Page 19 of Every Step She Takes
That is what pushes me from the car, staggering and woozy. When the driver hurries to ask whether I’m all right, the memory of that letter prods me to smile weakly and lie that I’m just feeling carsick. Then I take a moment to compose myself before striding into the hotel.
Chin up. Press forward.
Isabella’s choice of hotel is an act of war, and I accept her challenge. First, though, I need a moment to prepare. I take a seat on a high-backed lobby chair and pull out my phone. If I am about to walk into a trap – a reality-show camera crew or even a room of old-fashioned journalists – there are two people who must be warned.
I call my mother first. I haven’t let her know I’m in New York yet. Sunday is Mass, followed by an afternoon of church socializing, and I didn’t want to interfere with her day. Now, though, she needs warning.
Her phone rings three times before going to voicemail, which means it’s sitting on her dining-room table. Unless she’s expecting a call, she often leaves it behind for church, lest even a vibration disturb others. I tell her that I’m in New York and we’ll talk this evening when she’s home.
The next call is harder, and I hit the name… only to hang up before the first ring. What do I even say?
Hey Marco, it’s me. So, first I lied about why I’m in New York. Remember that package that came to Lucy Callahan, and I said I had no idea who that was? I lied there, too. In fact, I’ve been lying since I met you. I am Lucy Callahan. The name sounds vaguely familiar, you say? Ever heard of Colt Gordon? Er, yes, that Colt Gordon. Well…
There is no way to give that conversation the space it needs before I meet Isabella. Even if I could, this isn’t a conversation for a hotel lobby. I want to at least video call, so he can see my face when I give him the news.
I start a text, saying we need to talk, and I’ll call in a few hours.
“Ms. Callahan?” a voice says.
I turn to see a stone-faced young woman. She’s mid-twenties, immaculately dressed, with a straight black page-boy cut and bright red lips.
“Ms. Callahan?” she repeats.
I rise. “Yes.”
“Follow me, please. Ms. Morales is waiting.”
I look at my phone, text half-written. She stands there, her expression still as blank as a cyborg’s, but in that blankness, I feel judgment. She knows who I am, and the longer I dally, the more uncomfortable this will become.
I glance up at a row of world clocks showing the time in Los Angeles, Sydney, Moscow and London. It’s already 9 p.m. in Rome. If anything does go wrong here, Marco will be asleep by the time it hits the news. No reason to worry him with another ominous “we need to talk” message.
I delete my text, pocket the phone and follow the young woman to the elevators.
The young woman escorts me to the penthouse suite – the same one Isabella rented all those years ago. Of course. Why bring me here and then pull her punch at the last second? Might as well follow through and hit me with all she has.
The young woman raps on the door. A moment passes. Then it opens, the figure obscured behind the door.
“Thank you, Bess.” That voice, with its trace of a Mexican accent, slams me in the gut.
The young woman – Bess – says, “Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?”
“No, you have the rest of the day off.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“I insist.” While Isabella’s tone stays warm, that steel thread is unmistakable. Bess tenses but only dips her chin and retreats without a glance my way.
Isabella stays behind the door, and I brace for a click of camera shutters documenting my entry. Instead, there is only Isabella and she is…
The wordoldsprings to mind, but I reject it with a wince. I will not be cruel. I’ve hurt her enough.Oldisn’t the word, anyway. Olderis correct, and it was only a shock, as if I expected to confront the woman I last saw fourteen years ago.
There’s frost in her hair, artfully threaded through, as if she has declared herself past the age where dying it jet black would flatter her aging face. Shehaslet her face age. I would expect no less. She’s still beautiful, still bearing that impossible figure, if a little thicker through the middle.
“Isabella,” I say stiffly.
She doesn’t even seem to hear me, just stares, as if at a stranger.
“Yes?” I say.
