It makes me think of the man I knew as Marcus, a man I loved, one I forgave, when his first betrayal really should have set me to asking questions about him, about myself. But there’s no point looking back in regret.
ON MY WAY back home from meeting the detective, I stopped at the post office box I maintained but which I hadn’t visited in months. I knew it would be packed with junk and fliers and maybe one or two important items, like invitations to conferences and maybe a fan letter or two. But I figured I should check it, get back into some of my old routines, let normalcy return.
I used my key to unlock the box and pulled out the mass of paper that was crammed in there, tossing most of it into the recycle bin, as it was, indeed, the predicted junk. I retained the envelopes with handwriting on the front and stuffed them into my bag. I peered inside one more time before closing the door and saw a small brown box, all the way in the back. I reached for it and held it in my hand. There was no return address.
DOWNSTAIRS JACK IS still hammering. I open the drawer in the desk and take out the box. I’ve been keeping it there but haven’t told anyone about it. Not even Jack. Not even Linda. I lift the lid and hold the ruby ring between my thumb and index finger.
I think I know what it means. I don’t have to write it, make it up. I think it means he would have loved me if he could. That’s what he wanted me to know. I feel a twinge in my abdomen, the wound that hasn’t yet had time to heal. I look into the fire of the red stone and remember how he left me to die, slowly, alone, and in terrible agony in a cold, strange place. If it hadn’t been for Jack getting to the police, for Detectives Breslow and Crowe figuring out where Marc was staying, I’d be dead. I remember Rick’s shirt that last time I saw him:
Kristof Ragan set his sights on another woman after me. Her name was Martina Nevins. I heard it on the news, had seen her interviewed, a wealthy British heiress who’d lost her fiance a few years earlier and had been despondent since then. She was celebrating the holidays with her family in Prague. She’d have been Kristof’s next mark. She had the look about her. The fragility of loss. The vulnerability of hope.
He might have given her the ring, said to her what he said to me, “This is my heart. I’m giving it to you. I’d die for you.”
Instead he sent it back to me. And I’ll keep it to remember that love is what we do, not what we say. That not everyone has the strength or the ability to love another, or even himself. And that some of us have a secret heart that cannot be shared.
I close the lid on my laptop and take the ring down to Jack. I want him to see it. I want him to know what it means to me and how it has helped me to understand Kristof Ragan, my father, and myself. Because I want Jack to share his heart with me. But I think that to ask him to do that, I have to share mine first.
He turns from the tall shelves he is building-an effort I recognize as his act of hope-when he hears me come into the room. I hold the ring in my palm and show it to him. He takes it with a frown and holds it up to the light, then looks back at me. There’s worry on his face.
“Where did this come from?”
I tell him.
“What are you going to do with it?
I tell him that, too. I think he understands. He puts his strong, thick arms carefully around me and leans down, brings his mouth gently, tentatively to mine. We share our first kiss since the night we spent together a lifetime ago.
There’s no why to Jack, no questions to answer, no curiosity to satisfy. He is not a mystery, not a stranger. He is my dearest, most beloved friend. My sister thinks that is enough for a start. And she is, as always, so right.
Author’s Notes
This book might not have been written if I hadn’t had the opportunity to visit Prague for five weeks in the summer of 2007. My family and I embarked on a home exchange with a lovely Czech family and spent five weeks wandering the streets of Prague, one of the most magnificent cities I have visited. I was truly inspired by its winding cobblestone rues, its hidden squares, grand buildings, and aura of mystery. If you haven’t been there, go. If you have, go again.
During my visit, I was fortunate enough to meet the acclaimed screenwriter and poet James Ragan. A Czech who returns every summer to teach at St. Charles University, James showed me his city, taking me places I never would have known to go without him, telling me about its evolution since the fall of communism. He and his lovely family embraced us and enriched our experience more than they might have guessed. His wonderful book of poetry
I was also welcomed to Prague by the talented team at my Czech publisher, Euromedia Group. Denisa Novotna, the PR manager, was a smart, funny, and lovely woman who endured my many questions, while arranging a stunning lineup of media interviews. During my stay, I was on television and radio and had multiple newspaper interviews-which caused me to learn how to get around the city by taxi, subway, and on foot. There’s really no better way to get acquainted with a strange place (where you can hardly speak a word of the language!) than to insist that you can get yourself around without help-and then prove it.
Through one my law enforcement connections, I had the opportunity to share a few hours with a CIA agent who has spent many years in the Czech Republic and has an intimate knowledge of Prague since the Velvet Revolution and the fall of communism. His anecdotes and information heavily influenced my imaginings. I am not at liberty to reveal his name.
I also relied on
All mistakes I have made, liberties I have taken, and geographic alterations committed in the name of narrative flow are my own.
Acknowledgments
With every novel it gets more difficult to acknowledge the people who contribute to my process, as my web of supporters seems to grow and expand each year. What did I do to deserve them? I don’t know. But I will take this opportunity to shower them with praise.
My husband, Jeffrey Unger, and our daughter, Ocean Rae, are the glimmering center of my universe. Every day they inspire and nourish me, make me think, make me laugh, and keep me grounded in reality. In my daughter’s wide blue eyes, I see the whole world. My husband holds that world together. I wouldn’t be the writer I am or the person I am without them.
My stellar agent, Elaine Markson, and her wonderful assistant, Gary Johnson, are more than business associates; they are my close and dear friends. Each day they provide something invaluable to my life and to my career, even if it’s just a chat on the phone about nothing in particular. They take care of me. I count on them in more ways than I can begin to list. So, this one’s for you, Elaine!
Special Agent Paul Bouffard (Ret.) and his wife, Wendy Bouffard, offer so much more than their wonderful friendship and beer on tap. They give me a space to write when I need it. Paul remains my source for all things legal and illegal, continuing to field every question, no matter how bizarre or inane, with equanimity and keen interest. And Wendy gave invaluable insights during her read of this manuscript. I am truly blessed by their presence in our lives. They also have two nice cats-Freon and Fenway.
A home like Crown/Shaye Areheart Books is every writer’s dream, full of intelligent, creative, passionate people who really care about books. Shaye Areheart is a truly brilliant editor and one of the most wonderful and loving people I have known. Jenny Frost has offered her continuing support and enthusiasm and seems to forever be coming up with new and wonderful ways to get more copies out into the world. I also offer my humble thanks to Philip Patrick, Jill Flaxman, Whitney Cookman, David Tran, Patricia Shaw, Jie Yang, Jacqui LeBow, Andy Augusto,
