into the cradle of my arms on my bent knees.

This wasn’t how I imagined the conversation, dammit.

I’ve been fretting for a month, my mind rehearsing the possible exchanges, but it was strangely academic, two-dimensional, like a table read.

But this—the cold sorrow clinging to me, the awful distance, words spilling out small and frail and inadequate—no, this I wasn’t prepared for.

“We weren’t the best for each other as, uh, whatever we were,” I say flatly, still hiding in my folded arms. I lift my head, and Klaus’s anxiety is strange and terrible to see. I want so much to reach for him. “But I do trust you’ll be an amazing father.”

He unwinds my arms, pulling my hands to his lips and kissing them. A shiver goes through me, both at the fearful sense of unwelcome power I have in the face of his desperate gratitude and at the very-much-welcome feeling of his touch.

“You’ve seen a doctor?” he asks. “Are you well?”

“It’s… I’m fine. It’s called a ‘geriatric pregnancy’ at thirty-five, which is kind of insulting,” I say with a wry look.

“Things are great so far, but caution isn’t a bad idea.

By the halfway point, I’ll breathe easier.

I’m getting some tests just before the end of the F1 season.

Hopefully we’ll have lots to celebrate—Emerald might bag second in the constructors’ championship. ”

When he pulls me into an embrace, I stiffen momentarily before melting against him.

He exhales into my hair. “Nothing work related seems to matter right now, I confess. Only this .”

I wonder how long I can get away with staying in his arms. Is it just a relieved hug, or…

are we holding each other? If I looked at him from this close, our lips would be inches apart.

It’s the thought of my heart betraying me, of making that move to invite a kiss, that prompts me to push him gently away and sit back.

I clear my throat. “Just so we can put the subject to bed,” I say, immediately feeling heat rush to my face at the thought of something being put to bed , “I don’t want a flat in London and a nanny. I’m staying here. When the baby is older—like a traveling-age child—we can arrange visits.”

“Perhaps he or she can stay with me during the offseason,” he ventures, “and summer break in August?”

“The offseason is right in the middle of the school year.”

He rakes his hands through his hair and turns away. Resting his elbows on his knees, he steeples his hands, and the posture reminds me of prayer. He scowls in thought, then quietly asks, “What if you lived in Santorini full-time… at the cottage?”

My heart trips. I’m afraid to reply, unsure what he’s suggesting. “I… uh, I don’t—”

“There are enough rooms for everyone,” he hurries to add. “Please don’t say no until you’ve thought about it. Elena can help, and… you could write books. Or work part-time with the magazine, freelancing.”

When he mentions freelancing, a shimmer of euphoria goes through me.

I examine the feeling. I’ve been so focused on the book project and the family stuff, I’ve ignored the things I love about my job: the travel, the excitement, hanging out with Phae, seeing everyone around the paddock, chatting with drivers and TPs and engineers.

I thought I was just missing Klaus, but in this moment, I know I’ve also missed a part of myself these past few months.

As quickly as I light up inside with the temptation of what he’s offering, I accept that it wouldn’t work. I’d be away on assignments, Klaus would be gone most of the time, and our child would wander a Greek island with the world’s grouchiest housekeeper as their chief companion.

My current plan may not be perfect, but it’s still the best fit.

“I don’t need to think about it,” I say, hoping he can’t detect the ambivalence in my voice. “It’s just not possible. We’ll visit when school is out.”

He’s so clearly crestfallen that I reach to touch his leg, but he doesn’t take my hand as I expect—only glances down at my fingers, like I’m an insect that’s landed on him.

“August in Greece?” I go on with a winning smile. “It’ll be lovely . And there are the US races—you can come here then and visit.”

We’re both silent for a long time. Klaus finally drops his hand over mine, but it feels obligatory.

“You’ll come to Santorini too?” he asks.

I can’t read his tone; I’m not sure if he’s implying I’m not invited, or hoping I’ll be there.

It occurs to me how much will change in our lives in the next few years.

At the point when we have a child old enough for transatlantic flights, Klaus and I might both be with other partners.

Maybe his girlfriend— wife? —won’t be comfortable with me at the cottage.

An image jumps into my mind of his hypothetical future partner.

She’s intense, gorgeous. A French artist. I see her in a black beret, smoking, her flashing eyes narrowed.

That ’orrible American woman expects to come to my house?

she rants at Klaus, erupting into a noir-film-dramatic tantrum and throwing things at him.

Her name is something like Celeste or Sabine, and she’s amazing in bed…

I shake off the image and reply, hoping I don’t sound timid. “I mean, yeah, I guess I’d come too? It’s a long flight for a kid of any age. And you work so much, even in the offseason. I’d need to be there.”

“I wish my damned job weren’t so all-consuming,” he muses. “I would of course try to take time off and prioritize family. Work remotely whenever possible during visits.”

“Team principal of a hundred-twenty-million-dollar racing team isn’t exactly a ‘work-from-home’ gig. Emerald could surpass Allonby and become number one in a few years. But they’ll need a firm hand on the rudder to get them there.”

There’s a resigned pause before his crisp “Yes.”

As I study his grim expression, I realize the one question I never asked him during those months of interviews: Do you love your job? I just assumed he did.

I hear Auntie Min’s car pull up and leap guiltily to my feet, like a teenager who’s “studying” with her crush. Klaus stands as well. As the door opens, we glance at each other, as if there’s something we were both waiting to say, but the opportunity is gone.

Minnie comes in with two bags, one from the grocery store and another from a craft store. She sets the latter on the coffee table and extends a hand to shake with Klaus.

“Well, here he is,” she states in a tolerant deadpan. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You as well.”

She looks him up and down. “Tall drink of water.” Shifting her focus to me, she gestures at the craft store bag. “Naomi picked up that extra yarn for you so you can finish the baby blanket.” She fixes Klaus with a look. “Congratulations. Don’t screw it up.”

His eyebrows jump. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll let you say your goodbyes,” she throws over her shoulder, heading for the kitchen.

It’s a clear dismissal. In the kitchen doorway, she pauses, telling Klaus, “Natty’s got a doctor visit in a few weeks.

Getting a sonogram. I’m sure you’ll want to be here for it.

” She turns away, flicking the kitchen light on with her elbow, and disappears around the corner.

Klaus gives me a cautious side-eye as we walk toward the front door. “Am I welcome to attend this appointment?”

“Oh. Um, I figured you’d be busy.”

We linger in the entryway, watching each other. Minnie bangs pots and pans in the kitchen. It’s very telling that she hasn’t invited him to stay for supper. That woman will invite anyone for a meal, from the drunk guy sitting outside the Quick Stop to the gas company man who reads our meter.

Still, she all but commanded him to attend my doctor visit. Maybe she’s as conflicted as I am. I’m about to add something along the lines of But if you’d like to be there, that’s wonderful , offering an opening, when he speaks up first.

“Yes, quite busy. There’s a crucial FIA meeting before S?o Paulo.

Team principals and owners will all be there.

We’re debating two alternates for the new race location and dealing with the fallout from the one that was pulled.

” He blows out a weary breath. “I just want to go racing, but we’ve been dragged into politics. ”

“You’re doing the right thing,” I assure him with a half-hearted smile, pulling the front door open.

He looks at me like he’s not sure if I mean the grand prix location change or attending the meeting instead of coming to my appointment. I want to say so many things, but it all seems wrong.

I track his eyes moving to the side of my neck.

He lifts a hand—slowly enough that I could stop him—and reaches for the chain of the emerald necklace.

I wondered if he would notice. My eyes close as his touch connects.

He slips a finger beneath the chain but lifts it only an inch out of my sweater before letting it fall.

Countless times he’s drawn the necklace free of my shirt and positioned it over my heart, but today he doesn’t.

He steps back, and I open my eyes. With a small incline like a bow, he says, “Send me a picture of the sonogram, if you’re willing. Good night.”

He’s out the door and across the yard before I can muster a reply. I put a hand over the emerald beneath my sweater. It hits me, with a cold rush of finality, that in asking Klaus to read that Canterbury Tales story, I may have taught him his lesson too well.