Chapter 43 Henry
Chapter 43
Henry
Henry lets out a breath.
He can’t think.
They’re in Blanc D’Ivoire with the door slammed shut, though he can hear Adam’s and Sienna’s voices through the flimsy walls. He doesn’t know which betrayal to wade through first. They’re all distraught about Cassidy Banks and what this means for her poor daughter, and then there’s the revelation involving his father. That he stole from the De La Rues infuriates Henry, but first he must tend to his wife. His soon-to-be ex-wife.
She’s across from him in the sitting area, a small round table between them. Her skin is splotchy from crying, and she can’t meet his eyes. She stares into her coffee mug, spooning circles in the liquid.
“Renée’s upset,” he says. “She’s lashing out.”
Lucy places the cup on the table, and her head falls into her hands.
A thundering clap jostles the room. There’s blackness outside the window. He’s never felt more adrift in his life.
Adam.
Lucy loves Adam. The way a sister loves her annoying little brother. She has no problem calling him out on his highfalutin nonsense, the entitlement, his grating self-importance. She’s been his conscience for years, planting his feet on the ground when his head reared dangerously close to the sky. Unlike Henry, he doesn’t understand the sky, and maybe that’s what connected him to Lucy. The thought makes him sick.
He shakes his head, refusing to believe it. Renée is wrong. But what if? He’s not bothered by what Lucy’s said: it’s what she hasn’t said. He understands the sin of omission. She hasn’t denied anything. Is that the same as a confession? For the last three years, he’s closed himself off, built walls, and squeezed Lucy out. Did he unknowingly push her too far?
And fucking Adam?
“It’s not what you think.”
“Honestly, Lucy, I don’t know what to think.”
The floor feels like it’s given out from beneath him. He understands the issues in their marriage, but Sienna and Adam are in love. No cracks, no fissures, no meteor shooting through their orbit. And Lucy would have known if something was wrong. She has a nose for failure seeping through shiny veneers.
“It was a stupid mistake.”
He couldn’t let it in before, but the memory of last summer grips him and squeezes. The alcohol. The weed. The naked bodies by the firepit.
“Henry.”
The idea, the memory, it sickens him, and he sees it spotting an already stormy sky. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
“We need to deal with it, Henry. That’s been our problem.”
He stands up. He’s good at this—avoiding. The injured expression on her face isn’t new, and before he turns from her, he says, “This is why you wanted the divorce, isn’t it?”
She bows her head. “I hated myself. And I knew you’d never forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself.”
She isn’t wrong. He can’t look at her. He strides across the room and flings open the door, making his way toward the sunroom and a better view of the moon, when a figure seated in the living room stops him.
Jean-Paul.
“Not now, Henry,” he says.
“Just hear me out.” Henry takes a seat across the room, but it’s close enough to see Jean-Paul’s pained expression. “I had no clue what my father was up to. He never discussed his business dealings with me.”
“How do you suppose he found us?”
Henry racks his brain, trying to piece that together. He had mentioned the inn in Vilas, a summer destination they shared with their best friends, but he never mentioned the owners by name. His father must have done his own research. Vis Ta Vie. He was a smart man. Resourceful and cunning. And Henry can’t help but feel responsible.
“My father was once a good man, Jean-Paul. I can’t expect you to understand that.” Remembering the way it used to be hurts. The sadness washes over him like the rain tapping outside. He’s held in the anger for so long, he feels like a dam about to burst. “When I try to reconcile that person with the man he is today ... Lucy’s right. My father died. I don’t know the man in his place. I never brought it up because I was embarrassed and ashamed. You think I would have shown up here had I known? What kind of person does that?”
Jean-Paul uncrosses and crosses his legs. His voice is flat. “We trusted him, and he took everything from us. We have nothing now.”
Henry squeezes his eyes shut. God damn that man.
He thinks about trust, how it’s given and taken so freely.
“I’m not my father.” Another clap of thunder jolts the house. “How much did you lose, Jean-Paul?”
Jean-Paul fiddles with his wedding band. “Do the numbers matter? Everything we had, we gave to him. Our families have tried to help, but it’s been too much of a burden. You know how this works. The settlements take time.” Jean-Paul is dejected when he says, “Renée trusted me. I vowed to take care of her.”
Henry tastes the fig and melon coming up. He’s going to be sick.
He tells him how sorry he is. He tells him he understands if Jean-Paul and Renée want them to leave. “We can pack up tonight.”
“It might be for the best. Renée is awfully upset.”
And before they can say anything more, the lights flicker, and the conversation comes to an end.