Page 34

BARBARA

I checked the address once more. It matched.

The small whitewashed building sat like a forgotten relic among the riot of color, as if time had passed it by while the rest of the street moved on.

Above the door, a faded wooden sign read “Rosemary’s Art & Antiques” in delicate, hand-painted script.

A string of tiny bells tinkled as I pushed the door open.

Peeling white paint flaked off and fluttered to the ground.

A musty warmth enveloped me as I stepped inside.

The scent of old wood and aging fabric mingled with a faint trace of lavender, wrapping around me like a moth-eaten shawl.

The interior was cluttered but charming—an organized chaos of vintage furniture, framed paintings, and porcelain knickknacks jostling for space like overgrown plants in a hothouse.

I let the door close behind me, and the bells faded into a soft clatter.

This wasn’t Victor’s style at all. Where was the sleek sophistication, the understated opulence?

I hesitated, glancing once more at the slip of paper in my hand.

2375 Glendale Boulevard. It was right—but nothing about this place felt right. Had I written the address down wrong?

“Can I help you, dear?” A frail but sweet voice broke through the stillness.

An elderly woman with wispy white hair and large, round glasses emerged from behind a beaded curtain, her hands as gnarled as ancient vines.

She wore a lavender shawl draped over her shoulders, its fabric whispering with each step.

I hesitated. “I’m supposed to meet someone here,” I said, slipping the paper back into my bag. “Perhaps I have the wrong address.”

The old woman peered at me through her glasses, which were fogged from the steam trickling up from the cream-and-rose porcelain teacup in her skeletal fingers.

She smiled, her lips thin as parchment. “No mistake, dearie. You’re in the right place.

” Her voice carried the ghost of a Scottish accent softened by decades of distance.

I bit my lip, unconvinced, as I glanced around again. As far as I could tell, the shop was empty except for the two of us. “Do you know where I’m supposed to meet my…friend?”

She nodded slowly. “Come with me.”

I followed her through the beaded curtain, the long strands clicking and clattering like a handful of glass marbles in a child’s pocket.

The back room was even more cluttered than the front, with stacks of yellowing books and boxes overflowing with lace doilies and tarnished silverware.

It had the feel of a forgotten attic, a place where memories drowned in dust.

The old woman—I hadn’t thought to ask her name—set her teacup down on a chipped enamel table and motioned toward a narrow staircase.

“He’s waiting for you upstairs.”

Upstairs? I opened my mouth to speak, but she had already turned away, busy sorting through a heap of fabric swatches.

I looked at the staircase. It seemed too flimsy to support even my slight frame, let alone a man of Victor’s stature.

Taking a deep breath, I gripped the wobbly handrail and started up, each step groaning like an old man rising from a chair.

A single door awaited me at the top, its paint cracked like sunbaked earth. I held my breath and knocked softly.

The door swung open, and Victor stood before me, his tall frame filling the doorway. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and suspenders hugged his shoulders. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie hung loose. A warm rush of relief washed over me.

“Barbara, my darling,” he said, his voice a smooth caress. “Come in.”

I stepped inside, and Victor closed the door behind me.

The space was surprisingly cozy, with a low ceiling and slanted walls that gave it the feel of a ship’s cabin.

Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a soft glow over a battered leather sofa and a wooden coffee table scarred from use.

A hot plate and sink occupied one corner, and a patterned rug covered most of the hardwood floor.

Victor took my hands in his and pulled me close. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,” he murmured as he kissed my forehead.

I leaned into his chest for a moment, savoring the spicy scent of his cologne. “This place…” I said, pulling back slightly. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

He smiled, a boyish curve to his lips that momentarily smoothed the tension from his face. “That’s the point. No one would think to look for us here.”

I glanced around the sparse room again. “Is it one of yours?”

He let go of my hands and walked to the window, looking down at the street below. “Not on paper. But yes.”

I moved to stand beside him. “What does that mean?”

“In short, it means it can’t be traced back to me.”

“Why do you need such a place?”

He dismissed the question with a flick of his hand. “Never mind that. Let me look at you.” He pulled back and caressed every inch of my body with his eyes. “My memory and imagination don’t do you justice, angel.”

Warmth rose from my chest to my cheeks.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the sofa. “I have some news.”

I perched on the worn leather, which sighed and sank beneath me. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

He sat next to me, and our knees touched, sending little electric shocks up my legs.

“Dorothy agreed to the terms. We have a court date.”

A flutter of hope took wing in my chest. “When is it?”

“June twenty-first.”

I exhaled slowly—a feeble attempt at tempering my emotions. Two months felt like an eternity, but at least there was an end in sight now.

“That’s wonderful,” I said, though the words came out more measured than I intended.

Victor’s eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought he might press me about my hesitation. Instead, he leaned in and kissed me, his lips soft but insistent. I yielded to him, letting the tension I was carrying melt away.

When he pulled back, he stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “God, I’ve missed that.”

I touched my fingers to my lips, still tingling from his kiss. “Me too,” I said, knowing it wasn’t enough but afraid to say more.

Victor took my hand again, his touch warm and reassuring. “You understand, don’t you? I can’t bear being away from you. But until the divorce is final, we have to be very careful. And Lawrence assures me that as soon as mine is settled, you’re clear to file for divorce from Frank.”

I nodded, though a knot formed in my stomach. “I know. It’s just…hard to wait. When all I want is to be with you, yet I have to keep pretending.”

He squeezed my hand. “Barbara, we’ll get through this. We just have to hold on a little longer. Stay with Frank for now and keep up appearances.” He kissed the back of my hand. “You’re an actress, right?”

I smiled at his recollection but quickly looked away, focusing on the delicate patterns of the curtains as they swayed in the breeze. “Victor…” I started. “Edith knows. She’s the only one I’ve confided in, but I trust her completely.”

His grip on my hand tightened, then relaxed. “Your sister… She’s always been supportive of you, hasn’t she?”

“Yes,” I said, turning back to him. “She understands what I’m going through. She’d never betray me.”

Victor sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing its usual razor-sharp lines. “All right. But no one else, Barbara. If this gets out…”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I know what’s at stake.” The knot in my stomach tightened. “But my mother suspects. If she stirs up trouble?—”

“She won’t,” he interrupted, though his voice lacked its usual certainty. “She’s not so foolish as to air dirty laundry in public.”

I pulled my hand away and crossed my arms, sinking back into the sofa.

“You don’t know her like I do. She’ll do whatever it takes to protect the family.

And in her mind, divorce is the devil, and a ‘well-brought-up girl’ should stick it out in a miserable, loveless marriage rather than try for happiness.

” I shook my head and let out a bitter laugh.

“She’s still stuck in the last century.”

“Then all the more reason we give her nothing to go on, darling.”

I nodded, letting out a shaky breath.

Victor studied me in silence, his dark eyes probing. “Speaking of being stuck in the last century…I’ve been wondering about something.”

I uncrossed my arms and sat up straighter. “Oh?”

“The age difference between you and your siblings—it’s quite pronounced, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “I’m the baby of the family. There’s an eleven-year gap between me and my brother, Bill. He’s the next youngest. Why?”

Victor leaned back, his fingers idly drumming on his knee. “Your parents—they’re older than I expected. Older than my own, even. And I’ve got ten years on you, darling.”

“Yes, Mother was forty when she had me. Apparently, I was something of a surprise.” I studied him. “Where are you going with this?”

“If you were the surprise baby—the ‘change of life miracle,’ if you will—I’d expect your parents to dote on you more. Indulge you, even.”

A rueful smile dusted my lips. “My father does. When he’s around, that is.

When I was a kid, he treated me like a princess.

I remember once, between meetings with very important bigwigs during his time as city mayor, he made time to come to a tea party with my dolls.

I couldn’t have been more than three.” I sighed, the memory warm but distant. “He’s always so sweet to me.”

“But not your mother?”

I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “No. Mother is all rules, manners, and propriety. Very no-nonsense. She’d have made a great general.”

Victor chuckled, low and knowing. “I took orders from a few just like her during the war.”

I loved Victor’s face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. This was a pleasant moment of levity, and I hesitated to disrupt it with what I needed to say.