When he came to, the paramedics were standing over him. He was sprawled among the food and plates that had crashed to the floor, and the Flynns had gone home. The blank look on Claudine’s face. That look. What a disappointment he was. She didn’t ride in the ambulance. Didn’t even come to the hospital until the following morning. Said she’d been trying to salvage the sale. No luck. The scene he’d made had tainted the deal. That didn’t surprise him. That was Aspen. It was all about keeping up appearances.

“You didn’t even have a heart attack,” she said brusquely. Even in sickness he had fallen short. She stood over his hospital bed, not bothering to take off her coat. Burberry? Chanel? Diane Von Whoever? He could never tell them apart. Could never tell why that designer stuff meant so much to Claudine. She’d look beautiful wearing a burlap sack. He knew she wanted to leave as quickly as possible, couldn’t stand being around so much frailty and weakness, so many suggestions of her own mortality. “Just stress. A simple panic attack. You’re fine.”

“No I’m not,” Henry said. “You know I’m not. I haven’t been for a long time.”

That was all they said about it. Which was still more than they had ever said about it.

No part of him wanted to go to this holiday party, tonight. On the bed she had set out what she wanted him to wear. A green crushed-velvet jacket and black bow tie. Instead, he went to the closet and picked out a black cashmere turtleneck—a small act of defiance. She’d sworn to him, after they had sold it to the Lions all those years ago, that he would never have to go to Montague House again. It wasn’t the first time she’d lied to him; that was his initial thought. But that wasn’t entirely true. She never lied about Steve. She didn’t have to. Henry never confronted her about him.

Instead he started drinking. Twenty-three years after he gave it up, could he ever use a shot right now. Something to give him the courage to walk back into that house.

Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe being there was just what he needed. Maybe it would be cathartic. Seeing the staircase, the chandelier, each and every detail he had so carefully chosen and crafted—maybe it would bring back memories of what exactly happened that night after they pulled up to the cabin and his mind went blank. That was the worst part. He couldn’t remember anything. All he had were the newspaper reports and Claudine’s version. Nothing else. Just a total vacuum. All these years he had to use his imagination to fill in the blanks, and maybe what actually happened wasn’t as bad as what he imagined. It couldn’t be any worse.