Chapter 4
When I wake, it’s still pitch black outdoors, and though my eyelids are heavy, I can tell right away that I’ll never fall back to sleep.
Rather than get up, though, I lie in the twisted sheets, letting my thoughts untangle.
As memories from last night work their way into my consciousness, I groan into the pillow.
My ex-husband here in my home . . . The letter .
. . Ruck’s appalling lie . . . It all really happened.
But Sebastian will be back today and so will Poco, and Logan will be gone.
It must be Logan in there, making himself an espresso before he hits the road. Is he planning to take off without saying goodbye, leaving a note instead? I can’t decide whether that behavior would suit me or seriously piss me off.
I struggle out of bed and quickly change into the jeans and turtleneck sweater I tossed onto the armchair last night.
Then I pad barefoot to the kitchen. To my shock, it’s Maitena who’s there, removing something from the oven.
Hearing me, she spins around, grasping a baking sheet of freshly made medialunas.
“Ah, Bree, buen día,” she says.
I wish her a good morning, too, and before I can ask why she’s here so early, she mentions that Jorge told her I had a guest, and she wanted to make sure that there was something to serve for breakfast besides yogurt. She says she will make a frittata, too, if I’d like.
I’ve never had reason to think Maitena’s a busybody, but my gut tells me that part of her mission this morning is to get a sense of what I’m up to with my mystery guest, perhaps being protective of Sebastian.
“Gracias, pero no necesita,” I explain. I go on to tell her that my friend is leaving shortly, and we will be fine with coffee and the medialunas, which look wonderful, I add.
She thanks me, scoots the pastries into a basket, and after placing it on the table, takes her leave through the back door.
She probably thinks I was chasing her out, and I am.
I don’t want her bustling around when I say goodbye to Logan.
As soon as she’s gone, I leave the kitchen to finish dressing.
While making my way back to my bedroom, I glance down the side corridor that leads to the guest suite.
The carved wooden door is still closed, and I don’t detect any movement behind it.
Logan had said he wanted to get an early start today, but I’m hardly about to poke my head into his room and make sure he’s up.
And then, in an instant, it’s a Saturday morning eight years ago, just before five thirty, and I’m lurching down a hallway in our New York City loft.
Unable to fall back to sleep, I’d gotten up super early for me and was drinking tea in the kitchen when the call came in from a Detective Caputo with the New York State Police.
He asked if I was Bree Winter. Caught off guard, I confirmed the fact tentatively, as if I wasn’t quite sure, and then he inquired if my husband was available, too.
“What’s this about?” I’d asked, overwhelmed with dread.
“We’d like to speak to you and your husband together if that’s possible,” he’d said.
As I’d started to run, calling out Logan’s name, the mug had slipped from my hands and shattered on the floor.
I slide my feet into a pair of loafers and then brush my teeth.
My body’s still jittery from the news about Ruck, but at the same time I’m groggy, so once I’ve returned to the kitchen, I make an espresso, then settle into a chair at the table.
Maitena’s opened a kitchen window, and outside a group of monk parakeets are already chattering among themselves.
“Good morning,” Logan says from behind me. I twist around. It’s almost as much of a shock to set eyes on him now as it was last night. And just as unsettling.
“Hi . . . Can I make you an espresso?”
“That would be great.”
He’s wearing his jeans again and a different sweater—a light-yellow crewneck. And though he’s left it unzipped, he’s already got his jacket on.
“Would you like orange juice, too?” I ask as I start to make the espresso.
“No, just coffee’s fine.”
“And have a medialuna if you want,” I say, pointing to the basket. “They’re like croissants but doughier.”
“Um, sure, thanks.”
When I’m done making his drink, I hand him the small cup and saucer, and our hands brush awkwardly. After downing the espresso in three sips, he helps himself to a medialuna.
“I guess I’ll be off, then,” he says, sticking the pastry in his jacket pocket. “Thanks for putting me up. I really appreciate it.”
“Well, I appreciate you sharing the news in person. Look, I know Ruck was lying, but I want to stay in the loop on this, so can you give me updates? Email’s fine.”
“Will do. And you’ll send me some of Mel’s poems before the weekend?”
“Yes.”
He goes to speak, hesitates, then starts again.
“It’s been good to see you, Bree. And—I like your hair. It’s so different than when I saw you last, but it looks great.”
It had been long during our marriage, past my shoulders.
After Mel died, I barely touched it and sometimes went for days without shampooing, let alone using a hairbrush.
It was so good not to think about it, but in time I came to see that my haggard look only increased the amount of pity people projected toward me.
I finally started paying attention again, and four years ago, I had it cut much shorter and styled.
At the same time, I resumed the blond highlights I’d gotten in the past.
“Thank you.”
And then, minutes later, he’s pulling away. Jorge has already opened the gate, so I simply watch from the portico as the small Chinese-made rental car bumps down the long dirt driveway. Finally, all I see is the cloud of dust the car has left in its wake.
I do appreciate him sharing the news about the letter in person. But at the same time, I pray his presence hasn’t tainted the place that’s brought me so much peace.
Sebastian calls a short time later from the BA airport and then again after he’s landed and made his way through immigration.
He’s phoned the vet, as he promised he would, and since Poco is ready to come home, he mentions he’ll pick him up on the way.
I don’t say anything about Logan yet. I want to do that in person.
After the call, I change out of jeans into flowy pants and a V-neck sweater. When the two finally arrive, Poco bolts through the door first, giving me the cold shoulder. It seems obvious that he’s blaming me entirely for the induced vomiting.
My partner, on the other hand, drops his bag, takes me in his arms, and kisses me hungrily. Though I feel a tingle of desire the moment his lips press against mine, it’s also relief that rushes through me. Maybe before long, last night will seem like nothing more than a strange aberration.
Bas steps back finally, sliding his hands down my arms until his fingers are entwined with mine. He smiles.
“If you’ve worn this fetching sweater to remind me of what I’ve been missing, it was totally unnecessary,” he says. “By the way, my parents send their love. They said I’m not allowed to come home again unless you agree to come, too.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of them,” I say. “You can tell them it’s a deal.”
“Good. I’m dying to catch up, but I’d like to take a quick shower first.”
“Do you want lunch when you’re done? There’s a plate for you in the fridge.”
“Maybe later. For now, I’ll probably just have some maté.”
“Let me fix it for you,” I say, smiling. As Sebastian heads to the bedroom, Poco trots after him. “And can you please have a talk with your dog and ask him to let me off the hook?”
He glances over his shoulder at me, chuckling. “I’ll do my best, but you know how stubborn he is.”
In the kitchen I heat up the water and use it to make the maté, a caffeine-intense herbal beverage that some Argentines and Uruguayans drink all day long.
Since I’ve never acquired a taste, I make black tea for myself.
It’s cooler today than it was yesterday, so I carry a tray with our drinks to the coffee table in the great room instead of the galería.
Minutes later, Sebastian reappears, his graying-black hair still tousled and damp from the shower. He plops down beside me and stretches his long, slim legs out on the coffee table. The house feels right again.
“I assume no news is good news,” he says. “Other than what happened to our four-legged roommate.”
I’d planned to wait a little bit before bringing up Logan, giving Bas time to decompress from his trip and fill me in more about his visit, but with a question that straightforward, it wouldn’t be fair to wait.
Plus, a weird guilt has begun to seep its way through me. There wasn’t a single moment last night or this morning when I noticed even a stir of emotion for Logan again, and yet I can’t get rid of a slightly tawdry feeling, like I’ve drunkenly kissed another man behind Sebastian’s back.
“Well, actually, there is something,” I say.
And then I walk him through it—Logan’s arrival and the news he shared. Bas’s face remains neutral as I speak, but I sense the muscles of his body tensing. Which catches me off guard. I’d somehow pictured him taking the situation more in stride.
“Wow” is all he says when I’ve finished. “You had no idea he was coming?”
“No, none at all,” I say. “Bas, I would have told you if I had.”
“Of course. It’s just such a surprise, him turning up that way. It must have been very strange for you.”
“Yes,” I say, feeling my defensiveness recede. “And to be honest, I’m still really rattled by it.”
Sebastian narrows his eyes. “Do you think he figured out I was going to be away?”
Another question that throws me slightly for a loop.
“Sweetheart, I never mentioned to anyone you were going to BA, so, no, he hadn’t a clue you were gone—unless he flew a drone over the property in advance.”