The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [25]
“I was raised to be a wife,” she told him. “A high-society wife. To create a beautiful home, throw lovely parties, always wear a smile when my husband is at my side. And be a good mother, of course. Raise the next generation of high-society wives.”
Tristan nodded gravely.
“And then . . . then I got divorced. It’s funny, I didn’t notice it right away. I had Kimberly and Amanda to think about, and in all honesty, things had been rough for them. They needed attention. I needed to give it. I guess I went from being an extension of my husband to being an extension of my daughters. It seemed so natural at the time.”
“Except little girls don’t stay little girls forever,” Tristan filled in.
“Kimberly went away to college three years ago,” Bethie said quietly. “Things haven’t been the same since.”
She looked down at her lap. She couldn’t help it. The music was blues jazz tonight, some older woman belting out the aching strains of “At last, my love has come along . . .” and Bethie felt the melancholy all the way down to her bones.
Her beautiful, empty brick town house. Room after room of so much silence. Four separate phones that rarely rang. Hallways lined with framed photographs that were all she had left of the people she loved.
And standing on that hillside a month ago, staring at that freshly dug, gaping black grave. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
She was forty-seven years old, and she didn’t know who she was anymore. She was forty-seven years old, no longer a wife, no longer Mandy’s mother, and she didn’t know where she belonged.
Tristan’s hand reached over, tangled with her own. He drew her gaze up and she saw he wasn’t grinning anymore. Instead he wore a somber expression, not unlike her own. For an uncanny moment she had an image of him, waking up in the hospital after his transplant surgery, and discovering no one at his side. No wife or children to hold his hand. He knew, she thought. He knew.
Her fingers curled around his. The woman continued to sing, “My love has come along . . .” and the moment went on and on.
“Bethie,” he said gently, “let’s take a walk.”
Outside, the air was heavy and hot, but the sun was beginning to set and Bethie had always loved this time of day. The world became muted, velvety, offering less color but also fewer sharp lines and hard objects. It comforted her.
They walked in silence, not heading anywhere in particular, but by some mutual understanding of the city, working their way toward Rittenhouse Square.
“My turn to ask a question,” Tristan said abruptly. He had loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves in deference to the wet-wool humidity. He still looked elegant, and Bethie was aware of other people casting them covert glances.
“Ask,” she prodded, becoming aware that Tristan was still studying her.
“You promise not to be insulted?”
“After two glasses of wine, you have to work very hard to get me insulted.”
He stopped walking in the middle of the block, then turned her so she’d have to face him. “It’s not just the kidney, is it?”
“What?”
“This. It’s not only about me having your daughter’s kidney, is it? I know it’s a rude question, and I don’t want to upset you, but this evening is going even better than I imagined, and well, I need to know. Some people think when you get someone’s organ, you get a piece of her soul as well. Is that what this evening is about? Am I just a proxy for your daughter?” He added in a rush, “Because I’m seriously considering kissing you, Elizabeth Quincy, and I don’t think a proxy for your daughter should be doing that.”
Bethie felt dazed. Her hand fell free of his, fluttered at the base of her throat, toyed with the collar of her satin shirt. “I don’t . . . Of course not! That’s . . . that’s foolishness. An old wives’ tale. Silly superstition.”
Tristan nodded with satisfaction. He seemed ready to resume walking, when she ruined her own argument by saying, “You don’t . . . You don’t feel any differently, do you?”
“Pardon?”
“We did run into each other by chance,” she continued hastily, “and yet you knew who I was right