Chapter 8
To their surprise, on a busy concert weekend, they were able to get into the hotel early, which gave them a couple of hours to relax and, in Will’s case, disinfect. He had hardly set their bags down when he retired to the bathroom to scrub that shirt within an inch of its life.
“It’s a little touch and go,” he said after he left it hanging over the towel rack, “but he’s convalescing nicely.”
“That’s a relief. You referring to a shirt as he, not so much.”
“What can I say? We’ve been through a lot together.”
Rachel got a book out of one of her bags. “I’m gonna go down to the pool and read for a little bit. Do you want to come with?”
“Nah, I think I’ll just hang out up here and take an actual shower. The hand soap at the visitor center, while lovely, had its limitations.”
She went to kiss him on her way to the door but, thinking better of it based on what he’d just said about his current hygienic state, opted to pat him on the arm instead.
Alone in the room, Will went to retrieve his clothes for the concert from his bag. The one where Rachel had packed her book was still open, and inside it he saw a tote that he hadn’t realized she’d brought with them.
It was from the Art Institute of Chicago and featured the famous Georges Seurat painting A Sunday on La Grande Jatte. The painting was huge and the focal point of the room it was housed in, and whenever Rachel and Will went to the art institute—which was at least five times a year—she always made a point of sitting in that room for several minutes or more, soaking in the painting. The third or fourth time they’d done this, he’d asked her why she kept coming back to that spot, and she’d told him a story about going there for the first time on a field trip in the seventh grade.
“I don’t really know how,” she’d told him, “but when I saw that painting, I knew that I wanted to be some sort of artist. It’s like I found myself in there.”
Rachel didn’t usually say a whole lot about the painting after they’d gone, but just looking at it seemed cathartic for her, like she was reconnecting with an elemental part of who she was.
When Will had been planning to propose, he’d known he wanted to do it there. The only problem had been that Rachel had had no interest in a public proposal, and despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to arrange with the museum for a way to pop the question in front of the painting while also ensuring no one else would be around.
So one Saturday, he’d rolled the dice.
Most often, they went to the art institute in the late morning, but he’d suggested they go out to lunch downtown beforehand and successfully pushed them back to early afternoon. That had put them in the Seurat room around 4:00 p.m., and Rachel had been ready to go by 4:15, but for his plan to work, Will had needed them to still be there when the museum closed at 5:00. So he had stalled in the gift shop for 45 minutes, claiming he was looking for a birthday gift for his mom.
Rachel had seen Will agonize over picking the perfect present before and didn’t grow suspicious, although she had clearly been ready for him to wrap things up after 45 minutes of browsing. Which he’d done—only to discover when he went to pay that he’d lost his wallet somewhere in the museum.
He hadn’t, of course. But that’s what he’d told the cashier, who had told the head of security, who had reluctantly given them 10 minutes to go back in and look, but only because Will had said he was sure it must have fallen out when they were sitting down by the Seurat and because the guy had said Rachel reminded him of his daughter.
When they’d gotten to the painting, Rachel had immediately gone for the bench they’d been sitting on and felt around in the space between the back and the bottom cushions. She didn’t find a wallet.
But she did find a box with a ring in it.
When she’d turned around, Will had been on one knee. She’d been so surprised that her hands had gone to her mouth, and the box had fallen to the floor. He’d picked it up without taking his eyes off her, opened the lid, and asked her to marry him. Her hands still covering her mouth, she’d nodded yes—in front of A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, on the very spot that had triggered her love of art, without another soul around to witness it. It hadn’t been glamorous or over the top, but it had been distinctly Rachel. She deserved a story like that, and she deserved to be with someone who would do everything in his power to make sure it happened.
Will hadn’t known what he would’ve done if the security guard hadn’t let them back in or if, God forbid, someone had somehow discovered the ring in the hour between when he’d stowed it in its hiding spot and when they’d returned. It wasn’t like he’d had a spare.
But he’d wanted her to find it there, the way she’d said she’d found herself all those years before. It had been worth the risk. He’d had to try. For her.
Didn’t he owe her the same now?
If I just could’ve gotten her to take the interview,he thought and started to head to the bathroom. Because it’s not like I can accept it for her.
He was just about to turn the water on when he asked himself if maybe he could.
Walking back out into the room, he proceeded to start pacing, an idea that had existed in some vague form almost from the instant he’d seen Beatriz’s email address now coming into sharper focus.
It would be so easy. Neither Rachel nor Rochelle was checking email. But Beatriz presumably was. One email from him to her could change everything.
Of course he couldn’t write to her as Rachel’s husband. That wouldn’t make any sense. Maybe he could pose as a corporate recruiter? Like Rachel had hired him to negotiate on her behalf, and she had changed her mind about everything and was now asking him to reach back out? He guessed that would be plausible, but it might raise some questions.
Ideally, the email would come from an account that wasn’t his. It would come from Rachel.
Or short of that, at least look like it had.
Will took out his phone and pulled up the page where you can create a new Gmail. Rachel’s name followed by their three-digit apartment number, and he’d have an address to send from. It’d be like Crawford Clemens with T. M., minus the financial fraud and philandering.
He stared at the screen and thought about what he was on the verge of doing. He switched over to his and Ali’s texts and scrolled back to the night before.
The answer is always no.
Doing this would be wrong. Will knew that. He would be betraying Rachel’s trust in a particularly flagrant way.
But.
What if it was a smaller wrong that served a greater good? What if it was the grand gesture that would give her everything she wanted and ensure their future was what she’d hoped it would be, a story so fantastic they’d pass it on to their grandkids someday when taking them for ice cream on the Santa Monica Pier?
His eyes went from the phone to the tote again. Its appearance had been a bit of a surprise not only because he hadn’t seen her pack it but also because she hadn’t used it in a long time, tucking it away in the closet and forgetting about it.
And now Rachel had gotten it out for the first time in forever, the day after Rochelle had contacted her about the job and she had cried telling Will all the reasons she couldn’t do it.
There was every possibility it was simply a coincidence. But standing there, phone in hand, heart beating fast, sensing that this—this moment right here, in the quiet of this hotel room—would be his one and only chance to keep Rachel from looking back on Creative Vices with regret, Will felt like her choice of bag signified something else.
She wanted more. Needed more. Needed to have the kind of career that gave her the same feeling that had made her fall in love with art in the first place.
She’d called her current job boring, but he feared she’d been thinking about their entire situation, their whole life together, when she’d said it.
From what Will could tell, all the other candidates already had their interviews scheduled. This process was passing Rachel by, and with each minute wasted, it would get harder to try and reel it back in. Experiencing Clemens’s designs up close again, going to a concert to see an artist who’d followed her creativity at all costs, going back to their college campus and revisiting a time in her life when she’d been immersed in her own art—he had to hope all that would inspire her in due time.
He just didn’t have the luxury of waiting around until it had.
So he started typing.
Hey Beatriz—
This is Rachel Armas. I’m on vacation and off work email but had a question for you, which is why I’m writing from my personal account.
After sleeping on it, I’ve reconsidered. Can we still make the interview happen, or am I too late? If so, I’d be coming from Nashville, so I’d have to fly from there.
Thanks in advance.
Rachel
Will read it back, looking for any tells that might indicate to Beatriz it was someone other than Rachel writing to her. There was a lot going on in those six short sentences.
But it wasn’t enough to keep him from hitting send.