situation, with real consequences that will not be helped by telling childish stories.”
Hensley is angered by his patronizing tone.
“I know it is not a game. You are not the one who has been nauseous and terrified and ashamed. I am, Daddy. I am the one who boarded that train foolishly, silently, heartbroken, who followed you here, to this forsaken place, because I have absolutely no other place to go.” Unable to speak any further, she retreats out the back door.
With shaking hands, she covers her mouth. The afternoon’s heat has settled solidly against the land. Stifling a scream, she stomps her feet, sending spasms of fury up through her legs. She does not want to be here, nor anywhere. She does not want this afternoon to be what it’s become. She hates her father for his calm acceptance, his staid reason, and hates herself for hating him.
Did she not entertain her father’s exact suggestion on the train coming to this lonely place? Did she not sit above the ever-moving wheels and imagine what it might take to forgive Lowell? To place their beginning into a hole deep within her and never look down into it again? Has she not imagined that being his wife would immediately reform him? Turn his opportunism into a failing she would be duty bound to overlook? Hasn’t she also wondered how she could possibly carry a child that was doomed to suffer an orphan’s life?
But, now, coming from her father’s mouth—so practical and concrete—the suggestion that she hope to become Mrs. Lowell Teagan suddenly seems contemptible.
With her brother’s telegram in hand, Hensley had cajoled Marie into joining her on one last errand before she left New York; they took the train uptown to the address she’d written on a piece of paper from her father’s desk.
It was a faded stone building near Columbia with an interior courtyard. The doors with brass handles were heavy but unlocked.
“I am giving him back this scarf that Sara Coe wore in Act Two. I’ll just be a minute. Do you mind waiting here?” Hensley asked, motioning to the blue velvet couches facing one another in the lobby’s alcove.
Marie furrowed her brow. “Which scarf? I don’t remember a scarf . . .”
Hensley smiled. “It’s in my bag. I’ll be right back,” she said, climbing the marble stairs.
When she reached his apartment, she pressed her ear against his door, straining to hear any private moments. She realized she knew almost nothing about his life or habits. She knocked.
Lowe stood in front of her, his hands in his pockets, and stared. She’d come with the notion that she could shame him, make him despise himself. But when he opened the door and stood before her with his black hair slicked away from his face with care and his posture ever-perfect, she knew her mission was impossible.
He leaned in close to her cheek and planted a kiss. “Hensley,” he said, his voice still deeply seductive, “whatever has brought you all the way up here? Alone?”
“I thought you might like to see me,” she said, stepping into the apartment. His feet were bare and the black hairs curled on the tops of his toes looked obscene. “Before you go, I mean.” His apartment was spare, with just a sofa and a wooden table.
“Of course. It’s just, I’ve been so busy. You understand. I was absolutely exhausted after the show. I think I slept an entire twenty-four hours.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And now I’ve got to get my affairs in order. Honestly”—his eyes pulled at her with some unspoken pain—“I thought it might be easier this way . . .”
Hensley smiled. “But you were going to tell me a proper good-bye. I was going to get that performance, once you worked it up?”
“There is no proper good-bye for the two of us, Hensley.” Here, he took her hand, gazing at her fingers as he kissed each one.
“I think there is, Mr. Teagan,” she said as she pulled her hand away. “The proper good-bye begins with a confession. A sliver
Hensley is angered by his patronizing tone.
“I know it is not a game. You are not the one who has been nauseous and terrified and ashamed. I am, Daddy. I am the one who boarded that train foolishly, silently, heartbroken, who followed you here, to this forsaken place, because I have absolutely no other place to go.” Unable to speak any further, she retreats out the back door.
With shaking hands, she covers her mouth. The afternoon’s heat has settled solidly against the land. Stifling a scream, she stomps her feet, sending spasms of fury up through her legs. She does not want to be here, nor anywhere. She does not want this afternoon to be what it’s become. She hates her father for his calm acceptance, his staid reason, and hates herself for hating him.
Did she not entertain her father’s exact suggestion on the train coming to this lonely place? Did she not sit above the ever-moving wheels and imagine what it might take to forgive Lowell? To place their beginning into a hole deep within her and never look down into it again? Has she not imagined that being his wife would immediately reform him? Turn his opportunism into a failing she would be duty bound to overlook? Hasn’t she also wondered how she could possibly carry a child that was doomed to suffer an orphan’s life?
But, now, coming from her father’s mouth—so practical and concrete—the suggestion that she hope to become Mrs. Lowell Teagan suddenly seems contemptible.
With her brother’s telegram in hand, Hensley had cajoled Marie into joining her on one last errand before she left New York; they took the train uptown to the address she’d written on a piece of paper from her father’s desk.
It was a faded stone building near Columbia with an interior courtyard. The doors with brass handles were heavy but unlocked.
“I am giving him back this scarf that Sara Coe wore in Act Two. I’ll just be a minute. Do you mind waiting here?” Hensley asked, motioning to the blue velvet couches facing one another in the lobby’s alcove.
Marie furrowed her brow. “Which scarf? I don’t remember a scarf . . .”
Hensley smiled. “It’s in my bag. I’ll be right back,” she said, climbing the marble stairs.
When she reached his apartment, she pressed her ear against his door, straining to hear any private moments. She realized she knew almost nothing about his life or habits. She knocked.
Lowe stood in front of her, his hands in his pockets, and stared. She’d come with the notion that she could shame him, make him despise himself. But when he opened the door and stood before her with his black hair slicked away from his face with care and his posture ever-perfect, she knew her mission was impossible.
He leaned in close to her cheek and planted a kiss. “Hensley,” he said, his voice still deeply seductive, “whatever has brought you all the way up here? Alone?”
“I thought you might like to see me,” she said, stepping into the apartment. His feet were bare and the black hairs curled on the tops of his toes looked obscene. “Before you go, I mean.” His apartment was spare, with just a sofa and a wooden table.
“Of course. It’s just, I’ve been so busy. You understand. I was absolutely exhausted after the show. I think I slept an entire twenty-four hours.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And now I’ve got to get my affairs in order. Honestly”—his eyes pulled at her with some unspoken pain—“I thought it might be easier this way . . .”
Hensley smiled. “But you were going to tell me a proper good-bye. I was going to get that performance, once you worked it up?”
“There is no proper good-bye for the two of us, Hensley.” Here, he took her hand, gazing at her fingers as he kissed each one.
“I think there is, Mr. Teagan,” she said as she pulled her hand away. “The proper good-bye begins with a confession. A sliver
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