They’d spent a good part of Wallace’s trip together, as well as his next trip, and the next, and the next. He had taken things very slowly. Meili was young. He knew very little about her, nor she about him. They purposely kept it that way, right down to not exchanging last names. It made the whole relationship more magical, more isolated from the rest of the world.
None of it mattered anyway. All that mattered was the solace and the joy they brought each other.
She had told him merely that she was an only child, a budding artist, and that she’d left home to build her career. Other than two paintings she’d hocked for cash—including the one that had resulted in their meeting, she was living hand to mouth, working fervently on her painting. In return, he’d told her that he was an investment banker who had frequent business dealings in Hong Kong.
And he’d told her one other thing, right up front. He’d told her that he was married. He couldn’t live with himself if he hadn’t. She’d accepted it. She knew he was hers only when he was here. She didn’t care. She just wanted him. And, God help him, he wanted her.
Right or wrong, they’d gotten involved. Wallace had told her their meeting was pure fate. Meili had teasingly informed him that it had been pure manipulation—genius on her part. Desperate to sell the Rothberg, she’d spent long hours scrutinizing Hong Kong’s upscale art galleries. She’d seen Wallace visit three or four of them on several occasions. Recognizing that he was an affluent art collector, she’d bribed his driver to tell her what hotel Wallace was staying at.
She’d arrived ahead of him, and waited in the lobby with her painting and high hopes.
Wallace had chuckled at her creative ingenuity. So that was how she knew who and where he was. But it had still brought her into his life. And he’d treasured every moment they shared.
That was a million years ago.
Yet, with the exception of Sophie, for whom he felt a paternal love that was in a class by itself, Meili was the last person who’d made him feel alive, vital, and needed. Their affair had lasted three years, and it had ended because he was a stupid, insensitive fool. Countless times he’d thought of going back and trying to undo what he’d done. But what was the point? Even if he ended his marriage, he had a beloved daughter who needed him. And Meili refused to leave Hong Kong. Ultimately, there could be no future for them. It was up to Wallace to let her move on, make a life for herself, and find a man who could truly commit to her.
For so long, he had missed her. Whatever fragments of a marriage he and Beatrice still had had shattered when Sophie died, and their divorce was finalized six months later. If he hadn’t been a totally broken man who had nothing left inside him to give, he might have flown back to China to see if he could find Meili and make things right.
But he was an empty shell, capable of nothing except burying himself in the memories of his precious daughter. So his thoughts of Meili faded into the past.
Studying Cindy now, Wallace was still amazed by the remarkable resemblance she bore to Meili, both in appearance and in mannerisms. Had Meili not been an only child, the two of them could be sisters. True, the similarities were purely physical. Their personalities, ambitions, and sophistication were day and night. Still, there was something in Cindy’s eyes, in her gestures, in the way her face lit up when she was excited, that was a stirring reminder of Meili.
Interestingly, the differences Cindy encompassed were as compelling as the similarities. Her poise, her sophistication, and her professional drive—they created an equality for him that had never been there with Meili. Plus, now he was divorced, with no marriage to save.
“Mr. Johnson?” Peggy’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you all right?”
Wallace regained his composure as quickly as possible. “Yes, of course. I was just thinking how proud of Cindy her uncle will be.”
“I agree.” Peggy nodded. “He expects great things of her. And with your help, I know she won’t disappoint him.”
“I doubt Cindy could disappoint anyone.” Even as Wallace spoke, he felt a twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
It might be the nostalgia. It might be the extraordinary likeness to Meili.
On the other hand, it might be something more.
Ben sat on the bar stool, shoulders slumped, tie and dress shirt damp and disheveled. Outside, horns honked, taxis whizzed by, and cars crammed the intersections trying to navigate their way through Manhattan. It was hard to believe that rush hour had ended hours ago.
Some things stayed the same. Some things changed.
It had been a half hour, and Ben was already craving his next drink. Four years of sobriety shot to hell. This whole fiasco had pushed him over the edge and off the wagon.
The situation sucked. And he was a prisoner to it.
Even the booze wasn’t enough. He was drowning. And he no longer gave a damn.
If it weren’t for his children and grandchildren, he’d just let the riptide take him under. He’d sink into oblivion, let go of life, of guilt, of debt. It would put an end to the agony.
“What can I get you?” The bartender walked over, drying a glass and giving Ben a questioning look.
“Scotch. Straight. Make it a double.”
“Tough day?” the bartender asked.
The truth in the question almost made Ben laugh. “Yeah.”
“One double scotch, coming up.” The bartender turned away to do his job. At least the guy caught on. Ben didn’t want to talk about his problems. He wanted to drown them in liquor.