The Other Side - J. D. Robb [97]
“He did? How?”
“I don’t know. Oh—he said what cinched it was when you said ‘bulldog edition’ while he was showing you around the Republic.”
“Wow.” She loved his bewilderment, his continued incomprehension. She felt like a god, a deus ex machina saving the day. Giving Henry back the thing he wanted most (after her): his reputation.
“Did you know he’s been fired?” she asked rhetorically.
“Who?”
“Finster! No, you didn’t know, because nobody could find you!”
“Finster got fired?”
“Yes, and you got exonerated, sort of, but nobody could tell you, because Harry Wilde had vanished!”
Henry fell back against a porch pillar. “Wait, Angie. Hold on. I’m not—”
“And it wasn’t in the papers, unlike when you got fired, because Finster’s future father-in-law wanted to keep it quiet to protect his daughter. Your, um, your . . . ”
“Angie, you have to know—”
She flipped her hand. “I do know.” She didn’t know how, but she did. Finster’s unfaithful fiancée, Henry’s former . . . indiscretion, was not a person she needed to worry about, now or ever. “Walker says even though there was never a formal exoneration, everybody knows you didn’t do what Finster said.”
“Everybody knows?” Henry’s eyes, just for a second . . . no, those couldn’t be tears. But he swallowed twice, and he couldn’t seem to speak.
“Everybody.” She took his hands. “Do I have to call you Harry now? I don’t mind. It’s rather dashing, actually. Harry—can you forgive me?”
“Oh, Angie. For what?”
“For thinking the worst of you. I’m ashamed, Henry. I should’ve known.”
“Well, I don’t see how. I had a lot of sins to overlook.” He stopped kissing her fingers and turned serious. “There’s still one that’s not forgivable.”
“Impossible.”
“I mean it. Because of me, you’ve lost Willow House.”
“Are you going to marry me?”
His jaw fell, but she gave him credit for a fast recovery. “If you’ll have me,” he said, with all the devotion and enthusiasm she could hope for.
“I will have you. And then, for all I care, we can live in a tree house.”
“Sweetheart.” He kissed her so tenderly, she thought she might weep. “I couldn’t agree more. Because wherever you are—”
“I know. Wherever you are—”
They finished the sentence together, a trick they would continue for years. “Is home.”
Epilogue
“Nice hat.”
Angie jumped. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She snatched off the flashlight she’d tied to the top of her head with a pair of garters. “I was trying an experiment.”
“Very fetching.” Henry crossed to the bed and kissed her. He smelled good, like newsprint and tobacco and excitement.
“You’re early,” she said against his lips. “Not even midnight yet. Did you put it to bed?” She liked using newspaper jargon. She was dying to say “bulldog edition,” but so far the Paulton Republic hadn’t done one.
Henry turned on the tasseled lamp and sat beside her. “Can’t quite see it in church, though,” he said, examining her flashlight-suspender contraption.
“I was seeing if it’s any good for reading in bed.”
“And?”
“Well, you’d have to shorten the cylinder, which would also make it lighter. But it struck me that the really important application will be for miners.”
“Miners! Of course, instead of candles. How brilliant you are. Have I mentioned that lately?”
“Yes, but it bears repeating.”
“And how clever I was for marrying a genius?”
“I’m the one who married a genius. You’re the best managing editor the Paulton Republic’s ever had, and circulation’s up to prove it. And that’s just one of your innumerable sterling qualities.”
“Innumerable Sterling Qualities—good title for my biography.” He got up to get ready for bed.
“Your autobiography.”
She tried to read a few more paragraphs from an essay on Mark Twain in The Bay State Reader, Walker Hersh’s new journal. It was an interesting piece, but how much more interesting to watch her husband undress. He had such handsome shoulders. And what a nice, straight back. And, my, those long, strong legs, clad now only in drawers. All hers.
“What’s this?” he said, leaning closer to the mirror over the bureau to read