The Last Time She Saw Him: A Novel

Prologue

YOU’RE REALLY PRETTY, HE TOLD HER. YOU KNOW THAT, don’t you?"

Though it was dark out, enough moonlight shone for her to see the sly grin that fanned across his face.

She smiled back. He was nice, courteous—chivalrous really. And, of course, good-looking, just as she’d always thought. But over the past few minutes, a dull throb of unease had begun to form in the pit of her stomach. At moments he seemed . . . too courteous, and always an inch closer to her than he needed to be.

Besides that, her head was spinning from the booze, not only the vodka he’d brought in a flask but the beer she’d drunk earlier. She’d sampled a few kinds from the microbrewery stands while she waited for him to show up.

She flicked her eyes to the right and squinted, trying to see through the thick cluster of trees they were standing in. There were bursts of colored lights, and she could still hear the noise from the fairgrounds—music, clanging, the roar and rattle of the roller coaster, and the muted screams of riders. But somehow, everything seemed farther away than even a few minutes ago.

The two of them had clearly drifted as they’d been talking, like twigs bobbing in a stream. She remembered him motioning ahead a couple of times, wanting to show her a constellation through the tree branches.

She breathed deeply, trying to force her thoughts to make sense of things.

I should get back, she said, the words sounding a little slurred to her ears.

Really? he asked. Why the rush?

For the first time she noticed the smell of alcohol on his breath, and she had to fight the urge to gag.

It’s, you know, getting late.

It’s not that late. Besides, I like having a chance to talk to you alone, without a ton of people around. I’ve wanted to get to know you for a while.

That was nice to hear, but this didn’t seem like the best way for them to find out more about each other. Maybe . . . maybe we could do something together one night.

Aren’t we doing something together now?

Yeah, I was just thinking we could have dinner. Or, like, see a movie.

She heard him snicker under his breath. You girls never like freebies, do you?

What do you mean? she said, feeling her brow crease.

"Women are always looking for a date date, aren’t they? But what’s wrong with having the woods to ourselves, not having to be part of any scene?"

I just— The throb of worry was back. She darted her gaze toward the right again, peering through the trees. Everything seemed so distant.

No, no, I get it, he said. And you’re right, we should go. Time to call it a night.

He stepped back a little, crunching a few twigs under his shoes and giving her some breathing room. She felt the tension drain from her shoulders. It was going to be okay.

She put one foot ahead of her and tried to see into the darkness. The only problem was that she had no idea how to find her way back to the gap in the fence that they’d slipped through to get to the woods.

Not that way, though, he said, pressing a hand lightly to her arm. There’s a faster way to reach the parking lot. That’s where your car is, right?

Yeah.

I’ll make sure you get to it.

Thanks.

He shifted his hand to her elbow, guiding her. She stumbled, almost falling flat on her face, but he caught her just in time.

You okay? he asked. Do you want to hold on to me?

No, I’m all right.

A piney scent rushed to her nostrils. They were snaking through trees now, a denser patch than where they’d been before, and the bursts of light were no longer visible. When she stretched her arm in front of her, she could barely see her hand.

You’re doing great, he told her from behind. It’s not much farther.

But I don’t see the parking lot.

We just keep bearing to the right and then it’s straight in front of us. You can’t quite tell from here because the lights are lower there.

Her thoughts seemed to swim in her head, struggling to stay above water.

Okay. But—

But, but, but.

There was an edge to his tone, and her heart froze.

Sorry, she said, trying to sound agreeable. I was just wondering.

You should wonder less, you know that?

That edge again, but stronger this time. Fear foamed through every inch of her. She had to do something, but what?

Yeah, I know, she said, struggling to keep her voice light.

She slowed her pace a tiny bit and strained to hear through the darkness. There was no more music, no clang of the rides, no engines starting.

Her fear mushroomed into full-blown panic. They were lost or headed the wrong way. She needed to get back to the gap in the fence.

Go, she told herself. Go now.

And then she was off, stumbling over rocks and branches and tree roots, blood pounding in her ears. Don’t stop running, she ordered herself.

But fast as a bang from a firecracker, his arm shot from behind and jerked her backward. His hand fumbled roughly around her face and then, before she could cry out, it clamped down hard against her mouth. Seconds later she was shoved forward until her body hit the ground, face forward, knocking the breath out of her.

1

I SHOULDN’T HAVE COME TO THE PARTY TONIGHT. I HAD SOME misgivings as soon as I accepted the invitation, and they only grew today as I drove from Manhattan and checked into the inn. Now, as I stand on the front stoop of my friend Ava’s house, the qualms are suddenly strong enough to make my stomach twist. It’s too soon for me to be here. It will be excruciatingly awkward. People will start buzzing the moment they spot me.

But there are reasons I had for coming, and since I’ve driven all this way, I’m going to have to suck it up and make the best of things.

It’s Ava who answers my knock, and she graciously ushers me into the foyer of her charming eighteenth-century house.

"Oh, Kiki, she says, embracing me warmly. I’m thrilled to see you, dear."

The feeling’s mutual, I exclaim, hugging her back. It’s so great to be here.

And in one sense, I’m totally sincere. I love this house, with its low, wood-beamed ceilings and endless warren of floral-scented rooms. More importantly I’ve really missed Ava, my former boss and mentor—and savior, too—who’s since become a good friend. I just have to tamp down the part of myself that wants to turn on my heel and flee.

Tonight should be fun, she says, beaming. We’ve had a great turnout.

Oh, that’s wonderful. Vic must be so pleased.

From the hum in the rooms behind us, I estimate that there are already twenty-five to thirty people here. I steal a glance through the door into the cream-colored parlor. Though it’s early August, most of the men are sporting navy blazers; the women are in flowy Eileen Fisher–style dresses or silky blouses over pants.

Have I overdone it, I wonder, in my short black cocktail dress? Not if I use Ava as a measure. She’s super elegant in cropped turquoise pants and a matching silk tunic that looks beautiful against her caramel-colored skin. Though there are crow’s-feet in the corners of her deep brown eyes, it’s hard to believe that she’s in her midfifties.

The bar is in the study, per usual, she says, and I think that’s where Vic is holding court at the moment. He’s dying to see you, Kiki.

Victor Davenport, a highly regarded historian and Ava’s husband of five years, is tonight’s guest of honor. His new book, a fresh look at the Salem witch trials, has just been published, and Ava decided to host a celebratory dinner party here at their home in Litchfield County, Connecticut.

I’ll go find him and say hello.

Good, and I’ll look for you later. Daphne’s already here, by the way, and she’s very eager to meet you.

Thank you, I say, giving an inner sigh of relief. Daphne is the other reason I talked myself into coming—and I’d be kicking myself if she hadn’t shown up for some reason.

And Jamie, I ask, lowering my voice, is he here yet?

Yes, Ava says, keeping her own voice close to a whisper. The last time I saw him, he was with a group in the solarium.

My breath hitches a little as I picture him only a few yards away from where I’m standing. Though he and I have spoken on the phone, it’s been more than four months since I’ve laid eyes on him, and it was a tense encounter to say the least.

You okay about this? she asks.

Yes, I’m fine, thanks.

Good, she says with an empathetic nod. And just so you’re aware, there’s a woman with him.

Yup, he told me he was bringing someone. That’s okay, too.

The doorbell rings and Ava gives my arm a comforting squeeze before turning to greet her next guests. I inhale deeply, then make my way through the parlor to the study. Candles are burning everywhere, creating the amber glow I so associate with this house at nighttime. Though I’ve always found that glow enchanting, there’s an odd, melancholy cast this evening. At least to me.

The pewter-gray, bookshelf-lined study is even more crowded with guests than the parlor. Knowing I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner, I ask the bartender for a sparkling water. As I fish out the lemon slice he’s dropped in the drink, I let my eye roam the room discreetly. From what Ava had told me, the crowd tonight is a mix of local friends and people from the book world, some of whom have driven out from the city for the occasion, and others who live in the area either full-time or on weekends.

I didn’t see Vic when I first entered the room, but I spot him now against the far wall of bookshelves, talking intently to a bespectacled fortyish man with a closely cropped beard and mustache, who I’m pretty sure is his agent, Dan. Probably best not to interrupt right this second. Unlike most of his male guests, Vic has opted for jeans along with a white linen shirt. He’s a rule breaker of sorts, something Ava seems to find beguiling. In so many ways, they are an improbable pair—him a sixtysomething, sometimes edgy, somewhat pretentious, twice-divorced author/lecturer/retired professor, and her a warm, inclusive, even-tempered former head of HR for a midsize media company, who’d never married before.

And there’s also the fact that Vic is white, and Ava is Black. But after meeting five and a half years ago at another dinner party, they discovered that, despite how different their backgrounds are, they have a chemistry most people would kill for.

With a start I notice that Jamie’s best friend, Sam, is in the room, but there’s no sign of Jamie yet. Perhaps he’s still in the solarium. I take another long, deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. How’s it going to feel, I wonder for the hundredth time this week, to run into the man I almost married in June—and to see him with another woman, no less?

When the invitation for the party appeared in my inbox, I knew Jamie must have been invited, too. He’d been renting a small weekend cottage in the area for years—it’s where he’d spent summers with his parents as a kid—and he and Vic, despite their age gap, had eventually become tennis buddies. Then I entered Jamie’s life a couple of years ago and started spending weekends here, too. It was pure luck that Vic’s wife happened to be a good friend of mine, and it meant that I could spend more time with Ava, something that had been tough to do since she retired early to take up residence with Vic here in the countryside, leaving New York behind.

Though I hated having to send my regrets for the party, I decided it was best, but when I called Ava to RSVP, she explained Jamie had a business trip scheduled for the week of the party—he runs a small money management company specializing in socially responsible investing—and wouldn’t be coming. Then count me in, I’d told her, delighted. Days later she emailed to say that Jamie’s business trip had been canceled and he was coming after all. She would understand if I changed my mind.

But by then, I was invested in coming, in the chance to be back, if only for a little while, in that magical world that Ava had created with Vic. Besides, she’d since promised to introduce me to a literary agent friend who was spending the summer in the area and would be attending the party. I’d confided in Ava that I’d been hammering out a proposal for a nonfiction book based on my work as a career coach, and she thought this agent might be interested in it.

And since there was a good chance I’d eventually run into Jamie in New York anyway, I convinced myself it would be smart to rip off the Band-Aid sooner rather than later.

"Kiki."

I spin around and find myself face-to-face with Tori Larsson, the wife of Jamie’s first cousin Liam, and not someone I’d expected to encounter. She’s wearing an attractive beige shift, but the only makeup on her face is a brownish-pink lipstick, and her long, wheat-colored hair is tucked simply behind her ears. Tori, who like her husband is close to fifty, isn’t one to fuss with her appearance.

Tori, hello, this—

I know, you’re probably surprised to see me here, she interrupts and then, a few beats later, smiles wanly. Tori’s always had what I think of as a delayed smile, as if it takes her brain a few seconds to remind her face to do it. Ava joined the library board, and since I’ve been helping her out with the fundraiser, we’ve gotten to know each other a little.

How nice that you two have the chance to work together, I tell Tori sincerely. By the way, thanks again for your email. It meant a lot to me.

She’d sent me a note after Jamie and I broke up, saying she was sorry to hear the news and wishing me well. It was more than what most people had done—and more than I’d expected from Tori. Though we’ve always gotten on well enough, she’s generally pretty reserved and plays her cards close to the vest.

Well, I’m sure it wasn’t an easy time for you, she says. Are you doing okay?

Pretty well. I’ve been busy with work, so that helps.

It doesn’t slow down for you during the summer?

The corporate training assignments do because people are on vacation, but not the private coaching. By midyear people start to worry that they’re not where they’d hoped to be, and they want to hit the ground running in the fall.

Why aren’t they where they’d hoped to be? she asks, her dark eyes narrowed.

Ah, good question. Generally, because they either got complacent or kept waiting for the perfect moment instead of making that moment happen. Speaking of work, are you still enjoying yours at the library?

She’s a library assistant, a job she started just a year or so ago after being out of the workforce for a while. Jamie told me that she’d once been in real estate but had quit several years ago, saying she needed a break. Had the reason been more complicated than that? I’d wondered. Sometimes I’ve sensed that Tori’s reserve masks a deep disappointment over the way things turned out for her. That perhaps she isn’t where she hoped to be at this point in her life.

It’s a job, she replies with a shrug. And as you said, it’s nice working with Ava.

How’s Liam? And Taylor? He’s living in Fort Myers, right?

I’ve met her son, Taylor—who must be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight by now—just once, at a family reunion, and I know that after dropping out of college, he struggled to find a career path.

Well, actually—that’s where he lived for the first three years, but he moved closer to Miami last summer. He’s teaching at a really nice sailing school there.

I can almost feel the relief in her words.

Wow, that’s great. Didn’t he used to teach sailing around here during the summers?

Tori nods. As for Liam, he’s actually here tonight, too, she adds. He’s not generally a fan of parties, but he knew I wanted to come. She raises the glass of red wine she’s holding. Which reminds me, I promised to bring him a drink before he goes outside for a cigarette.

I hope I have a chance to say hi to him later. Though I wasn’t any closer to Liam than I was to Tori, things were always cordial between us.

I’m sure you will. By the way, she adds, lowering her voice, you know Jamie’s here, right?

Yes. The two of us cleared it with each other, don’t worry.

As she moves away, I follow her with my eyes until I see her join Liam in the hallway outside the study. Unlike Jamie, who was raised in Boston and spent weekends and a big part of the summer here with his parents as a kid, Liam grew up in the area. He joined the army for a few years instead of attending college and now runs a local plywood distribution company. Though Liam is reserved like his wife and a straight-arrow kind of guy, Jamie is fond of him. They both lost their fathers within the past ten years—Liam’s of cancer and Jamie’s in a car crash—and they share a special bond with their fathers’ surviving brother, Drew, an artist who lives in Litchfield County, too.

Tori touches Liam’s elbow and I see him mouth thank you as he accepts the wine. When he and Jamie are standing side by side, it’s easy to accept that they’re cousins. Not by their physiques—where Jamie’s tall and slim, Liam’s only about five nine, and super compact—but they’ve got the same deep blue eyes and dark blond hair.

I’m just turning back to the bar, ready for another sparkling water, when I hear Jamie’s voice behind me. I actually gulp at the sound.

Sure, he’s saying. I could play Saturday, but also any weekday. I’m actually here for most of August.

He seems to be scheduling a tennis game, and though my back is to him, I can see him clearly in my mind’s eye—the pale eyebrows, strong nose, high cheekbones, and those lovely eyes. He was by far the handsomest man I’d ever dated. I picture his body, too, probably very tanned by this point in the summer.

We’ve had only two brief conversations since our split in March. The first one, in May, was when he’d called me to say his fourteen-year-old golden retriever, Cody, had died, and he thought I’d want to know. I’d loved that dog and had been grateful to Jamie for reaching out. The call had also struck me as a possible olive branch.

I was the one who made the first move the next time, explaining that I’d been invited to Vic’s party and asking if he’d mind if I attended. He assured me it was fine. Besides, he’d said. You’ve known Ava even longer than I’ve known Vic.

I twist my head the tiniest bit, doing my best not to seem obvious. He’s talking to a local professor pal of Vic’s. His best friend, Sam, is nearby, chatting with Tori, who’s come back into the room. And there’s a woman hovering not far from Jamie, dressed in a low-cut royal blue cocktail dress. His date, I assume. She’s hazel-eyed like me, with blond hair, too, though not as light as mine, and she’s probably in her early thirties, which means she’s five or six years younger than I am. Her features are sharp, angular, and her face seems to be frozen in a pout, like she’s not pleased with how the night’s progressing.

Glad to hear you’re giving yourself some time up here this summer, the professor says. Surely your clients won’t hold that against you.

Oh, there’ll be a fair number of Zooms, I’m sure, I hear Jamie reply. But I intend to take plenty of afternoons off.

What will you do when you’re not playing tennis with old farts like me? the professor asks with a chuckle.

Jamie chuckles, too. Mostly, I want to read a lot, bike a lot, perfect my pomodoro sauce, and learn more about the Norwegian side of my family, which my dad always swore is descended from Vikings.

Are you thinking of going to Norway one day?

Yeah, maybe in February, so I can get a look at the northern lights. I also . . .

Two guests, chatting loudly, squeeze in next to me to reach the bar, and I don’t hear what Jamie says next. But I’ve learned all I need to know. Jamie’s making plans, staying busy. He’s moved on.

The crowd shifts slightly again, reconfiguring like pieces at the end of a kaleidoscope. And then suddenly Jamie and I are face-to-face. He pulls in his breath, perhaps more unnerved than he anticipated at the sight of me.

Hello, Jamie, I say.

Hi, he says. He smiles pleasantly but there’s a distinct coolness to his tone. His hair, I notice, is shorter than when I saw him in March.

How’s your summer going? I ask.

Pretty well. Yours?

Okay. I’ve been in the city mostly, hanging out on the roof garden when I can.

It’s nice your building has that, he says flatly.

What’s he really thinking? That if we were still together, I’d be spending every weekend here with him and taking advantage of the summer weather, rather than baking on the tar beach of a midrise apartment building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan?

How’s your grandmother these days? I ask.

That’s another reason Jamie feels committed to Litchfield County. His grandmother on his father’s side, an awe-inspiring retired pediatrician, is in assisted living not far from here and suffering from advancing Alzheimer’s.

I just saw her today as a matter of fact, he says. Her short-term memory is even worse, but if you get her talking about the distant past, she can still engage.

I’m glad you’ve found a way to connect with her.

I notice his date again, edging a little closer to us, but he makes no move to introduce us. With a start, I realize that she’s not the only one who is watching us. So are some of the other guests in the room. They’ve probably heard about the breakup and, just as I expected, are eager to see if we’ll behave ourselves.

And then it occurs to me. Some of them probably assume I’m the jilted party, left at the altar by a catch like Jamie Larsson. They wouldn’t necessarily know that I’m the one who called off the wedding.

If you’ll excuse me, Jamie says. I promised Vic I’d help open the wine before dinner so it can have a few minutes to breathe.

Of course, I say. As he strides off, his friend Sam shoots me a withering glance.

I slip out of the study through the door near the bar and end up wandering the house for a few minutes, trying to get a handle on my emotions. The encounter was stilted, unnerving for me on one level, especially the rubbernecking from the other people in the room, but Jamie seems to be doing pretty well. Though it’s hard to imagine us ever being the kind of friends who grab a beer after work, at least I didn’t see open loathing on his face.

After passing the entrance to the solarium, an addition built a few years ago, I find myself in the small mudroom at the rear of the house, where the door to the backyard is wide open. The pegs along the walls hold barn jackets, slickers, scarves, and well-worn cardigans.

What I need, I realize, is a short break outside. I give the screened door a push and step onto the flagstone patio, where I’m greeted by a cacophony of crickets and katydids. I tip my head back and stare up at the sparkly night sky, and almost instantly the tension in my shoulders begins to subside.

I’m just about to go back in for dinner when I hear a voice coming from the mudroom.

You doing all right? I’m pretty sure the speaker is Jamie’s friend Sam.

Yeah, hanging in there. He’s talking to Jamie, I realize. The two of them must be right on the other side of the door, only inches away. Feels like a fucked-up situation for me but it would have been rude to Vic not to come.

A voice in my head tells me to move away, that I won’t like where the conversation is going, but curiosity gets the better of me.

So, she just showed up?

Yeah, even though she knew I didn’t want her here.

My stomach tightens. Jamie had assured me it would be fine.

"Anything you can