Something cracks in him. One hand drops from the frame.
She kisses him, and then she slides by, and opens the door for the dark.
“Adeline.”
Luc should look out of place in the building’s hall, but he never does.
The lights on the walls have dimmed a little, softened to a yellow haze that haloes the black curls around his face, and catches slivers of gold in his green eyes.
He is dressed in all black, tailored slacks and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, an emerald pin driven through the silk tie at his throat.
It is far too hot for such an outfit, but Luc doesn’t seem to mind. The heat, like the rain, like the world itself, seems to have no hold on him.
He does not tell her she looks beautiful.
He does not tell her anything.
He simply turns, expecting her to follow.
And as she steps into the hall, he looks to Henry. And winks.
Addie should have stopped right there.
She should have turned around, let Henry pull her back inside. They should have shut the door, and bolted it against the dark.
But they didn’t.
They don’t.
Addie glances back over her shoulder at Henry, who lingers in the doorway, a cloud shadowing his face. She wills him to close the door, but he doesn’t, and she has no choice but to step away, and follow Luc as Henry watches.
Downstairs, he holds open the building’s door, but Addie stops. Looks down at the threshold. Darkness coils in the frame, shimmers between them and the steps down to the street.
She doesn’t trust the shadows, she can’t see where they lead, and the last thing she needs is for Luc to strand her in some far-off land if and when the night goes bad.
“There are rules tonight,” she says.
“Oh?”
“I won’t leave the city,” she says, nodding at the door. “And I won’t go that way.”
“Through a door?”
“Through the dark.”
Luc’s brows draw up. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I never have,” she says. “There’s no use starting now.”
Luc laughs, soft and soundless, and steps outside to hail a car. Seconds later, a sleek black sedan pulls up to the curb. He holds out his hand to help her in. She doesn’t take it.
He does not give the driver an address.
The driver does not ask for one.
And when Addie asks where they are going, Luc does not answer.
Soon they are on the Manhattan Bridge.
The silence between them should be awkward. The halting conversation of exes too long apart, and still not long enough to have forgiven anything.
What is forty years against three hundred?
But this is a silence born of strategy.
This is the silence of a chess game being played.
And this time, Addie has to win.
IX
Los Angeles, California
April 7, 1952
“God, you’re beautiful,” says Max, lifting his glass.
Addie blushes, eyes dropping to her martini.
They met on the street outside the Wilshire that morning, the creases from his bedsheets still pressed into her skin. She was lingering on the curb in his favorite wine-colored dress, and when he came out for his morning stroll, he stopped and asked if he could be so bold as to walk with her, wherever she was going, and when they got there, to a pretty building picked at random, he kissed her hand, and said good-bye, but he didn’t leave, and neither did she. They spent the whole day together, strolling from a tea shop to a park to the art museum, finding excuses to continue in each other’s company.
And when she told him that it was the best birthday she’d had in years, he blinked at her in horror, shocked at the idea a girl like her would find herself alone, and here they are, drinking martinis at the Roosevelt.
(It is not her birthday, of course, and she’s not sure why she told him it was. Perhaps to see what he would do. Perhaps because even she is getting bored of living the same night over again.)
“Have you ever met someone,” he says, “and felt like you’ve known them for ages?”
Addie smiles.
He always says the same things, but he means them every time. She toys with the silver thread at her throat, the wooden ring tucked into the neckline of her dress. A habit she cannot seem to break.
A server appears at her elbow with a bottle of Champagne.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“For the birthday girl on this special evening,” says Max brightly. “And the lucky gentleman who gets to spend it with her.”
She admires the tiny bubbles rising through the flute, knows even before she takes a sip that it’s the real thing; old, expensive. Knows, too, that Max can easily afford the luxury.
He is a sculptor—Addie has always had a weakness for the fine arts—and talented, yes, but far from starving. Unlike so many of the artists Addie has been with, he comes from money, the family funds sturdy enough to weather the wars, and the lean years between them.
He raises his glass, just as a shadow falls across the table.
She assumes it’s their server, but then Max looks up, and frowns a little. “Can I help you?”
And Addie hears a voice like silk and smoke. “I do believe you can.”
There is Luc, dressed in an elegant black suit. He is beautiful. He is always beautiful. “Hello, my dear.”
Max’s frown deepens. “Do you two know each other?”
“No,” she says at the same time Luc says, “Yes,” and it’s not fair, the way his voice carries and hers does not.
“He’s an old friend,” she says, a biting edge in her tone. “But—”
Again, he cuts her off. “But we haven’t seen each other in a while, so if you’d be so kind…”
Max bristles. “That’s quite impertinent—”
“Go.”
It is just one word, but the air ripples with the force of it, the syllable wrapping like gauze around her date. The fight drops out of Max’s face. The annoyance smooths, and his eyes go glassy as he rises from the table, and walks away. He never even looks back.
“Dammit,” she swears, sinking in her seat. “Why must you be such an ass?”
Luc lowers himself into the vacant chair, and lifts the bottle of Champagne, refilling their glasses. “Your birthday is in March.”
“When you get to be my age,” she says, “you celebrate as often as you like.”
“How long have you been with him?”
“Two months. It’s not so bad,” she says, sipping her drink. “He falls for me every day.”
“And forgets you every night.”
The words bite, but not as deeply as they used to.
“At least he keeps me company.”
Those emerald eyes trail over her skin. “So would I,” he says, “if you wanted it.”
A flush of warmth sweeps across her cheeks.
He cannot know that she has missed him. Thought of him, the way she used to think of her stranger, alone in bed at night. Thought of him every time she toyed with the ring at her throat, and every time she didn’t.
“Well,” she says, finishing her drink. “You’ve stripped me of my date. The least you can do is try and fill the space.”
And just like that, the green in Luc’s eyes is back, brighter.
“Come,” he says, drawing her up from her chair. “The night is young, and we can do far better.”
The Cicada Club buzzes with life.
Art deco chandeliers hang low, shining up against a burnished ceiling. It is crushed red carpet and stairs sweeping up to balcony seats. It is linen-covered tables and a polished dance floor set before a low stage.