But ultimately she had failed. The buzz—Paris—had eluded her. She’d lost her lover and she’d smashed her life here to pieces. It was time to give up and leave.

Trouble was, she had no idea where she was going.

She’d left a note.

Dear Robert,

I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you. One lie led to another and yet another. I’ve built a path of lies and followed it all the way out of our marriage. I had thought I could turn back, but now I see I can’t.

I hope you’ll find happiness. You deserve to be happy. If it’s any consolation, I’m not.

PS—the horse is in the cellar

VIVI

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit a fresh one. She put her left elbow on the table and used it to prop up her heavy head.

“Genevieve?”

She looked up.

Two women in black were standing in front of her.

“Marianne spotted you from outside,” said Augusta Betterson.

“Norman used to come here, didn’t he?” Marianne had a clear, intelligent face. Her nose was rather horsy, but her eyes were huge and lovely and dewy. Full of compassion.

“They all come here,” said Genevieve.

“Did you ever meet up with him here to talk about the magazine?”

“Once or twice.”

The two women glanced at each other.

“Did you sit at this table? With Norman, I mean?” asked Augusta.

“Perhaps. I don’t remember.”

“May we?” Augusta pulled out a chair and sat down. Marianne followed suit.

“We’ve been thinking,” said Marianne. “About what you said yesterday.”

“What did I say?”

“I told you his poetry was lost—that it’s not real until it’s on the page. But you said that maybe some of it is on the page. That it’s up to us to salvage it.”

Genevieve shrugged.

“Norman worked so hard on the magazine.” Augusta was softer than Marianne. She was older, and her face had a certain fleshiness to it. But something steely showed beneath. “And McAlmon too and all those writers. It would be such a shame for all that work to go to waste.”

“Ah.” Genevieve looked from one to the other. “You want my help. I’m sorry, but—”

“Think about it.” You could still see tear tracks on Augusta’s cheeks. “The poems and stories have all been delivered. And from some big names too. The editing is pretty much done.”

“It’s just the one issue,” said Marianne. “For now.”

Genevieve opened her mouth to speak, but Augusta cut in.

“This was your project as well as Norman’s. We’d appreciate any expertise you can offer.”

“Expertise…” She tried the word out on her tongue. It felt alien there. “That’s funny. Really, it’s very funny.”

But neither of them was laughing.