Page 114 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I consider calling Merrick to gloat. But then I think,No, I’m better than that. And I’m done with him.
Let him wander around LAX for a while, looking for me. Then he can call Aaron, frantic and angry. Afterward, Merrick will get online, full of self-righteous indignation that I dared defy him, ready to publish Sebastien’s dossier. But first he’ll have to spend hours with IT and customer service trying to get back into his accounts. And when he finally does, Merrick will open up the files on Sebastien…
Only to find his own filthy laundry, ready to be hung out to dry for the world to see if he ever tries anything on me again.
SEBASTIEN
When all the cheering diesdown, I finally get Helene on the phone by herself.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” she says. “And thanks for agreeing not to demolish Merrick’s and Aaron’s lives, even though they deserve it.”
“You’ve always had a soft heart. It’s one of the reasons I love you,” I say. “But are you all right? Truly?” I’m still wracked with guilt that I wasn’t there for her, that she had to go through all this alone.
“Truly,” Helene says. “The baby’s fine, too. She started doing cartwheels just now when she heard your voice.”
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whisper to our child.
“Ooh! There’s a kick. She misses you.” With all the Merrick mess behind us, Helene’s voice has shifted back to her usual buoyant melody. The soundtrack of my life.
“I miss you both, too. Let me come to you. Stay in Geneva, and I’ll be on the first flight I can.”
“Actually,” she says, “I have a better idea.”
“And what is that?”
“Let’s go home, Sebastien, where it all began. Will you meet me in Verona?”
HELENE
When my flight lands inVerona, there’s a voicemail from Merrick waiting for me.
“You win, Helene. I’m out. You can have it your way.”
There’s no snark to his voice, just resignation. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never heard Merrick so beaten, and it thrills me that I was the one to vanquish him.
The next voicemail is from Sandrine, confirming receipt of his signature on the divorce settlement papers.
I start to laugh, and I can’t stop. I am free of Merrick, once and for all, and I feel so light I could fly.
—
With a bakery box inhand, I walk down Verona’s cobblestone streets toward the hotel address Sebastien gave me over the phone. He arrived here before me, and my heart thumps in anticipation of being with him again.
I’ve seen pictures of Verona before, of course. What girl who plays Juliet in a school play hasn’t dreamed of visiting? But thetown is even more charming in person than online and in movies. The streets are narrow, and the colorful buildings on either side are so close the neighbors can chat with one another across the way. Flowers fill window boxes, and the winged lion that represents the former Venetian Republic appears atop columns, gazing down from archways, and even stamped into the sides of weathered brick buildings.
Outdoor cafés line every street and alley, and the tables and chairs are full of patrons having an afternoon espresso and pastry. I couldn’t resist and stopped into a bakery, too, to buy a box of chocolate hazelnut-filled cornetti. I haven’t had one since we left Alaska, and being in Italy now, it seems fitting. I hope Sebastien has coffee in his room.
I turn onto a small side street, and the hotel comes into view. Leave it to Sebastien to book rooms in what looks like a former manor. The three-story building is made of old, gray stone. Four grand arches support the building; the keystone in each archway features a marble bust of a man who must have been a notable past citizen of Verona. Princes or wealthy lords, maybe? The second story of the building is lined with French doors and columned balconies. The top floor boasts more windows, with a family crest etched into the stone above.
I walk right in front of the building to get a better look at the crest—it’s a wolf and two swords.
“Oh,” I gasp, because I recognize it from the descriptions in Sebastien’s journals. I haven’t seen it in this lifetime, but somewhere in the memory of my soul, I just know.
“The Montague crest,” I say to myself.
This isn’t a hotel. This is Sebastien’s house.
