Chapter 8
I set one of his expensive black pens beside them.
No note.
No accusation.
No long explanation.
I had explained enough during our marriage.
If Vincent wanted to know why I left, he could remember Paris.
I walked downstairs carrying Lily.
At the front door, Margaret stopped me.
"What happens when he comes home?"
I looked through the entryway toward the enormous living room.
"He'll be angry."
"And after that?"
I thought about it.
"Maybe he'll be relieved."
Margaret shook her head.
"I don't think so."
"Then he'll have to learn to live with disappointment."
I stepped outside.
The door closed behind me.
For the first time, the mansion looked exactly like what it was.
A beautiful building full of expensive things.
Nothing more.
Three hours later, Vincent's plane landed in Chicago.
I know that because Anthony told me months afterward.
Vincent had spent most of the flight calling me.
By then, my phone was on Do Not Disturb.
He arrived home carrying a small blue shopping bag from a children's boutique in Paris.
Inside was a cashmere baby blanket.
He had also brought roses.
White ones.
My favorite.
The first person he saw was Margaret.
"Where's Emily?"
According to Margaret, she didn't answer immediately.
Vincent removed his coat.
"Margaret."
"She's gone."
He stopped.
"What do you mean gone?"
"She moved out."
His face changed.
"Moved where?"
"I don't think it's my place to tell you."
The strange thing about power is that people who possess too much of it often believe confusion is something that happens to other people.
Vincent didn't understand her answer.
Not at first.
Then he looked toward the staircase.
"The baby?"
Margaret's silence answered.
He went upstairs.
Fast.
He opened the nursery door.
Empty.
No crib.
No clothes.
No blankets.
The mobile he had ordered from Italy was gone.
Only four faint marks remained on the wall where it had hung.
He crossed the hall to our bedroom.
My side of the closet was nearly bare.
Then he saw the papers.
Margaret said the house became so quiet she could hear him turn the pages from the hallway.
A minute later, he called my name.
Not shouted.
Called.
As if I might still answer.
"Emily?"
He searched the bathroom.
The sitting room.
The guest bedrooms.
Then he came downstairs holding the divorce papers.
"Where is my wife?"
Margaret looked at him.
"She stopped being willing to wait for you."