Recipe for a Broken Heart

Chapter.13

Chapter 13 — The Gala

The invitation arrived on a Thursday, tucked into an otherwise unremarkable stack of interoffice mail.

Rousseau Industries Canada — Fall Gala, Saturday evening, formal attire requested.

She was still turning the card over, faintly baffled, when Étienne appeared at her desk with the particular carefulness of someone bracing for a possible rejection.

"I would like you to come. As my guest. Not because you work here. Because I would like you there."

"Étienne, everyone will know exactly what that means."

"I am aware. I find, increasingly, that I do not much care who knows. I would rather people see the truth of it than continue pretending we are simply colleagues who happen to eat dinner together occasionally."

"That's a big step, for slowly."

"Slowly does not mean invisible, Camille. It only means careful." Something gentle and vulnerable crossed his face. "But if you are not ready, I understand completely."

She thought about her mother's words about safety being something you built rather than hid behind, and found herself nodding. "Okay. Yes. I'll come."

The smile that broke across his face was unguarded, boyish almost. "Good. I was somewhat nervous you would say no."

"You? Nervous?"

"More often than you would think, around you specifically."

Saturday arrived with a small crisis of confidence in front of her closet. It was her mother who solved it, producing a deep blue dress from the back of her own closet.

"Your father bought me this," her mother said quietly, smoothing the fabric. "Before everything fell apart. I never could bring myself to throw it out."

Camille studied her mother's reflection in the mirror, catching the flicker of old sadness. "Do you regret it? Marrying him."

"Some days. But then I look at you and your brother, and I can't regret much of anything that gave me the two of you." Her mother stepped back to admire her handiwork. "Now turn around."

The gala was held in a hotel ballroom downtown, chandeliers and string quartets, entirely unlike anything Camille had attended before. Étienne met her at the entrance, and the way his expression changed at the sight of her made the whole nervous ordeal worth it.

"You look extraordinary."

"You clean up fairly well yourself."

At one point, an older board member cornered them near the bar. "Rousseau! Didn't realize you'd brought a date. About time." He turned to Camille. "And you are?"

"Camille Bennett. I work in the Canadian office."

"Even better. Keep hold of this one, son." He wandered off, leaving Camille flushed and Étienne fighting a laugh.

"Please. One milestone at a time," she said.

It was during a slow song, past eleven, that he finally said what he'd been building toward. "I have wanted to do this for weeks now. I would like to stop being patient, if you will allow it."

"I think I'm finally ready to stop being patient too."

He kissed her there on the dance floor, and Camille felt two years of walls come down all at once.

"Well," he said, forehead against hers. "That was considerably less slow than I intended."

"I'm not complaining."

"Camille, this is not a small thing for me. I am not looking for something casual."

"I know. I'm not either. I was just scared to say it."

"Now I think I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."

He drove her home slowly. "What are you thinking about?" he asked at a red light.

"How different this feels from the last time I let myself hope for something like this. With David, hoping always felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop. This feels lighter."

"I intend to keep it that way, for as long as you will let me."

He walked her to the door and kissed her once more, unhurried. "Goodnight, Camille."

She let herself inside quietly and stood in the dark hallway, pressing her fingers to her lips. For the first time in two years, she climbed into bed without a single trace of the old dread that used to accompany hope — only something warm, steady, and entirely unafraid.