A Wife of Noble Character (41 page)

The way she said it, with reluctance, it occurred to Preston that actually they did share something: They both missed Vivienne. He remembered how severely he'd regarded Waverly, how he'd held her up as a symbol for why it could never work between Vivienne and him. Preston felt galled by his pretension on a daily basis lately. “I think I owe you an apology,” he said. “If I was ever dismissive to you.”

“I don't remember us ever talking much,” Waverly said.

“But I was—I thought Vivienne shouldn't be friends with you.” It came out harshly, but he was glad he aired it.

She didn't seem to mind at all. “I thought the same thing about you. Maybe I was mad at Vivienne for caring about you—I don't know, because I didn't get you. She never talked to me about you, but I always had this feeling you would take her away.”

“I didn't,” he said.

“No, you didn't,” she said.

“I didn't get you either,” he said.

“I still don't get you,” she said. “But my husband likes you.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

“I do think she'd want to see you,” she said. “She always liked seeing you.”

She gave him Vivienne's new address and phone number. He drove straight there. It wasn't far from his own apartment, that graduate-school apartment from which his income had yet to graduate. He climbed the concrete stairs. It was hot, and the concrete made everything hotter. It was hard to reconcile her with such a bland apartment complex—she was so inextricably braided with beauty to him that anything less seemed tragic. But he had to stop himself here. She would hate that.

Still, as he knocked, the particleboard door light against his knuckles, he couldn't help trying to piece together the unlikely arc that had led her here and that led him here now. He knocked again, more eagerly. This time the force of his hand ticked the door open. It creaked, drifting on its hinges. Without entering, Preston looked inside.

A small, tidy room, lit through a single rectangular window. He beheld the picture of her little world—a pair of black slippers by the door, the leather shaped by her feet, a half-full glass of water on the counter in the kitchen corner, a child's drawing taped to the fridge, a trio of floral pillows lovingly arranged on the bed, a line of violets on the windowsill. She couldn't even help it, infusing beauty into the dimmest of places. He felt quiet, near to her. The room smelled so much like her, that enchanting particular sweetness, that he could have grabbed the sweater hanging by the door and buried his face in it. He noticed the painting on the wall—a quiet Texas landscape—and remembered her words in the Rothko Chapel that day:
I believe happiness is more powerful than sadness.

“What are you doing?”

He turned around and saw a woman, compact and displeased, a sweaty, adorable toddler on her hip and a casserole dish covered in foil in her free arm. “I'm looking for Vivienne,” he said.

“You're letting her AC out.” She brushed past him and went inside, sliding the casserole dish into Vivienne's fridge. Then she came back out of the apartment, and with one adept hand, closed and locked the door behind her. “Why are you poking around? Who are you?”

“I'm Preston. I'm a friend of Vivienne's.”

Suddenly her face opened. “You're Preston,” she said. “I've heard of you.”

Preston didn't know what to make of this. He just tried to be as polite as possible. “Do you know where she is?”

She replied matter-of-factly, “At work.”

“Bib-bee-in!” the toddler said.

“Can you tell me where she works?”

She narrowed her eyes. Maybe she would tell him, maybe not. Just then a large man appeared from the apartment next door. Preston was sure he recognized him—
no way
, it couldn't be—but as he approached, Preston felt certain. It was the guy in the bolo tie. And he was still wearing a bolo tie. He put his long arm around the woman and said, “You're the guy who's been looking for Vivienne?”

“I've never been here before.”

The bolo-tie guy nodded. “Naw, you're him,” he said. “We met a good while back, not formally, but I remember you. I knew you'd come around sooner or later. I'm Randal Stanley.”

The woman smiled. “Audrey Navarro, and my son, Arthur.”

“Mommy! Wandal! Awfur!” Arthur cheered.

“Nice to meet you all,” Preston said. He felt very tentative and confused but also determined. “Can you tell me where she works?”

Audrey and Randal glanced at each other. Something passed unsaid between them. “Old Washington Boulevard,” Randal declared. His voice had a resounding quality; it bellowed through the heat and against the walls. “The white house with the pretty trees in the back.”

*   *   *

P
RESTON FOLLOWED THE
address. He parked on the street so that she wouldn't see him pull up and waited a moment in the car, staring at the house. He could tell it had good bones. To think he'd driven by it a thousand times, unconscious of its future meaning. He was still unconscious of its future meaning. He knew something was going to happen, but it was still
before
. He was sweating intensely.

He went up the walk and opened the door; some cowbells jingled. It was hot and sticky inside. Through the back window he saw a few men in painter's overalls, cleaning brushes and folding tarps beside a coop of large golden chickens. He wandered around, hardly noticing anything—he was only looking for Vivienne. To his great surprise, he found her in a back room, ripping out laminate flooring. He could have watched her all day. She must have sensed he was there, because it was only a moment before she looked up. She was wearing a dirty T-shirt and baggy cotton shorts, a red bandanna tied over her hair. She was as sweaty as he was. For an instant, Preston didn't recognize her.

She got to her feet. “Well, hi,” she said. “Where did you come from?”

He didn't know how to answer that. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “New floors.”

He could hardly believe it, but it felt as if they'd just talked yesterday. It was that easy with her. He began to peer around, out the back room and into the main space. The setting came into focus. The room was being cleared out and painted but also preserved. “A gallery,” he said.

“I'm really only doing the floors and putting on fresh paint,” she said. “But not on the ceiling. I love the old cedar.” She paused. “I'm keeping the animals. I want it to be a little sanctuary.”

Preston didn't know what to say. She had to know his silence said it all.

“I got a loan,” she said. “Father Bennison helped me—my aunt's priest. Part of the profit will benefit the church ministries. There's more space upstairs, but it's just storage. Maybe one day it can be an arts camp for kids, I don't know, or I'll live in it—there will be air-conditioning.” She smiled at him, the clearest, unpretending smile.

There it was.

Preston faced her. “Do you think you'll need an architect?”

Her eyes changed. In the faithful span of those seconds, she looked at him as though she'd always been waiting for that question.

“Yes,” she said. “Do you know one?”

Preston nodded. “Yes.”

 

Epilogue

Vivienne Cally Weds Preston Duffin

Miss Vivienne May Cally and Mr. Preston Thomas Duffin were united in marriage on May 5, on the banks of the Seine River in Paris, France. The ceremony was officiated by Kitty Crawford of Beaumont, Texas, and Paris, France. The wedding party included Mr. Randal Stanley and Mrs. Audrey Navarro-Stanley of Houston, Mr. and Mrs. Clay and Waverly Fitcherson of Houston, Charlie Reed of Austin, Texas, and Tom Jennings of Wengen, Switzerland. Serving as flower girl and ring bearer were Grace Fitcherson and Arthur Navarro-Stanley. Escorted by herself, and presented in marriage by herself, the bride wore her late mother's handmade wedding gown and sandals from Thailand given by the best man, City Councilman Bladimir Caro of Houston. Following the ceremony, the bride and groom hosted a picnic in Ms. Crawford's garden. After a honeymoon in the Swiss Alps, the couple will reside in Houston. The bride will keep her name.

 

Acknowledgments

I'm indebted to the great Edith Wharton—who wrote the beautiful story that inspired me to write this story. Heartfelt gratitude to Susan Golomb and Caroline Zancan—you both brought this novel to life. And to Kate Levin, Diane Brown, Andy Hall, Sidney Goldfarb, Lee Krauth, Aram Saroyan, Tony Barranda, Mitra Parineh, and Maggie Flynn—thank you for being such wise and generous first readers and believers. Thank you dearest Rita Williams—for being my champion and friend. Your guidance and reassurance meant everything, and made the difference.

To my family—Vanessa, Jeff, Lincoln, Oscar, the Seymour Nation, and my parents Michael and Suzette—thank you for so much joy and love and encouragement. During many uncertain years of writing, I knew your support was always certain. And to my sweet mom especially—thank you for listening to me every day, for teaching me kindness, patience, and resilience, for loving me into being. To my dad, thank you for telling me all about situational awareness, for teaching me to ask questions and see the world with a sharp, creative eye.

And to Toben, my steadfast North Star—we made it here. Thank you love.

Finally, deep gratitude to my grandparents and to my great-grandmother Suze van der Zee-Spruyt, who always wanted a writer in the family and whose faith in me I can feel.

 

About the Author

Y
VONNE
G
EORGINA
P
UIG
was born and raised in Houston, Texas. She currently lives in Santa Monica, California, with her husband. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

 

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

Part Two

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

Part Three

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

Part Four

I

II

III

IV

Part Five

I

II

III

IV

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

 

A W
IFE OF
N
OBLE
C
HARACTER.
Copyright © 2016 by Yvonne Georgina Puig. All rights reserved. For information, address Henry Holt and Co., 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.henryholt.com

Cover design by David Shoemaker

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Puig, Yvonne Georgina.

Title: A wife of noble character : a novel / by Yvonne Georgina Puig.

Description: New York : Henry Holt and Company, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015036038| ISBN 9781627795555 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781627795562 (electronic book)

Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | GSAFD: Love stories