Before You Say I Do

Chapter 15 Thirty-Seven

There were very few men who Marnie liked and even fewer who she respected. Perhaps it was her upbringing — that sheltered youth as the prodigal daughter of a deeply talented but also deeply disturbed man. Perhaps it was the plethora of men who seemed to constantly surround him, dark-suited and tall, who glanced at her childish presence with annoyance and then later, when she developed into a rebellious teenager with resentment and attitude, a deep and unsettling suspicion.

She hadn’t understood Doug either, if she was entirely honest with herself. Doug had been sexy and exciting, and she’d been seduced more by the idea of him than anything else. To discover that beneath that alluring exterior had been a kind man with a compassionate heart had been a surprise — discovering that she liked that kindness had been a seismic shift that had rocked her to her very foundations. Doug’s kindness had been both a gift and a curse. Deeply attractive on the outside and unable to withstand causing hurt within, Doug had been easily led and easily swayed. Married — perhaps unsuitably — to a woman with a core of steel who was always working, Doug’s affairs had been many, and he’d adopted a devil-may-care lifestyle that Marnie could never fathom but likewise never condemned. The women, the gambling, the airplanes... even now, Marnie was taken aback that not only had their shotgun marriage worked, it had lasted until Doug’s death. Marnie had loved her husband, but she hadn’t always respected him.

And her boys.

Corentin and Tom had been the brown-eyed babies of her dreams. When they’d first placed her tiny infants in her arms, which curved naturally around them, she’d looked down at her little sons and wondered where they’d been all her life. For they were so much a part of her in that moment that she couldn’t remember a time when they’d ever been away from her. In her boys, Marnie found a reason to justify her not-always-happy marriage, her decisions and life choices. In them, she found a renewed sense of purpose. She had to make a good world for her sons. She had to leave the world a better place than she’d found it. Her error, Marnie knew now, was misplacing that sense of purpose into working more and working harder, and not spending her time with her precious babies, who did not remain babies for long, but became wide-eyed toddlers and then, with alarming speed, quiet and pensive boys. Before she knew it, Corentin and Tom were grown. Corentin, as calm and placid and self-aware as he’d been as an infant, was happy enough, his choices and decisions his own. Tom though... It hit Marnie hard that where her beautiful boy once stood, a sullen and resentful man had taken his place, and she’d been struck with the first pangs of regret at her absence from his life.

She loved both her sons, but she didn’t always know them.

As for other men . . . well, Marnie could only shrug. Her father, husband and sons had been the only men in her life to really count. The rest had been mere background, an echoing chamber of complaints and disapproval, and she hadn’t liked any of them.

So, ten minutes into dinner with Luis De León, Marnie was heartily surprised to find that not only could she tolerate him, but that she was actually beginning to like him too. He was witty and verbose, pleasant and winningly attractive, and Marnie’s heart had fluttered when he’d leaned over the table to fill her wine glass and winked at her.

“Sheesh, I bet you were a stunning bride, once upon a time,” he told her, filling her glass nearly to the brim. “I can see where she gets her good looks from now.”

“Oh, Marnie’s not my mom,” Sasha cut in breezily. Of course, Marnie thought with a scowl, that vapid woman would imagine this conversation was about her. Sasha was sitting at the table with a white wine spritzer in her hand, an empty plate shining before her. Marnie didn’t know what she hated more: that Sasha had turned down the sumptuous Thai-infused scallops that had been painstakingly prepared alongside a quail egg salad, or that she’d cut into an exquisite Edmond Vatan Sancerre Clos la Neore with club soda.

“That’s right,” Ari broke in softly, and Marnie’s eyes immediately flicked to her. “Sasha’s mother has sadly passed, Luis. Marnie is our... our groom’s mother.”

Hearing Ari’s voice break on the word ‘groom’, Marnie felt a deep stab of pity, and another deep stab of frustration with her son.

“Oh,” Luis replied quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Marnie turned to him, hearing the lie in his voice. In that moment he looked decidedly awkward, chewing on his lip uncomfortably. I can see where she gets her good looks from now... Luis had been talking about Reine, obviously. He knew it and Ari knew it and Sebastian knew it and Marnie knew it, but not one of them could say it out loud because of Sasha, who still knew nothing. Thinking quickly, Marnie realised that somewhere between the airport and here, Luis had been briefed on the situation. He knew that Tom was Reine’s father, and also the mysterious Tom Somerset who had broken Ari’s heart.

Surprisingly, Marnie didn’t feel angry with Luis. No. She felt almost grateful to him.

I can see where she gets her good looks from. He was the first one of them all to acknowledge her as Reine’s grandmother. The first one to acknowledge that biological link, which Marnie still fervently hoped would soon transfer into an emotional one.

Yes, she realised. She liked Luis De León. Unlike his husband, he was genuine, and she sensed in him an ally of sorts. An ally she hoped to use to her advantage.

So Marnie decided to rescue him, and with him this horribly awkward situation.

“When did you first start designing wedding gowns?” she asked lightly, piercing a scallop with her fork.

Luis grinned back. “You know something? I’ve been designing them all my life. I was the kid in class who drew princesses in ball gowns rather than dinosaurs or dragons. I was the kid who sat on his abuela’s knee learning to crochet so I could dress my sister’s Barbie doll for her wedding to Ken.”

“Ken and Barbie,” Sebastian chimed in drily, “it’ll never last. Ken’s always clearly on the rebound from GI Joe.”

“Obviously,” Luis returned, with another grin that made Marnie’s stomach flutter. “Anyway, I’ve been designing all my life, in one way or another.”

“When did you turn professional?” Marnie was astonished to find she was actually interested in his reply.

“I moved to New York for design school. I was lucky, growing up in El Salvador can be tough for a man like me. I won a scholarship though, went through on a free ride, which meant I could really concentrate on my specialty. After I graduated, I transferred to London to work under Stephanie Allin. Wedding design is a tough industry, especially if you specialise in it like me, and don’t produce other collections. But I got lucky. An old girlfriend of mine was up and coming in the wedding business herself and referred me to a minor member of the British aristocracy. I designed my first gown under my own name. Word spread, and soon I was inundated with design requests. I opened my Kensington boutique not long after, and I’ve been there ever since.”

“An old girlfriend?” Sasha asked, and Marnie could see the confusion on her face. “But I thought you were...”

“Gay?” asked Luis, and when Sasha nodded, he gave a shrug. “I don’t like to define myself, but I believe in love being love, and I’ve always fallen in love with personalities rather than genders.”

“Personalities?” Marnie asked, inadvertently raising an eyebrow towards Sebastian. “You fall in love with personalities?”

“Yeah,” Luis grinned. “I do. And my Sebbie here has enough personality to get me through three lifetimes. Keeps me on my toes.” He reached over to stroke his husband’s arm lovingly, which Sebastian permitted with an affectionate roll of his eyes.

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Sasha gushed. “That’s what I want Tom and I to be like. Just so, you know, in love and everything.”

“How did you meet?” Luis asked, taking hold of his wine glass and drinking heartily. “Ari hasn’t brought me up to speed with that yet.”

Ari . Marnie’s eyes flicked once more to the woman at the corner of the table, her plate of food untouched, her eyes soft and sad. Marnie felt pity threaten to overwhelm her. This conversation, this dinner, this whole day... it must have been killing her.

“We were childhood sweethearts,” Sasha replied dreamily, fingering the edge of her wine glass as she spoke. “We met at summer camp one year. It was meant to be. We were meant to be. Tom, the son of Marnie Somerset, and me, the prettiest and wealthiest girl at camp...” Sasha trailed off with a happy sigh.

“Pretty and wealthy?” Sebastian asked, with an exaggerated shock that Marnie wasn’t sure how to read, although she suspected it wasn’t meant kindly.

Sasha nodded. “And I was runner-up Miss Teen Rhode Island.”

“Noooo,” Luis replied in mock disbelief, “Runner-up Miss Teen Rhode Island? You don’t say?”

“It’s one of the reasons I decided on Tom,” Sasha nodded seriously. “You know he’s descended from French royalty? Well, nearly. Close enough, anyway. And I had a crown — well, I nearly had a crown — of my own. Tom and I just... made sense, you know? The perfect match.”

Marnie looked once again at Ari. She’d gone white, her hand clenched around her napkin, her eyes downcast. Heartbreak was etched onto every line of her slumped being, and Marnie decided enough was enough. She cleared her throat.

“Maybe we should talk about something else—” she began, but Luis was too quick, already leaning towards Sasha.

“And you’ve been together ever since that summer camp?” he asked, refilling Sasha’s glass.

“Mm-hmm.” Sasha nodded, before she scowled. “Well, there was this period of a few years where Tom went... Well, he was travelling and then his father died and then... Well, it doesn’t even matter. We took a little break though.”

“A little break?” Luis asked, but Marnie could see his eyes resting on Ari.

“Yes,” Sasha said, and there was an edge to her voice. “Just a little break. We both needed to decide on what we really wanted out of life. I had options other than Tom, you know. Other men wanted to marry me.”

“Well, of course they did, darling,” Sebastian replied. “You were runner-up Miss Teen Rhode Island.”

“I know, right?” Sasha said emphatically. “But I still went back to Tom, in the end.”

“You went back to him?” Luis pressed her, his eyes still on Ari.

“Yes,” Sasha nodded. “He came back to me... oh, a few years after his father died? Not that it matters. We ran into each other at a polo match upstate. Such a dull sport.” Sasha rolled her eyes. “Who likes horses, anyway?”

“Clearly your fiancé does,” Sebastian said blankly, “if he was at a polo match.”

“No.” Sasha picked at a cuticle. “No, he wasn’t there for the horses. He was there to buy this painting from some guy. I remember, because he told me all about it afterwards at dinner.”

“A painting?” Ari suddenly broke in, and both Marnie and Luis glanced up at her in surprise. She was staring at Sasha with interest, though her voice was still soft and broken. “He was there to buy a painting?”

“Yeah.” Sasha nodded boredly. “Tom got really into some undiscovered artist while he was in Europe. He’s been buying up their pieces for years. And this guy — the one at the polo match — well, he’d picked up one of their paintings for pennies at some market in London. A painting Tom had been searching for for ever . Tom bought it from him for five figures. It makes no sense to me, but I figure, at least he’s spending money on art and not on other women. All men have to have their hobbies, I guess, and art is decidedly less dangerous than flying planes. It was a really ugly painting though, when it was delivered. I didn’t care for it at all. It was of... I guess it was a little girl? A little girl with—”

“Broken earth beneath her feet?” Sebastian interrupted her, and Sasha gave him a surprised glance.

“Yes, that’s exactly it! How did you know?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen it before,” Sebastian replied, and Marnie watched as a look passed between him and Luis. A look they finished by glancing at Ari.

“Tom has it hanging in his study in our New York apartment,” Sasha said, and there was pride in her voice now, Marnie noted. “There’re quite a few paintings by the same artist there. He hasn’t bought a new one for a while though. I guess the artist stopped painting or something like that.”

“Something like that,” Ari mused quietly.

“Well,” Marnie cut in, “perhaps we should talk about the wedding gown now? Luis, you must have some ideas—”

But Luis, annoyingly, was still staring curiously at Sasha. “You said you met again at this polo match?”

“Yes.” Sasha nodded. “Once he’d bought the painting, he came to talk with me. Not that the talking lasted long though. He...” Sasha inexplicably giggled “. . . well, we went back to his place and... I think you can imagine what happened next.”

Abruptly, Ari stood, her chair scratching the floor as she came to a stand. “Please excuse me,” she said coldly. “I’m just going to check on Reine.”

“Ari—” Marnie called after her, but she’d already gone, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her back stooped.

* * *

“What do you think then?” Tom asks, and Marnie scrunches up her nose.

“It’s an interesting choice, I suppose.”

Tom gives a half-smile. “You mean you hate it.”

“No, I don’t hate it... I just...” Marnie looks around once more at Tom’s new apartment. Everything is shiny and new. The carpets are cream, the wood fresh, and there is the lingering smell of fresh paint in the air. “I just don’t know if it’s you.”

Tom looks around too, taking it in, as if for the first time, the home he has chosen for himself.

“I don’t know if it’s me either,” he agrees, running a hand through his hair. “But I have to try something new. I need a change, Mom.”

“Yes,” Marnie agrees softly. “Yes. We all do.”

“Dad’s gone, and I can’t stay with you in that big pile upstate anymore,” Tom explains. “Just as I can’t live in that rented house over in Brooklyn anymore. I’m trying to be a grown-up now, Mom. I have a job—”

“—which you hate.” Marnie can’t help herself from breaking in, but Tom ignores her, carrying on as if she hasn’t spoken at all.

“—and I have Sasha to think of now too.”

Who I hate, Marnie thinks, though she bites her tongue on that one.

“Will Sasha live with you?” she asks instead, running a hand along a white chaise longue. Suddenly, this room makes more sense. Tom, she realises with a start, hasn’t chosen a damn thing in this room, or this entire apartment. No. This whole apartment with its cream and white theme and gold-edged frames reeks of Sasha and her grasping, new-moneyed hands.

“Eventually,” Tom replies, but Marnie hears the hesitation in his voice.

“Tom—” she begins, but he suddenly looks anguished, holding up a hand to stop her.

“Don’t, Mom, please don’t.”

“I just want you to be happy, Tom.”

“So do I,” he agrees, but he still looks wounded. Not for the first time, Marnie sees the lines around Tom’s eyes, the tiredness in his face, the sheer brokenness of her son’s body. He looks and sounds beaten by life, and she longs to reach out and take that sadness away from him.

“I want to be happy, Mom,” he carries on, sinking into a nearby chair. “I’m tired of grieving. I’m tired of this half-life, of waiting for someone to walk through my door who I know will never—” abruptly, Tom stops. He shakes his head, running a hand tiredly over his forehead. “I need to live again. I want to be happy. Dad told me to be happy. He wanted me to be happy.”

“Yes, but with Sasha? I just—”

“Mom,” Tom implores again. “I have no other choice.”

“Of course you do!” Marnie argues. “You’re attractive and clever and kind and... and of course you have other choices, Tom!”

Tom shakes his head at her sadly. “No, Mom. I guess what I mean is... I’ve made my choice.”

Marnie exhales heavily, trying to keep the annoyed huff from leaving her lips. Standing taller, she spins on her heels — although it’s nearly impossible on this high, velvet pile carpet, which creeps around her ankles like a fucking nylon jungle — and heads away from the main living area, following a narrow hall towards the bathroom. With a scowl, she passes the bedroom, which is decadent and plush and looks very much like a nineteenth-century whore’s boudoir, before she sees a darker, smaller room and pauses.

Pushing on the door, Marnie takes a closer look. This room is different from the others, with hardwood floors and light blue walls. There’s a desk by the window, covered in paperwork, though Marnie notes, with a flush of pleasure, a well-made model of a De Havilland Comet by the lamp. She feels a touch of Doug in this room, and knows, with absolute certainty, that this room is Tom’s through and through. There’s no Sasha in this room. There’s just her son.

Looking up, she suddenly finds herself taking in the artwork on the walls. There are three paintings, all of a similar size and kept secure in simple wooden frames. Acrylic paint, Marnie decides, on oil canvas. Traditional and tasteful but also eye-catching. The first is of a mountain village at night, stars speckled above it. The second is of a pebbly beach at sunset, all oranges and pinks and light. The third, however, is much darker. It’s of a small child with dark hair, holding the hand of an unseen figure, staring out at a shattered landscape, with broken earth beneath her feet. Still staring at the image, she hears Tom enter the room behind her, and whistles under her breath.

“Sasha didn’t choose this,” she says matter-of-factly, and feels, rather than sees, Tom nod behind her.

“No.”

“You chose this,” Marnie adds. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

Marnie finally turns, indicating to all three paintings. “They’re all by the same artist?”

Tom swallows heavily, his eyes scanning over the paintings he’s clearly chosen, framed and hung. “Yeah... I, uh... I bought one of the artist’s paintings while in Europe.” He leans against the wall. “I guess it became a bit of an obsession.”

“You’ve been collecting their work?” Marnie asks, not displeased. An appreciation of art has always been strong in her family, and she’s happy to find Tom following suit.

“Yeah, I have. This one,” he indicates to the image of the small girl, “this is the last one they released. Took me a while to find it.”

“How do you know it’s the last one?”

“They haven’t released anything since.”

“Oh. Do you follow the artist online or something like that?” Marnie asks with interest.

“Just their art,” Tom replies, and he swallows again, full of discomfort.

“You should get in touch with them,” Marnie says, trying to show an interest in her son’s interests. “Ask if they’ll take a commission, ask them to—”

“No,” Tom replies flatly. “No.”

“But Tom—”

“No,” he says again. “Come on. Let’s go out for lunch.”

But Marnie continues to stare at the paintings, feeling a prickle run down her back, a sudden awareness making the hair stand up on her skin.

“I have a feeling I’ve seen this artist’s work before,” she comments, and hears Tom clear his throat.

“One of the paintings I sent from Europe,” he explains, and there is a tightness in his words. “It’s hanging in the hall at your place.”

“ The Ends of the Earth ,” Marnie suddenly says, as memory strikes her. “Yes, you’re right. Well, why don’t I send it to you? You obviously love the artist—”

“Mom, stop,” Tom whispers, and she turns at the torment in his voice.

“Tom?”

“Just leave the painting where it is, okay? I don’t... I don’t want that painting here. It’s where it belongs.”

Marnie pauses, the prickle down her back running stronger. “Tom, who is the artist?”

“Just some artist,” Tom replies, looking down, evading her eyes.

The prickle runs stronger again, turning into an odd feeling in her stomach. There’s something more going on here, Marnie is nearly sure of it.

“Okay,” she nods. “Tom, how many paintings has this artist produced?”

At that, Tom looks up. “Thirty-seven.”

Marnie takes a deep breath. “And how many do you own?”

Tom sighs. “Thirty-seven.”

“You bought them all?”

“Yeah,” Tom mutters. “I bought them all.”

“Why?” Marnie asks, almost scared to hear his reply.

At that, Tom gives an unexpected but bitter smile. “I just wanted the scraps,” he says tiredly, though Marnie can make no sense of his words. “I couldn’t have what I wanted, Mom, so I bought what was left to me.”

“Tom—”

“I bought what was left to me,” he says again, and his voice is blank. “I bought what was left.”

* * *

You’re my father.

Tom’s heart beat fast within his chest, and he felt a clammy sort of cold strike his skin. The little girl who looked up at him, still clutching her bunny, appeared suddenly fierce, a determination in her stance that reminded him overwhelmingly of his mother.

“What makes you say that?” he asked her, trying to hide the sudden tremble to his fingers.

Reine pulled her bunny to her face, ducking her chin into the soft pink plush. “Because Mummy told me about you,” she declared.

“She . . . she did?”

“Yes,” Reine replied. “We had to draw our family tree at school. I asked Mummy to describe you, and she said my daddy was tall, dark-haired and American.” Reine looked up at him, and Tom felt his hands shake again. “You’re tall. Your hair is brown. And you’re American.”

“Lots of men are tall, brown-haired and American,” Tom stuttered. “Why... why would you think I was—”

The words died in his throat as Reine reached out a small hand, placing her cool fingers within his own. Instantly, his hand curled protectively around hers, and he stared down at their intertwined fingers.

“Look,” Reine said, and she tugged on his hand, pulling him across the old and dirty room. Reine’s feet were bare, and Tom was suddenly struck with a desire to lift her into his arms. God knew when this hangar had last been cleaned, and there might be shards of glass, or broken metal, or slippery engine oil embedded on the floor.

“Careful,” he said, the word coming out in a broken cry, and Reine glanced down, looking carefully as she picked her way across the hangar.

She stopped in front of Doug’s old truck, rusty but reliable, which Tom knew Marnie had kept out of an unusual sense of nostalgia. Before the truck was a filthy and partially cracked mirror, which Doug had used for reflective engine work. If he closed his eyes, Tom could still picture Doug on the floor, his legs sticking out from the body of the truck, a mirror on his hand, asking Tom to diagnose the issue from the reflection before him.

Now, Reine pulled him to the mirror, pointing at the reflection, asking him to do much the same.

“Look,” she said again, and so Tom did.

The girl in the mirror had hair the colour of dark honey — different to his own, he reasoned. The girl in the mirror had tanned skin, as though she had recently seen the sun, he reasoned likewise. The girl in the mirror was nothing like him. The girl in the mirror was like her mother. The girl in the mirror was all Ari.

But then his eyes met Reine’s in their reflection, and he inhaled sharply.

The girl in the mirror had his eyes, he saw again. The girl in the mirror had his cheekbones. The girl in the mirror had his lips and smile and height. The girl in the mirror was Ari, but she was also him. The likeness was obvious, and Reine had recognised herself in him, just as he’d recognised himself in her. But there was more than that. When Tom looked at Reine, he wasn’t just reminded of himself, or of her mother. He was reminded of his study back at home in New York. He was reminded of a painting that hung on his wall, of a small girl clutching an unknown man’s hand, staring out at a cracked landscape.

He wasn’t seeing Reine for the first time, he realised with a profound sense of relief and gratitude. He’d seen her before. He had been looking at her every day for years now. In a way, she’d been with him every day.

“See?” Reine asked, and he looked down at her, taking in her presence with a renewed sense of wonder. The little girl looked almost proud, as if she had worked out a great secret, or solved a troubling puzzle.

“You’re my father.”

Tom took another deep breath, staring at their reflection, his hand still clutched tightly within Reine’s own.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and he squeezed her hand, watching their reflections. “Yeah, I am.”