He wallowed in her, and when he could stand the confinement of the house no longer, he’d driven to the site of her death. And had stood, a solitary figure, weeping on the cliffs.

His doctor prescribed medication and rest. His friends encircled him with sympathy.

He began to enjoy it.

Within a month, he’d forgotten he had insisted that Helen make the trip to Big Sur that day. In his mind, in the cradle of his memory, he saw himself entreating her not to attend, to stay home and rest until she was well again.

Of course, she hadn’t listened. She had never listened.

Grief turned to fury, a raging flood of anger that he drowned with liquor and solitude. She’d betrayed him, going out against his wishes, insisting on attending some frivolous party rather than respecting her husband’s request.

She had left him unforgivably alone.

But even rage passes. The hole it left in him he filled with a fantasy of her, of their marriage, even of himself. He heard people speak of them as a perfect couple, cruelly parted by tragedy.

He read it, thought it. Believed it.

He wore one of her earrings on a chain next to his heart and let the affectation leak to a suitable media source. It was said Gable did the same when he’d lost Lombard.

He kept her clothes in her closets, her books on the shelves, her perfumes in their bottles. He had an angel of white marble erected for her in the cemetery where no body lay. Every week, a dozen red roses were placed at its feet.

To keep himself sane, he threw himself into his work. He began to sleep again, without so many dreams in which Helen came to him. Gradually, at the urging of friends, he began to go out again socially.

But the women eager to comfort the widower didn’t interest him. He dated only because it kept him in the press. He bedded a few of the women only because there would be talk otherwise, of an unflattering sort.

Sex had never driven him. Control had.

He had no wish ever to marry again. There would never be another Helen. They had been destined for each other. She’d been meant for him, meant to be molded and formed by him. If he’d had to punish her occasionally—well, discipline was part of the formation. He’d had to teach her.

Finally, in their last few weeks together, he had believed she had learned. It had been a rare thing for her to make a mistake, in public or private. She’d deferred to him as a wife was meant to defer to a husband, and had made certain that he was pleased with her.