“We’re flying to Brazil.”
On Moneybags’ private 727.
“Monte has some business interests there.”
“Really? I thought he owned the country.”
“Stop it, Robert. Please.”
“Sorry.”
There was a pause. “I wish you sounded better.”
“If you were here, I would.”
“I want you to find someone wonderful and be happy.”
“I did find someone wonderful, Susan.” The damned lump in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. “And do you know what happened? I lost her.”
“If you’re going to do this, I won’t call you again.”
He was filled with sudden panic. “Don’t say that. Please.” She was his lifeline. He could not bear the thought of never speaking to her again. He tried to sound cheerful. “I’m going to go out and find some luscious blonde and screw us both to death.”
“I want you to find someone.”
“I promise.”
“I’m concerned about you, darling.”
“No need. I’m really fine.” He almost gagged on his lie. If she only knew the truth. But it was nothing he could bring himself to discuss with anyone. Especially Susan. He could not bear the thought of her pity.
“I’ll telephone you from Brazil,” Susan said.
There was a long silence. They could not let go of each other, because there was too much to say, too many things that were better left unsaid, that had to be left unsaid.
“I have to go now, Robert.”
“Susan?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, baby. I always will.”
“I know. I love you too, Robert.”
And that was the bittersweet irony of it. They still loved each other so much.
You two have the perfect marriage, all their friends used to say. What had gone wrong?
Commander Robert Bellamy got out of bed, and walked through the silent living room in his bare feet. The room screamed out Susan’s absence. There were dozens of photographs of Susan and himself scattered around, frozen moments in time. The two of them fishing in the Highlands of Scotland, standing in front of a Buddha near a Thai klong, riding a carriage in the rain through the Borghese gardens in Rome. And in each picture they were smiling and hugging, two people wildly in love.