“Au revoir, monsieur,” I say as I push open the brass-and-glass door. After six months of coming here almost every day, I’ve merited something resembling a smile in return.
The Parisians cannot be accused of being overly friendly. When we moved into our apartment in a large nineteenth-century building, no one brought muffins. None of Cole’s schoolmates’ parents have invited me for coffee or to hot yoga.
“Aren’t the French unfriendly?” I heard Caitlin ask Mark on one of their Skype calls.
I wanted to poke my face in front of the laptop camera and say, “Yes. Wonderfully unfriendly.”
I relish the anonymity.
I have been gingerly dipping my toe back into the photography business—a few portraits and headshots here and there, mostly expats. Recently, the wife of a colleague of Mark’s—an Australian writer—asked me to do a headshot for her new book.
Mark and I walk up the rue de Sèvres, Cole running ahead and then back like a dog who doesn’t want to lose us. We are discussing whether we should rent a car or take the train up to Normandy when Aunt Caitlin and Uncle Charles come.
They will be here next week, our first visitors, although they will stay in a hotel on the opposite bank of the River Seine. Every six months seems like a nice amount of time between visits with Mark’s family.
But I will never forget that I am in her debt. It was her private investigator who found everyone in our house thanks to the tracking device on my car.
That’s something. Not love exactly, but something.
Mark and I wrote her a simple thank-you on thick, cream-colored stationery, and she and I have never spoken of it since.
We stop at the greengrocer, where I watch as Mark and the proprietor engage in a detailed conversation about which potatoes to buy. The man wants to know when Mark plans to cook them, and how, before he can select the best ones for us. I watch the exchange, filled with gratitude. Over the past few months, we’ve had our share of tear-filled conversations and apologies, but they’ve recently petered out.
Mark turns and asks me what the word for roasted is in French.
“Rôti,” I say. We are both working to improve our French, struggling to be understood.
As the three of us head back to our apartment, we pass a man with auburn hair. He reminds me of Paul Adamson, and for a moment, a wave of emotion washes over me. I make room for that little voice, not the one that has chided me for years—a new one I have been nurturing. This voice does not blame me. This voice comforts me.
It wasn’t your fault, it says, soothing me like a mother nursing a wounded child. You did not set all these terrible events in motion. You were a victim, too.
Mark hands me the shopping bag as he punches in the security code to our building. I don’t hold any grudges against Mark. I wish he had never suggested rehab, but now that I’ve had time to think about it, I might have done the same.
Wishing things were different has cost me so much—time, energy, peace of mind. I’m trying to break that habit and to form a new one: forgiving. Not only Mark but Krystle and Sharon, too. I’m learning to release a lifetime of grudges and hurts. Forgiveness is not a luxury but a necessity. Forgiveness is the backbone of love. And love makes life bearable.
I hope that one day, my turn will come and I will forgive myself.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While writing can be a solitary endeavor, getting a book into the world is not, and I Don’t Forgive You would not have been possible without the hard work and support of so many people.
My deepest thanks go to my agent, Katie Shea Boutillier, to my editor, Kristin Sevick, and to everyone at Forge/Macmillan for their generous support and hard work on this book’s behalf.
I am indebted to early readers who gave me needed feedback and support—Anne Brewer, Rebecca Title Aretsky, and Julie Coe.
Thank you to my real-life book club—Melissa Grady Pearce, Karen Amatangelo-Block, Chiara Scotti, Janelle Wong, Jackie Mesa, and Valerie Parker—none of whom are secretly trying to murder one another, as far as I know.
Thank you to Fred Brown, who since childhood has fostered within me the insatiable twin passions of reading and writing.
To Assistant U.S. Attorney Steven Snyder and Dana Rice of Compass Realty—thank you both for being generous enough to take the time to provide insight into your professions.
Finally, I am eternally grateful to my loving and patient family, especially my husband, John Thompson: you are not just one of the greatest line editors of all time—your generous spirit lifted me when I was low, and your steadfast confidence in me, and in this book, carried me across turbulent waters. I will love you forever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Before turning to fiction, AGGIE BLUM THOMPSON covered real-life crime as a newspaper reporter for a number of papers, including The Boston Globe and The Washington Post. Thompson is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers, and serves as the program director for the Montgomery County chapter of the Maryland Writers’ Association. For the past nine years, she’s lived with her husband and two daughters in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., which has afforded her a front-row view of suburban intrigues and helicopter-mom Olympics. I Don’t Forgive You is her debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Tom Doherty Associates ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter
