Page 73 of My Best French Wedding

That about summed it up.

It seemed fitting to seize this moment, on a train that was literally taking them back in time. He’d always been a sucker for a metaphor. It was an occupational hazard when your entire career was devoted to seeking out the narrative arcs in other people’s lives.

“I think I might be having a revelation,” he said.

“Right now?”

“I didn’t schedule it in advance.”

“We’re in acave, Walter.”

“So? Maybe it’s like a sensory deprivation chamber, focusing my understanding.”

She shoved him in the arm. “You do read my magazine! I knew it.”

“Occasionally.” Once a month, to be exact. From cover to cover.

“What is this so-called revelation about?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“If you can handle it, I can handle it.”

That was the rub: Walter wasn’t sure hecouldhandle exposing his tender insides to Hildy, without any clue how she was going to respond. He’d always known his anger with her was like a potholder he’d grabbed to keep from getting burned. It made a flimsybarrier between his conscious mind and a deeper truth, which was that his feelings about Hildy were more complicated than rivalry and resentment. Those other emotions had spilled over behind the coatrack, making Walter think he and Hildy might be on the same page, if they dug deep enough.

Only now, when it was too late to salvage his dignity, did it occur to him that he could have been deluding himself. Maybe for Hildy it was simple: Walter was a stone in her path, to be stepped on or kicked aside as the occasion required. What was the saying? When someone shows you who they are, believe them.

The problem was that he didn’t know which Hildy was real. Was she the impossibly charming girl who’d wrapped him around her little finger from their first hello, or the schemer who’d stabbed him in the back without a second thought? Talk about being in the dark.

“Just—forget it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, sure. No problem. You can lob a grenade at me, and I’ll pretend it never happened. That seems fair.” She shifted away from him. “I don’t understand you.”

“Join the club.” He could almost hear her frowning as she puzzled over that remark.

“Is this about the story?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you trying to soften me up?” she hissed, as if he were being deliberately obtuse.

“Soften you up for what?”

“Maybe you think I’ll just give it to you. The article,” she added, as if realizing how easily her words could be misconstrued.

“That would be a turnaround.”

“Excuse me?” Her tone made the chilly temperature inside the cave feel like a sauna. “What are you trying to do right now, Walter?”

It was a valid question. He wasn’t sure he had a good answer. “Turn back time?”

“Hate to break it to you, Cher, but that’s not possible. Take it from a woman who runs a lifestyle magazine. I am fully versed in all things antiaging.”

She was right, of course. They could never be that innocent again. Maybe the best he could hope for was to draw a curtain over the thornier parts of their past. Instead of forgiving and forgetting they could repress and compartmentalize. That sounded healthy.

The train trundled on, traveling deeper into the damp darkness. Between the sensory deprivation and the strangeness of the experience—the closest comparison Walter could think of was Space Mountain meetsThe Flintstones—there was a loopy unreality to the experience. France, the cave, a rickety retro train, the blanketing darkness, a silence broken only by the occasional contribution from their guide. It turned out you didn’t need the drugs to cut loose.

“You warned me about Maude and Loïc,” he said, because why stop now? But it was something he’d thought about afterward: the fact that she hadn’t tried to leverage a humiliating piece of information.