Chapter 30
Claire
I was stupid to believe I could have everything I ever dreamed of—safety, purpose, and a family.
When I see her sitting on my bed, the box of letters in front of her, my dread is a physical thing that threatens to overwhelm me.
It’s not only the secret itself I fear, but the amount of time I’ve kept it from her.
I should have burned the papers after Dr. Gachet gave them to me, but I couldn’t.
She and I have come to look at the correspondence between Theo and Vincent as something almost spiritual in nature, and I couldn’t bear to incinerate any of their words, no matter how incriminating they were for me.
Jo returned to the boardinghouse from abroad in wonderful spirits after having secured new sales to prominent collectors.
She came to pack up the last of her things, but now she is in my room instead of her own.
There have never been boundaries between our personal spaces, which should have made me more careful.
“I thought it might be an empty box I could use for the picture frames,” she says. “And then I saw the familiar handwriting and I was curious about which of the letters you kept beneath your bed.”
“I can explain.”
Her tone is cold, but her voice wobbles like that of a child who isn’t sure which words to use. “It is very clear here, Claire. I need no explanation. You were intimate with my husband.”
“Before you were married.”
“You lied to me.”
“Never. I merely didn’t tell—”
She interrupts. “That’s the same as lying and we both know it. All these years have been a lie. You let me go on and on about my dear departed Theo and you never mentioned that the two of you had a very close relationship. Very close.”
I rush over to her, but she raises a hand to stop me in my tracks.
“When was it exactly?” I see her trying to do the math in her head. “After our engagement?”
The timeline folds in on itself. I’m confusing the stories I have been concocting in my mind for this exact occasion with the actual truth.
“Before. Shortly after you were betrothed he told me he could no longer see me. But you must believe me that our relationship was mostly a friendship.”
“Not entirely a friendship. That much is clear.”
Jo is not a prude and she knows Theo was with women before her. He wrote of some of them in his letters to his brother, and she has never batted an eye. We all understand the needs of men, even committed ones.
She closes her eyes as if she’s trying to picture the two of us together. “Why didn’t you tell me, Claire?”
“I wanted to tell you many times. I should have told you that first night.”
She cuts me off. “That first night, you knew exactly who I was in that alley. Were you following me?”
I can no longer lie to her. “I was curious about you. Theo was so protective of you. And when I heard news of his passing, I wanted to make sure you were safe.” I pause for a second. I should tell her that he wanted me to check on her. That he asked me to. But she speaks first.
“I’m such a fool.” She bites down on her lip.
She won’t cry. She never does anymore. It’s as though all her tears were shed in those early months following Theo’s death.
But I know this grimace and it’s obvious she’s in pain.
I don’t move any closer though. I can feel she desperately doesn’t want me to touch her.
Jo stands. She is still clutching the correspondence between Theo and Vincent in her hands.
I should tell her all my secrets now, all my betrayals, in the hopes that I will only need to ask her forgiveness once, but I can’t make my mouth form the words. I’ve been living in paralyzing fear for weeks, ever since my run-in with Israels in the park.
“When was Marie-Celeste conceived?” she chokes out.
I have never let myself admit what I feared the most about my time with Theo.
I have been over and over it in my mind, the dates I could have been impregnated, the clients during that time.
I have convinced myself that Theo could not possibly be her father, but will I be able to persuade Jo?
And what if I am wrong? There is a chance, ever so slight, though I have tried to reassure myself otherwise.
And yet my daughter’s coppery hair concerns me every day, as does the way the gray comes out in her blue eyes when she is helping me sort the tulips.
And yet I keep telling myself it is impossible, that Jo must believe me when I tell her Marie-Celeste has no connection to her or her family.
“When?” she yells as loudly as I have ever heard her raise her voice.
“After,” I say weakly.
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be.”
For a brief moment I was truly happy. I had my daughter. I had my friend. And though Jo disappointed me when she abandoned our business together, I truly believed we would get past it. I was a fool for not knowing my sins would catch up with me.
Jo says nothing as she walks past me, and only once she is in the hallway do I hear a sob escape her throat.