Don't Look Back (15 page)

“Why? Diana, why?” I plead.

“You were so happy with Brock; I thought you were going to marry him. My God, Katie, he was gorgeous, rich, a future attorney, and you lived on the beach in bloody Malibu, for goodness sake! You had the most perfect life, and you were happy, or at least I thought you were happy. You appeared to be the perfect couple when we visited, and your letters never said you weren’t, and I wanted you to be happy. You deserved that fairytale happy ending.” She checks on Terry again and takes a sip of her drink.

“Sully was in bad shape, Katie. I looked him up as soon as I got to Sydney, and eventually, after calling every number listed in the phone book under M. Sullivan, I found him. I rung him up, but as soon as he heard my voice, he hung up on me. Then I resorted to leaving notes on his door, playing cat and mouse, trying to catch him at home, but he managed to escape me for more than four months. My final note to him was to let him know I was leaving, and for whatever reason, he finally called me.

“We met at a bar frequented by the local Brits down by Sydney Harbor, and I barely recognized him at first. He was so skinny and dark from the sun. His hair was wild, curly and grown past his shoulders, and he had a full beard. He looked like a local man from out of the bush, except for his features—his face was still Sully. The first words out of his mouth were about you, Katie. About how
much he loved you, and how much you hurt him. He explained how he had to let you fly like a butterfly. That he wasn’t good enough for you, Katie, that he would never be good enough for you. He didn’t want to be the one to stop you from fulfilling your dreams. He said he never knew about you wanting to go to university, and when he found out that those were your plans, he realized that you had never spoken about coming back to England, back to him. I don’t think he’s lying about the letter, Katie. I don’t think he ever got it, or it arrived too late, because when you disappeared, he said the position opened up in Australia the following week, and he figured it was his chance to make a clean break. He thought it was his only chance to make something of himself, so he left, leaving everything behind, and that included you.

“So when I told him that you were happy, he was genuinely happy for you. He encouraged me not to let what I had with Terry slip away; he helped me decide that I needed to come back home to him. That night in LA, you were still so happy with Brock—you didn’t break up until afterward. I had no idea that he cheated on you. We didn’t speak for two years after I came back to England. By the time you and I did reconnect, you were already involved with Dave and getting engaged.”

“I can’t believe you never told me.” I am stunned, trying to digest everything that Diana has said.

“The right time never presented itself, Katie. It’s not something I could randomly put in a letter, and as more time passed, the harder it became to tell you. I never meant to keep it from you, I swear. It
just happened this way. Please forgive me?”

Choking up, she continues, “Seeing you and Sully last night, seeing you together last night, bloody hell, Katie,” Diana wipes away the tears pouring down her cheeks. “I messed things up so bad for you, and I can’t fix them.”

Poor Diana is sobbing now, her nose dripping, mascara running. My heart breaks at her distress and the strain of this secret that she has been carrying for eighteen years. I sit beside her and put my arms around her.

“I forgive you Diana. Shh, please calm down.” I try to comfort her, giving her my napkin to use as a tissue. “It’s okay, I promise. Matthew and I are fine. It’s not your fault at all; our lives were obviously mapped out to take different paths. Plus, I couldn’t imagine my life without Allie, so obviously I was destined to marry Dave. What Matthew and I once had was extremely special, and I will always love him and treasure what we shared, but it was a very long time ago.” Silent applause goes off in my head. My performance is Oscar-worthy. I almost have myself convinced that I am absolutely okay.

“Really?” Diana sniffs, her eyes red and swollen, looking to me for forgiveness.

“Really.” I smile back.

“Food is ready!” Terry announces as he passes by carrying a tray of overcooked burgers and sausages. We follow him into the house arm in arm, our noses trailing the distinct smell of burned cheese, to enjoy lunch before I have to say another set of goodbyes.

CHAPTER 16

Tourists

Diana had the forecast correct; it is indeed raining today, although it’s still warm out. The sky has opened up several times with gentle, cooling showers. I am taking shelter on the steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields on the northeast corner of Trafalgar Square, with a direct view of the steps of the National Gallery. The musty smell of rain hitting the warm asphalt surrounds me as a constant bustle of people pass me by, some with umbrellas and others with light jackets. The shower will probably be brief, a quick summer downpour, but the constant flow of pedestrians will never cease. Red London double-decker buses and black taxis mingle with the cars and motorcycles, horns honking as they stop and go with the synchronized traffic signals. I lean against one of the six stone columns
gracing the entrance of the old church. The cold stone feels cool against my thin cotton shirt as I soak in the city sounds and smells.

The church bells sound a hundred feet above my head, signifying that it is three o’clock. With the rain slowing to a mere sprinkle, I step out into the crowded path and make my way toward the gallery entrance. It takes me less than a minute to cross the street and cover the short distance, and as I approach the main stairs, I see Matthew leaning against the iron railing, looking out over Trafalgar Square. The butterflies in my stomach start to dance in celebration, and something inside me leaps at the sight of him. I feel a sensation of pure contentment, relief that I have found him again.

Once more, his arms are crossed against his chest; he is sporting dark jeans and a black V-neck wool sweater, the sleeves casually pushed up his forearms, exposing a gold wrist watch. Brown tortoiseshell sunglasses hide his beautiful brown eyes. He looks relaxed as he stares out onto the square over the fountains below, and I have the advantage of coming up the staircase to his left so he doesn’t see me. The heels of my boots click loudly, echoing on the nineteenth century stone steps as I move toward him. As if sensing my presence, he turns his head toward me as I get about halfway across the black and white mosaic floor of the Portico Entrance. He smiles that dazzling smile, and in three strides he is standing before me, meeting me halfway.

His cologne smells amazing, and it invades my senses even with him at a safe distance from me. His hair is shiny, his face clean shaven and soft. The
midnight shade of his sweater emphasizes his olive-toned skin, and I can see a gold chain peeking out around his neck.

“You came,” he says, his steady voice revealing a hint of doubt as he leans in, kissing me on the cheek, a look of relief on his face.

“I came,” I softly reply, blushing slightly as I smile at him. I can feel a burning mark where his lips gently grazed my skin. My heart flutters.

“Shall we?” He motions toward the gallery, and I walk ahead of him through the doors and into the entrance hall. Matthew catches up and walks beside me, and I see him drop a twenty pound note into the donation box before we climb the steps to the Central Hall. I have always loved the National Gallery, and I have spent half a day here with Allie. Of course the masterpieces are amazing, but I enjoy the physical building almost as much. There is so much for the eye to appreciate.

For a brief moment, the sun shines brightly through the magnificent glass ceiling of the Central Hall as people of all nationalities shuffle through the room, most of them holding audio tour devices to their ears, intensely listening and learning. Matthew casually takes my hand in his, linking his fingers with mine as if it is something we do every day. Once again I am overpowered by a sense of unity. I don’t know what it is about him, but I feel so at ease, so at home in his presence.

“I don’t wish to lose you in these crowds,” he says, smiling. It’s a lame excuse for holding my hand, as the art gallery is not that busy. “Let’s go this way.” He guides me to the right toward the next room. We pass the impressive rotunda and the
British portraits, and he steers me to the right once more, into a less crowded room filled with beautiful Italian art.

Our pace slows, and we walk around the room in time with each other, my heels softly clicking on the glossy, polished flooring.

“So, did everything go okay at your appointment this morning?” I inquire while Matthew and I are stopped in front of a Venetian masterpiece. The painting is
The Allegory with Venus and Time
by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, and Matthew seems to be studying it.

“Yes, thank you. Everything went well,” he answers. Redirecting his attention to me, he continues, “I signed everything, and if anything else comes up, it can probably be handled via email or fax. So I’m free to go.”

“And you leave tomorrow?” I resume my questioning as we move toward the next painting.

“Yes. I fly out late tomorrow afternoon.”

“Me too,” I add quietly.

I’m irritated at the thought of having to leave already, and as I’m incapable of controlling time, I feel frustrated that every moment that slips by means I am one second closer to saying goodbye to Matthew forever. A part of me is struggling with the question of what we are doing here, wasting valuable time strolling through these rooms, behaving as if we have all the time in the world. Matthew’s note implied that he wanted to talk things out, but now persuading him to say anything is a challenge. As we enter yet another room, I spot Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
on the far wall. Releasing Matthew’s hand, I walk toward it and sit on the
wooden viewing bench directly opposite. When Matthew sits beside me, I attempt to talk to him.

“Why are we here?” I ask, staring at the masterpiece. A print of it hangs in my home, which makes me think of Allie, and Dave.

“We’re admiring fine art,” he replies lightheartedly. “In fact,” he says, leaning toward me, “I’m admiring a masterpiece right now.”

Matthew reaches over and places my hand into his possessively, raising it to his lips and placing a deep kiss inside my palm. His hot breath caresses my skin as he exhales. I feel the fullness of his lips as they taste the tender skin of my palm, and the slight roughness of his shaven face beneath my fingertips. I turn to look at him, my face flushing, the heat creeping over my skin. He smiles, his eyes smoldering, and I am mesmerized, held captive under his spell.

What game are we playing? What is he doing to me? I can’t seem to resist this man. I have a husband at home, and I have never once considered being unfaithful, yet here I am hand in hand with a former lover. I feel no guilt or sense of dishonesty—in truth, all I feel is a desire to be swept up in Matthew’s arms. I feel sadness that our story didn’t end the way it should have. Fate robbed me of being with this man, marrying this man, spending my life with this man.

Perhaps the universe is trying to make amends. Maybe we get our happy ending in another lifetime, but not in this one. In a short time, we will part ways again, probably for the final time, and I can only try to be thankful for this opportunity to say goodbye properly. Whatever frustration I felt a
moment ago has vanished; his kiss has washed it away, erased it from my mind. When I am with him, I am consumed by him. I feel as though I belong to him, have always belonged to him.

“You look so beautiful when you blush, Kate.” Matthew’s index finger gently rubs my cheek. “Come, let’s go,” he orders, and with that, he pulls me from the bench, and we exit the gallery back onto Trafalgar Square.

“What about a drink?” Matthew suggests. Perhaps having a drink and sitting face to face will make for a better environment for us to chat.

“That sounds great,” I say. “In fact, there’s a wonderful pub down the road over there.” I point down through the square to the opposite corner toward Whitehall, across from Admiralty Arch. “My daughter and I grabbed dinner in there a couple months ago when we were here, and it was pretty good.”

“Oh, a regular are you?” Matthew teases. “Katherine Roman, please lead the way.” He catches me off guard by using my maiden name.

“Katherine Jacobs, actually,” I correct him, waiting for his response.

“Ah yes, Katherine Jacobs,” he mutters under his breath. “So, how old is your daughter?” He changes the subject as we stroll toward the pub.

“Allie?” I smile at the mention of her name. “She’s thirteen but acts like she’s twenty sometimes. She is an absolute firecracker and is surely going to be the death of me. She’s already almost as tall as me with legs up to here.” I abruptly stop by the fountains, letting go of Matthew’s hand so I can motion toward my ears with both of mine. I laugh.
“Drop dead gorgeous and smart.” We continue walking, and he takes my hand again.

“Sounds like her mother,” he replies, and I roll my eyes at him.

“What about you?” I ask. “You mentioned the other night that you had kids.”

“I do. Two girls, actually.” His face lights up, his smile beams. “Emma is eleven and Rosie is seven. Both are the absolute center of my world. It’s been difficult being away from them. I’ve never left them before.”

I’m glad that he is opening up to me a little. I can tell that he is fiercely protective of his girls, and he probably is a very loving, hands-on dad. My heart sinks for a moment as I see a flash of Matthew playing with his girls. Part of me, deep down, knows that I should have had his children. He locks eyes with me for a second, and I can’t help but feel that he is thinking the same thing.

The Silver Compass is a quaint, traditional English tavern, and the pub dates back to the seventeenth century, although the building has been rebuilt several times over the centuries. Allie and I loved it here, especially when our waitress told us about the rumored resident ghost. Apparently, a murdered prostitute haunts the place. It is dark inside, with flagstone floors and dark wood wainscoting—it’s soaked in character and charm. The smell of rich leather and beer immediately engages you upon entry, and then slowly you are welcomed by the fragrance of cooking wafting from the kitchen. It is spacious and has plenty of private seating. Matthew and I secure a quiet spot in the corner toward the rear.