It’s been eight years.
Eight long, bleak, dragging years of loneliness and regret tinged with bitterness and longing, and Stephen still misses her like a lost limb. Not a day goes by without something reminding her of Mary; a shade of her favorite blue, a sip of strong tea with a touch of honey, a floral scent that lingered on her skin. She’s a wraith that haunts Stephen’s empty home, always on the periphery of her vision but never tangible, never there.
She lasted for seven months before she sold the Rue Jacob house. It was impossible for her to set her past to rest when each nook and cranny sighed out Mary’s name. So Stephen packed her things—her books, writing desk, and notebooks; her other belongings held little sway over her—and closed the door behind her with a quiet but definitive thud. Instead of staying in the area, she purchased a smaller apartment in a building some ways downstream. (She still heeded Valérie’s advice on staying on this side of the Rive Gauche—after all, it is the only possible Paris.)
She had been twenty-seven when she moved into the Rue Jacob house.
She was forty-seven when she closed the door behind her for the last time.
It felt—still feels—a little like dying.
After David dies, Stephen considers not getting a new dog. Somehow, even though she’s the one who grew up with dogs and horses, David had been Mary’s, first and foremost. And now that he’s finally at rest and his bright, intelligent eyes have dimmed with his departure, Stephen realizes her home is too quiet without a canine companion.
She tries to fight the feeling at first—she doesn’t need another attachment, can’t bear to have another creature looking adoringly at her—but the emptiness becomes too much to suffer. She gives in when she passes a boy selling puppies from a wooden box; they’re small, fat-bellied yellow things with floppy ears and curious eyes, and she gives in after one barks at her, imperious and demanding. She’s a feisty thing, as eager to explore her flat as she is to gnaw at Stephen’s finger like a juicy bone.
Stephen names her Pearl and she becomes her dearest friend.
(Valérie doesn’t understand and Brockett curls his lip in disgust as Pearl pees next to his leather shoe but it makes Stephen laugh so hard she has tears in her eyes so she doesn’t have it in her to scold the dog too much.)
After Pearl comes Mimi, a poodle mix, and Baroness, a very dignified older bloodhound who wanders to her one day, sits close enough to press her flank on Stephen’s leg, and then decides to follow her home. Stephen never finds out about her owner so she shrugs and decides to take her, too, as her own.
And that’s how Stephen ends up with three dogs commandeering her free time.
She finds herself content with the turn of events.
Stephen has been tentatively experimenting with poetry—a completely new area for her—and she has an idea she needs to write down. They’re at the park she usually frequents with Pearl; her other two dogs don’t care about the park or the company of other dogs so she leaves them home. Sometimes, she swears Mimi and Baroness are actually lazy cats in a dog form.
”Mama, look at that dog!” a bright child’s voice calls out. ”Such floppy ears! And a wagging tail! Can I pet her, mama? Please?”
Stephen doesn’t bother looking up from her notes. It’s a warm Saturday afternoon and there are quite a few dogs in the park, she has no need to assume the child is talking about Pearl having a very vocal dream next to her—
”You have to ask the owner first William,” says a smiling voice—a familiar, dear voice—
Stephen nearly drops her notebook.
She daren’t look up.
”Excuse me, sir, may I pet your dog please?”
”She’s friendly,” Stephen blurts out, stealing a glance at the boy. He’s a beautiful child with features that haunt Stephen’s dreams, and she ducks her head to escape the flash of pain in her chest.
As the boy carefully steps closer and holds out his hand for Pearl to sniff, Stephen spies from the corner of her eye someone hesitantly creeping closer. Pale yellow dress, hands clasped tightly in front of her—she refuses to look—she—
”Stephen?”
Something akin to a fist takes hold of her heart and squeezes.
”Mary—pardon me, Mrs. Hallam,” she replies as she stands up, not quite meeting her eyes, an imposter smile painted on.
”You know the mister, Mama?” the boy asks in the curious, bright way of children who are blind to the emotional currents around them.
”We are old friends,” Mary says and then adds, ”Aren’t we, Stephen?”
Are they? She honestly couldn’t say. Pearl, bless her simple soul, saves her from the awkwardness by setting her front paws on Mary’s son’s shoulders and proceeds to lick his whole face with enthusiasm usually reserved only for Stephen. The boy falls on his bottom and dissolves in giggles that make Pearl even more eager to show her good nature, and with a sigh, Stephen is forced to haul the dog off.
”Pearl, settle down,” she chides, and the dog sits down, tail still furiously wagging with the happiness of a greeting well done.
”How have you been, Stephen—”
”I guess we better be off our way—”
They stop, glancing at each other with an embarrassed flush on their cheeks. Stephen is the first to recover. She nods, says, ”Have a pleasant day, Mrs. Hallam,” and turns to walk back home.
She barely makes it as far as two dozen steps when Mary runs after her, reaching out to grab her arm. ”Stephen!” she scolds. ”Don’t just walk away! We haven’t seen each other in so long!”
”There’s a reason for that, isn’t there?” she says quietly without turning. Then she gently pries off Mary’s hold, and leaves.
She doesn’t call after her again.
She chooses another park the next time she heads out with Pearl. In fact, she walks completely in the opposite direction and tells herself she isn’t running away.
It doesn’t quite work.
Three weeks after Stephen ran into Mary and her son, her doorbell rings. It’s late Sunday morning and her servants have a day off as usual, so it’s Stephen herself who opens the door with the long-suffering sigh of a person who would rather be left alone.
It’s Mary.
She raises her head when the door opens and meets Stephen’s eyes with fierce determination, head held high.
”Hello, Stephen,” she says calmly. ”Why don’t you invite me in?”
Struck dumb, all Stephen can do is step aside and let her walk into her home—the new home that has never felt the presence of Mary’s gentle soul. She walks in in unhurried steps, peeks curiously around in the small foyer and greets the enthusiastic Pearl, the more sedate Mimi and Baroness, and then she turns around to face Stephen again.
”I went to Rue Jacob,” she says, still in that same calm tone. ”And I found out that you don’t live there anymore.”
Stephen glances at her and then away, tries to keep her eyes strained to the crack on the wall. ”I sold the house years ago,” she says and shrugs. ”I felt like I needed the change.”
Mary lets out a small sound, something between a hum and a huff, and takes a step forward. Stephen finds herself drawn to her—of course she does, that’s what Mary has done to her since the very beginning; drawn her in like a moth to the flame—her lilac dress a single splash of color in the foyer that suddenly feels very drab and desolate.
”I also went to see Valérie,” Mary continues. ”And she told me the strangest thing.”
Stephen swallows. ”Valérie’s stories tend to be strange,” she says, cautious.
”She told me that back in the day, a short while before you turned your back on me and threw me out, you went to see her.” She cocks her head and looks at Stephen, not unlike a curious, brave little bird. ”She told me that you begged her to be in league with you and claim you were lovers, claim that you were cheating on me with her.”
”She told you—” Stephen says, and her voice comes out hoarse. Valérie had promised her, she’d promised she’d never tell Mary, and now—
”Before you blame her for revealing this pact, let me just say that I already knew when I walked into her parlor. Her suddenly pale complexion upon seeing me was just a confirmation.”
How? Stephen wants to cry. How did you know? You were never supposed to find out—you were supposed to go on with your life—to have a life, a family and friends away from me! Instead, she turns her head away in shame.
A moment of silence, and then Mary is right there, almost in her arms. She cups Stephen’s cheek and says, ”Won’t you look at me, dear friend? Stephen, look at me, please?”
And it’s not like Stephen has ever really been able to deny her—especially not now when she feels flayed bare to her very soul, and the small, gentle touch of Mary’s hand on her cheek is like the warmth of the sun itself, forcing her to turn to face it.
”There you are,” Mary says. Her eyes are bright and a smile plays on her lips and she looks so lovely, so beautiful that Stephen can’t help but—
Oh, but she can’t.
She tries to back away but she’s already against the wall, its sturdy, unforgiving surface holding her still.
”Stephen,” Mary whispers and presses their lips together.
It’s a fleeting touch, a chaste kiss that is nothing like the fervent kisses they’ve exchanged in the past but still, it is Stephen’s undoing. With a shuddering breath, she embraces Mary, holds on with all her strength (which surely is too much for Mary but she doesn’t complain), and buries her face into the crook of Mary’s neck, inhaling her scent in big, heaving gulps.
After some while, she becomes aware of Mary’s soft voice crooning at her and gentle soothing pats on her back, drawing Stephen back to herself.
Her embarrassed, flustered self.
”I’m sorry—” she starts as she draws back but stops when Mary shakes her head.
”Don’t,” she says.
”But—what about Martin—”
Mary’s eyebrow rises and she tilts her head again. ”What about Martin?” she asks. When Stephen is too confused to reply, she sighs and takes her hand. ”Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we?”
The world is a strange place, Stephen decides later that day as she reclines in front of the fireplace. She’s holding a glass of brandy and a cigarette, both forgotten as she stares into the dancing flames and thinks back at what Mary had told her.
”It was Martin who brought it up,” Mary had said, frowning into her tea. ”But I guess it was me—see, I’d fallen into a terrible mood after Annelise was born two years ago. Martin was beside himself with worry and, well. I think he felt guilty about what had happened between you two.
”Martin came to me one day when I was feeling very down and asked me if seeing you would help. I told him it would not because why would I want to see you after all the horrible things you said when we last met? To my astonishment, he went on his knees in front of me and grabbed my hands, and there was such anguish in his eyes, Stephen! He told me you gave me up! He told me that your story of being Valérie’s lover was a lie meant to drive me away!” At this point Mary had closed her eyes, shaking her head. ”I couldn’t understand why—I thought you loved me like I loved you, and I told Martin that. But he—”
Stephen had wanted to storm out of the kitchen and also beg for Mary’s forgiveness. Instead, she’d gripped her cup in her hands so hard her knuckles were stark white.
”Martin told me that you loved me too much to be selfish,” Mary had whispered. Her eyes had been bright with tears as she’d stared at Stephen, challenging and begging at the same time. ”He told me to search for you and talk to you myself. ’Ask her,’ he said. ’Ask her and she’ll tell you the truth. I don’t care what happens next—if having her in your life makes you better, then so be it.’ ”
”What?” Stephen had said, numb.
And then Mary had reached across the table and grasped her hand in hers, holding on to it tightly. ”My husband told me to say this: ’If I have to share Mary with anyone, it would be you, Stephen, because I know you love her at least as much as I do, probably even more.’ And, Stephen—” She’d brought their hands on her face, held Stephen’s hand between her own, smaller hands, and leaned her forehead into it. ”I’ve missed you for so long. Without you, I feel like part of my heart is missing and it feels like I’m suffocating. You and Martin, you belong in my heart, both of you.”
Those words have been throbbing in Stephen’s chest ever since—when she saw Mary out, when she cleared out the table and rinsed the cups, when she walked through the empty house with Pearl and Mimi on her heels, when she stroked Baroness’ neck before taking this seat in front of the fire.
Could it be that easy?
(Should it be?)
Part of her feels like crying with joy, while the other part feels like this must be a cruel joke the universe is trying to play on her.
But what if…?
She lifts her cigarette to her mouth only to realize it’s burnt out without her noticing.
A week later, her phone rings.
It’s Martin.
”I’d like to call you over for dinner tomorrow,” he says, sounding both awkward and earnest. ”Won’t you come, Stephen, please?”
What is she supposed to say to that?
So, the next day, she rings the doorbell and meets Martin. He looks older and more dignified, with elegant grey on his temples and a slight softening on his face. He smiles widely as he opens the door and shakes her hand before drawing her into a hug. ”Stephen! I’m so glad you came!”
She clears her throat and shrugs. ”You’re the one who invited me,” she says and immediately regrets it. She didn’t mean to be rude but that sounded rude and—
But Martin merely laughs. ”That I did, didn’t I? Come in, come in. The dining room is this way—there’s the library, I believe I might have some books that might pique your interest...” He chatters amicably as he leads her into the dining room, pointing out this and that and telling small anecdotes on the happenings in their life in the past years.
In the dining room, the table is set for three. The room is on the smaller side, perfectly fitting for the house and the general sense of style Stephen detects in the Hallam household. Mary brings the children to greet her—seven years old William, who eagerly asks after her dogs, and two-years-old Annelise, who barely dares to peek at her from behind her mother’s skirt—and they retire with their governess, leaving Stephen with Mary and Martin. The dinner itself goes by in a blur—the food is delicious and the wine excellent, but Stephen is having a hard time concentrating on anything while Mary keeps sending her small smiles from across the table.
She doesn’t understand what’s going on and it leaves her wrong-footed.
Afterwards, Martin leads them to the library and turns to pour them drinks. While his back is turned, Mary steps next to Stephen and kisses her. In shock, she stumbles back, terrified, her eyes darting from Mary to Martin and back.
”I—” she starts but doesn’t know how to continue.
”Stephen,” Martin says, handing her a glass that Stephen mechanically accepts. ”I want to make this utterly clear: I love my wife. I love all of her. And that means that I love the part that also loves you. You are welcome in our home and in our lives.”
Mary smiles at her husband and pecks a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Then she turns back to Stephen and kisses her again.
”As I told you, Stephen,” she says, ”Martin is willing to share.” She kisses her again. ”And I’m not willing to let you go again.”
It is not completely without its difficulties, their new arrangement. They need to be discreet, to mind the servants and especially the governess who, according to Martin, is very old-fashioned and traditional. ”The children will accept you as a part of our family,” Mary says one day with a calm smile and Martin nods. Stephen doesn’t have it in her to argue—surely they know their children and rear them as they see fit.
Motherhood has made Mary’s shape softer but also her demeanor more determined and confident, and Stephen finds both extremely appealing. She revels in this new opportunity to pour out all her love and she sees the same ardor in Martin’s eyes that she knows is in her own whenever they look at Mary who thrives under their combined attention. It takes all Stephen’s willpower to keep her kisses discreet whenever they’re in public but it’s worth it because Mary rewards her abundantly in private.
On Wednesdays, she dines with the Hallams, and after, Mary leads her to a guest room specifically reserved for her, and they share a passionate evening in each other’s arms. On Sundays, Mary comes over after church and they devote the afternoon to each other in a way the church would most definitely frown upon.
Despite the need for secrecy, there’s a new lightness in Stephen’s chest—a feeling of a brighter future, of loving and being loved in return; and especially being accepted. It settles something in her and with that contentment, the melancholy in her soul seems to lift.
And she realizes that at forty-nine years old, she’s happy.