44 Charles Street

She had another busy week. She went to two events at other galleries, and the opening of a major show at MOMA, which was very exciting. She met a photographer at the museum event. His name was Clay Washington, and much to her own surprise, when he asked her out to dinner, she accepted. She was trying to make an effort, and Avery was right, she couldn’t stay locked up on Charles Street forever. He took her to a Chinese restaurant on Mott Street and they had a good time. He was interesting to talk to. He had traveled extensively in Asia and lived in India and Pakistan for several years. He was intelligent and attractive, and she tried not to be put off by how different he was from Todd. Clay, the photographer, was much more like her. He would have qualified as bohemian to Todd. He was just new and different. He dropped her off at her house in a cab after dinner, and she didn’t invite him in. He promised to call her. She hadn’t been swept off her feet by him, but it had been a pleasant evening, and for now that was enough.

He called her three days later, as promised, and invited her to lunch. He came by the gallery, admired the show that was up, and was impressed when he realized her father was Henry Thayer. Everything about him seemed right, except that she wasn’t attracted to him, but maybe that would come in time. He kissed her on the lips after lunch at a restaurant called Bread, and she let him, but she felt nothing. She felt dead inside, or numb. Maybe Todd had taken her heart with him.

She tried to explain it to Marya in a quiet moment that night.

“It was so weird. I felt like I was cheating on Todd.”

“It takes time to disengage from someone. It was a long time ago, but I was engaged to someone else before I met my husband. He was killed in a boating accident. I didn’t look at anyone else for two years. I just couldn’t. I even thought about going into a convent.” She smiled as she said it. “I was very young. And then I met John and fell madly in love, and I came alive again, more so than ever. We got married a year later. Give yourself time. And even because someone is a good person, that doesn’t make him right for you. You’ll know it when you find it. Maybe you and the photographer can be just friends.” It sounded like a better idea to Francesca, and she was grateful for Marya’s wisdom and perspective. She was sure that she was right.

The next time Clay called her, she told him she was busy. She was planning to go to an art auction at Christie’s and had thought of asking him, but realized she didn’t want to. So she went alone. It was easier than going out with the wrong man. She had a fairly decent time talking to assorted people after the auction, which had been lively, and was just leaving when she saw a familiar form in the distance. She recognized the way he walked and moved, and she saw him lean over and talk to someone as her heart took a leap. It was Todd, talking to a very pretty young woman. She had her arm linked into his, and he was smiling as he spoke to her, just the way he had looked in the beginning with her. Francesca wanted to drop to the floor and hide or crawl out of the room before he saw her. She felt like she was spying on him. She wasn’t, but she was mesmerized by what she saw, and she felt her heart sink to her feet. She was unable to feel anything for another man, and he was with this very pretty woman, looking completely enamored. There were tears in her eyes as she ran out of the gallery and lunged into a cab, and gave the driver her address on Charles Street. She cried all the way home, and wanted to hide when she got in. She didn’t want to see anyone. She just wanted to climb into bed and die.

It was a wake-up call for her. She was mourning a man with whom she had been profoundly unhappy for a year, a man she had loved but who was wrong for her. They had been wrong for each other, even if they loved each other. They had broken up, he had moved on, and she was still hanging on to something—memories, the ghost of him, the relationship they wanted and couldn’t pull off. His reaction was much healthier. He was living his life—she wasn’t. She suddenly felt as though someone had thrown cold water on her. She wondered if he was in love with the girl she’d seen him with, but whether he was or not was irrelevant. He no longer belonged to her, and never would again, nor should he. She didn’t want the agony they’d shared in the end any more than he did. The message of that night was clear: she had to move on. It was over.