Chapter 13
Maggie’s driver looked at her in the rear view mirror, presuming that she was daft when she asked him to take the longest route possible. Before she picked up Cindy, she wanted to have her mind in the right place, repositioned into her new way of being. So far, everything that she had done to change herself had been failures in one way or another. Each experience was an opportunity to learn something new, and she had faced some tough lessons in the past few weeks. Analyzing her life, Maggie saw a series of tactical retreats that had not gotten her very far. Tonight, she would charge straight ahead, take the opposite approach and hope for better results.
“Thanks for the lift,” Cindy said as she climbed into the rented car.
Maggie had essentially begged the young woman to come along so that she would not have to stroll into the party by herself. She needed more confidence than she possessed, even more than she gained by wearing her sexiest lingerie. When the driver announced that their next stop was the Harcourt residence near Duke Street, Maggie asked him to swing by Park Lane, which she had not seen yet. Postponing the inevitable a bit longer, she explained that she wanted to look at the Marble Arch and Hyde Park. On the verge of babbling, she checked her run-on sentences and took a deep breath. She could do this, attend Trevor’s party, and she would have fun in the process. If all her other plans fell through, she would at least enjoy the rest of the evening.
Somewhere during the course of the evening, she would say good-bye to Ciaran, and she would do her best to follow Kay’s advice. The fine art of the hook-up had been explained in detail, and Maggie reviewed the steps in her mind, prepared to snag a partner before the night was over.
“You know, if you make other arrangements to go home, I won’t be offended,” Maggie said. “Jealous, yes, but not offended.”
“And if you don’t go home tonight, I’ll be fine on my own,” Cindy said, giving Maggie a friendly wink.
They shared the gossip from the movie set as they rode through the city, discussing the finer points of the key grip while complaining about men in general. Tied up in a snarl of traffic, the car slowed to a crawl. To pass the time, Maggie reflected on her impressions of a widow’s life, a world that she was not prepared to enter at her age, and a status that she was going to ignore tonight. In return, Cindy shared a confidence about Ciaran and the night that she longed to forget, since Ciaran had forgotten it so readily. There was alcohol involved, coupled with an assumption on her part that proved to be as false as his promise to call. The more Cindy confessed, the more Maggie reconsidered her plans to pick up a sex toy. The whole idea sounded increasingly degrading, in spite of Kay’s promises of no strings attached pleasure.
“Here we are,” Cindy said as the car pulled up to a stop.
“Oh, my, Cindy, this house is absolutely magnificent,” Maggie gasped. The limestone steps, chiseled about two hundred years ago, climbed to the second floor, which had been the main living area of the home’s first well-heeled residents. An unassuming door at street level, tucked discreetly off to the right side of the stairs, went into the kitchen, to the downstairs that was once used only by the hired help. The entire façade was made of limestone and brick, with tall windows that hinted at the grand height of the ceilings. From inside, the glow of lamps illuminated the panes, casting a warm radiance on the front of the house, inviting Maggie to come inside and find a welcome. She climbed the stairs and ran her hand along the carved molding of the grand entryway, made of thick heavy English oak that had been carefully varnished to protect the wood. It was like stepping back in time, to go into this house, because everything had been restored, from the carpets on the floor to the draperies that hung in the windows.
“Don’t you have neighborhoods like this in Chicago?” Cindy asked.
“When this place was built, Cindy, Chicago was a swamp and the Pottawatomie were living in teepees, hunting buffalo on the prairie.”
An impressive chandelier, its lights polished to a diamond sheen, hung in the foyer where it cast sparkles of light on the inlaid marble floor and the white-painted wood trim. Maggie found herself gazing in awe at the center of the floor, a true work of art by an ancient stonemason. A maid took their coats and handbags, leaving the two guests to find their own way around because their host was back in the kitchen, making one last inspection of the catered offerings. Cindy knew the drill, and she guided Maggie through the opened double doors on the right, leading her into what was once called the drawing room. Already, the place was buzzing with the early arrivals, the hum of conversation mixing joyously with bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses.
Like a wide-eyed tourist Maggie admired the wallpaper, a Regency pattern done up in shades of blue. The woodwork was painted white, which was the theme for the first floor, and the few upholstered pieces in the room picked up the blues of the wallpaper, creating a very beautiful room. Although most of the furniture had been removed to a downstairs storeroom to create more space for the guests, it was still apparent from the remaining overstuffed chairs and love seat that this was a very comfortable place, a gentle hint of modern living in the old home.
“And here is Ciaran’s merry widow.” Maggie heard a man’s voice and found the source, a handsome young man with a mop of brown curls. He was standing near the fireplace, leaning on the heavy oak mantle while caressing the neck of a beer bottle. He was hanging around with another gentleman of similar age and a similar stare, as if they were waiting for her arrival. Almost in unison, they nodded at her and smiled, looking very much like friends of Ciaran Doyle, close mates who knew every detail of every minute she had spent with a man who had probably never been turned down by a woman before.
“Well worth the twenty minute wait, Derek,” the mop-top said, checking his watch as he adjusted his pose.
“I’d live to give her one myself,” Derek said, a note of admiration in his voice. With one hand, he self-consciously checked his tie and then smoothed down the front of his tuxedo shirt. Shooting his cuffs, he began to step towards her, adopting some sort of British secret agent panache for his grand entrance into the scene. Out of nowhere Ciaran appeared, his face lighting up at the sight of Maggie.
Since he had talked to his mother on Sunday, Ciaran had developed a very deep respect for Maggie. Old Mrs. Doyle had been praying that her youngest child would finally settle down and raise a family, and she asked him about his chances every time they spoke. She knew all about Maggie, after her son called on the very day that he met the American woman, called to tell her all about the descendant of Irish immigrants who was a practicing Catholic. Does she love you, was all Mrs. Doyle asked when Ciaran freely admitted his feelings for Maggie. And after Maggie refused his offer, he looked to his mother for solace and advice, talking to her for over an hour on Sunday.
It took that long for Mrs. Doyle to explain to her son what Maggie had done for him, that the woman had made a sacrifice of her personal happiness for Ciaran’s sake. There was no rejection, as Ciaran was bemoaning, for Maggie had not rejected her son at all. “Maggie knows what joy a child brings to its father,” Mrs. Doyle had sternly told him, “and she wants that for you, even if it means giving you up to someone else.” Such a difficult thing to explain, because a woman’s heart did not beat like a man’s, but Mrs. Doyle told her youngest boy to get down on his knees and thank God that he met someone who would do the right thing for him. He was heartbroken now, and that was to be expected, but he would find a lifetime of happiness later, greater joy than he would have found with Maggie for a week. The American widow understood that, even if Ciaran did not, and that was why she had turned him down, despite the longing that was tugging at the heart of the young widow. “So easy, Ciaran, so easy for a lonely woman to fall into a man’s arms,” Mrs. Doyle had stressed, “and she may not have wanted to turn you away, but she had to.”
“Maggie, come and meet my mates,” Ciaran said as he hurried to her side, grabbing three glasses of champagne from the waiter passing by. He held them out to the ladies and then put a hand on Cindy’s back, guiding her towards the fireplace with a gesture that was part protective and part possessive. “You know them already, Cindy, come and chat them up out of sympathy for two such dullards.”
Down in the ground floor kitchen, Trevor was nervously examining every dish that the caterer had prepared, probing and poking until he was satisfied that everything was perfect for Maggie. All his ridiculous fussing had driven Callista back upstairs to the party to mingle with the guests, abandoning her father as he impatiently demanded to see every concoction that was free of meat.
“Was he this absurd when he was dating Mum?” Callista asked Nigel.
“His anxiety had increased exponentially while his age has increased only linearly,” Nigel summed it up. “But then your mother was never photographed with Ciaran Doyle attached to her lips while your father was trying to devise some way to approach her without appearing to be a complete imbecile.”
More and more people were arriving, filling the rooms of Trevor’s home. As expected, the ladies were decked out in a variety of dresses, with hem lengths that ranged from ankles to the verge of indecent exposure; black was the dominant color. The host had returned at last to the place he belonged, in the entry hall greeting his guests as they arrived, when he heard Maggie’s voice coming from the drawing room. He felt a powerful urge to get away, to rush to Maggie and greet her properly even if it meant ignoring everyone else, to show her the garret as he had promised, to be alone with her for five minutes. That, of course, was impossible, what with Roger and Dorie Barrington standing in the foyer saying hello and asking after Will and Callista.
“There’s a voice from home,” Dorie chirped as she heard a familiar American accent emanating from the other room, picked out of the noise as if it were a signal or a beacon. Dragging her husband behind, Dorie set off to quiz the woman who had shaken her neighbor out of his two-year slumber.
Craning his neck while continuing to be polite to his guests, Trevor tried to find Maggie in the ever increasing mob. He did spot Ciaran, standing in front of the fireplace with his arm around a very pretty woman. They were drinking champagne, the very same Veuve Cliquot that he had ordered for Maggie, with Ciaran refilling their glasses with a bottle swiped from the bar. The woman turned her head as Ciaran whispered in her ear, something that made her smile. That was when Trevor noticed that it was Maggie with Ciaran, her hair color lightened slightly, making her head glow as if she wore a halo. She was dressed so simply but yet so elegantly, her plain black dress was short but not outrageous, the front cut low but not too revealing, and nothing more than a single strand of pearls around her neck. Instantly, Trevor felt his blood boiling, for there was Ciaran getting Maggie drunk on Harwood’s champagne. If anyone got her drunk and took advantage of her, it should be the man who paid for the alcohol. Dorie came to the rescue, introducing herself to Maggie and breaking up the cozy couple, much to the relief of the party’s host.
It was Will, the young man still at university and rather fashion-savvy, who had helped Trevor select his wardrobe for the evening, with Trevor unable to make up his mind about what to wear. He feared appearing ridiculously old and dowdy, with Maggie so young, but then again he was afraid of projecting false youth with something too trendy. He had finally settled on gray trousers, a black silk shirt, and a black sports jacket, which Will swore was very smart. Trevor felt like a member of a widowed spouse convention, and once he saw that Ciaran had donned a tuxedo with a collarless shirt, he felt underdressed at his own party.
“Hello, Trevor, are you in there?” Nigel said, for the third time, trying to get Trevor’s eyes out of the drawing room and back into his head.
“Thank God for Dorie, that woman is dedicated to meeting new people,” Trevor said, voicing his thoughts. The two ladies had quite a lovely chat percolating, with Dorie telling Maggie about Eton, a long and detailed accounting of the school that her sons attended. There was a mention of the basketball team, point guards and power forwards, proof that the Americans took their sports wherever they went, as if they were not satisfied with Eton’s already full roster of decidedly Anglican activities. Yes, Dorie, go on, work on her, he thought gleefully, tell her how fantastic London is, how very happy she would be if she would give an Englishman a chance.
“I am sure that we are all most grateful,” Nigel rolled his eyes. “Sara has asked us to do our famous surgeon skit, and of course I agreed. Won’t Maggie find it amusing?”
“She told him no already, Nigel, but Doyle will not give up,” Trevor said, ignoring his friend’s questions. “He’s pouring champagne down her throat by the bottle.”
“He’s softening up her resistance, old boy, so that you can pounce at the right moment,” Nigel suggested.
“Have you seen Will or Callista? I want them to meet her. Tell me honestly, do you think they’ll like her?”
“Everyone likes Maggie. Even I like Maggie. If you weren’t so interested, I would be chasing after her myself. But at least I would have the nerve to ask her if she fancied a tumble.”
Another glance into the room showed that Ciaran and his friends were chatting with Cindy and some other young people from the BBC and Argosy Productions. Ciaran could always be found in the center of some group, holding court as he regaled his audience with his witty yarns. Everyone had a good time at Trevor’s parties, especially if Ciaran and his chums were in attendance to entertain the guests. Trevor thought that he heard Maggie’s voice, talking to Dorie about someone being the life of the party. She was discussing Ciaran no doubt, for that was a term that defined the man. The perfect host, that was Trevor, his personality more suited to attending to the myriad details and then running the evening like a director guiding his actors. It took a man like Ciaran to provide the more raucous entertainment, and Trevor had to admit that even he gravitated to the fun-loving comic, enjoying his jokes and his company.
Most of the party guests had arrived, allowing Trevor to eagerly leave his post and plunge into the festivities. He drifted through the drawing room, sipping champagne and joining groups that were discussing nearly anything related to the theatre. Like a good host, Trevor mingled, moving from one set to the next while scanning the room for Maggie. He found her talking to Pam and Pam’s newest boyfriend, some chartered accountant who knew little else than journal entries and ledger sheets. They were discussing British tax laws, and Maggie was asking about the old days, when the wealthiest citizens tried to dodge the impossibly high tariffs.
Her intelligence impressed Trevor, that and her ability to not yawn as the accountant explained in detail the benefits of certain tax havens in Bermuda. Suddenly Maggie smiled up at her host, a loving glance that froze his tongue in his mouth. He smiled back, hoping that she could somehow read his mind as he mentally told her that he loved her, and would she please stay tonight. It was no good, he could not speak, so he moved on to another group to gather his disparate thoughts and try again later.
“So when did Emma take up with Keith?” Ken asked as Trevor came along to join the group. “Or is she still with Peter but leaning in Keith’s direction?”
“Knowing that she is in preparation for a March opening of The Odd Lot Ball and knowing that Keith is playing opposite, I can safely assure you that any love scenes will be very well rehearsed,” Trevor said with a knowing nod. He had once been in a play with Emma, in a supporting role as her uncle, and the actress had been involved in an affair with the romantic lead that ended shortly before the drama’s run. She had a tendency to have affairs with her leading men, as if the play-acted love became real in her mind. It was a frequent topic of gossip, none of it complimentary.
“Peter tolerates it,” Bea added her insight, “because it will pass quite soon. They don’t expect a very long run.”
Bursts of laughter ebbed and flowed, with the constant buzz of conversation in the background. Roger waylaid Trevor and began to babble about Ciaran’s American mistress. “She is not his mistress, Roger, and I wish you would refrain from labeling her. She is merely a very patient and very kind woman who listens to anyone who speaks to her, no matter how inane the topic.”
“It’s funny that you mention that,” Roger said. “Dorie’s been bending her ear for half the night, and that girl just lets her run off at the mouth. She reminds me a lot of Allison, the way she smiles and listens to every word. Anyway, Dorie showed me the pictures in that gossip sheet and they looked pretty cozy.”
“Maggie is very sweet, Roger, and rather innocent. She told me that herself, and she was very upset by the implications.”
“Oh, now I see. That’s your Maggie, isn’t she?” Roger said slowly, as the conversation from the Saturday tennis match reappeared. “Well, good luck, Trevor. Say, if I could give you one word of advice, speaking as an American, don’t be subtle. American women don’t want you to talk circles around them, get in there and tell her what you have in mind. And remember, we are not a patient people.”
A smile and a chuckle, a laughing thank you, and Trevor moved on, to find Nigel and see if they really had to do some ridiculous skit. “What? He’s dead?” Nigel almost shouted as he broke into riotous laughter. He was standing in a gaggle of Bea’s friends, undoubtedly trying to convince one of them to plead his case with his former wife. “My pet name is so very incorrect, so painfully inaccurate.”
“Not a word,” Pam hissed in a whisper. “Let her tell him if she wants to.”
“Who’s dead?” Trevor asked as he joined the group. “Have any of you seen Maggie?”
Pam nodded in the direction of Ciaran’s crew of mates, where Maggie was laughing at one of Derek’s jokes. For some reason, Trevor felt a deep sense of relief to see that Callista was a part of the group, as if a chaperone were present to protect Maggie’s virtue. His daughter was at Maggie’s right side, and they were talking together in a very friendly way, but then they abruptly left the room. Trevor panicked as his imagination kicked into high gear. Potential questions flashed into his brain, as if he was creating a scene starring The Daughter and The New Mum. Suppose that The Daughter was grilling the other character, making an inquiry into the woman’s suitability as the new stepmother, he postulated. That might scare Maggie away, especially if his daughter started talking about grandchildren. Trevor began to delve deeper into a black pit, like a Yorkshire collier in search of things that could go wrong. He was aware that Maggie was younger than fifty, and it was not impossible for a woman of her age to become pregnant. Surely his daughter would mind her own business on that issue, but if she slipped up and made a comment about the stepchild and the grandchild being the same age, then Trevor was certain that he would be alone again tonight.
Marjorie Hurleburt was trying to inquire about Karl Hofmeier, and to comment on the marvelous chicken dish that she had sampled, but her host was rushing away towards the dining room, in hot pursuit of his daughter. That left Marjorie standing there, in mid sentence, while Nigel had to chuckle at his friend’s derangement.
“Where is your viper-tongued husband?” he asked as Marjorie stood with her mouth agape, words half-formed in the air. “I can’t wait to deliver this piece of news. Will he be terribly disappointed to find that Mrs. Angiolini is not the wicked adulteress but the grieving widow?”
“That American woman he complained of? Until they worked together, that is, and then he couldn’t shut up about her brilliance,” Marjorie huffed.
“Make friends, Marjorie, we’ll most likely be seeing Maggie quite often,” Bea suggested as she mingled with the group. “She’s been trying to chat him up half the evening, but he keeps running away and then he turns around and runs after her.”
“You misinterpret his actions, my dear,” Nigel said with a smirk. “He stalks her like a lion, trying to separate her from the pack so that he can go in for the kill when she’s vulnerable and alone.”
“Has anyone explained to him that, in a house filled with guests, the prey will remain in the pack until she climbs into her car to go home? Or is he going to spring into the car, Nigel, push Cindy out of the way when Maggie’s about to give her a lift home?” Bea had to laugh, because she actually could imagine Trevor throwing himself into the car in an act of desperation.
Will was the king of the kitchen tonight, socializing with his university friends. Callista’s future husband was circulating among small bunches of young people, made up of associates from work or school, along with some of the crewmembers who sought the company of those under twenty-five. Trevor had searched the dining room for a sign of Maggie, and he lost valuable time in talking to his guests, politely receiving their many compliments about the bountiful feast that was spread on the table. Like a track star he flew down the back stairs to the kitchen, finding his son and a motley group of young people filling the room. With his head swinging wildly from side to side, he finally caught sight of Callista in the butler’s pantry, holding a chair steady. Another woman was climbing up to the countertop from a box that had been placed on the seat of the chair, in an attempt to reach up to the top shelves of the cupboards where the beer mugs were stored.
He ran over to lend a hand, and to chide his daughter for allowing a guest to hunt for glassware when Will should have been put to the task. In addition, he planned to remind her that she should have known better than to use a box on a chair seat instead of the stepladder that was stored in the laundry room. Two very lovely legs were within view, attached to a woman with small feet and dainty toes with red nails visible through her stockings. As she reached up her dress rose slightly, and Trevor found himself ogling the lace tops of those stockings; a look up revealed the garters that held them, along with the delicate black bows that decorated the garters. His heart began to race and his palms grew sweaty at the thought of stockings and suspender belts, and as his eyes continued their journey, to see who was dressed so provocatively, Maggie met his gawking face.
She bent over, almost nose to nose as she handed the glasses to Callista. There was a devilish grin on her face as she looked Trevor squarely in the eye and asked, “Are you looking up my dress, Mr. Harwood?”
Trevor’s mouth moved but no words came out; he gulped in embarrassment and tried to find a witty reply, but his feeble brain was stuck on stockings and garters. “I, um, you were, I,” he spluttered, unable to break away from her soft brown-eyed gaze and the laughter that flowed from her eyes.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, her voice seductive. “Seek and you shall find, it says in the Bible. Do you know your Scripture, Mr. Harwood? Do you know the rest of that phrase?”
A flash of panic streaked through his mind, as if he were back at school and he was supposed to be sitting for an examination he had forgotten to prepare for. Success or failure was riding on his answer; he could phone the minister at the vicarage and ask him, surely he would know off the top of his head. Trevor could not remember, not with his mind a complete blank except for thoughts of Maggie in bed. Say something, Harwood, he told himself, before she thinks you are completely worthless.
“Let me help you down,” he said. “You shouldn’t be climbing on such a makeshift ladder, Maggie, you could have gotten hurt.”
Her face seemed to melt into a look of sorrow, as if she was the naughty child being reprimanded too severely. For the would-be lover, such a change in her features was heartbreaking. He might as well have called her a stupid cow for messing about in his cupboards for it would have had the same effect, but they would be her cupboards if she would give him a chance, or at least another chance that he would not bungle this time. His hands were on her waist as she stepped back onto the floor, her head hung in shame. If not for Callista standing there he would have kissed Maggie, or even told her he was not angry with her, far from it. After that he would have asked her, would have made an offer, and dropped to his knees with heartfelt pleading.
“Thank you for helping me with my guests down here,” he said softly, trying to repair the damage that he had already done.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” she was stammering, feeling like a silly fool. “But the boys needed the glasses and Will was busy talking and I wasn’t doing anything. I’m not being nosy, really, I’m sorry, I had no business poking around.”
Maggie’s speech revved up into high gear when she was agitated, and now she was nervous with Trevor’s hands still holding her waist. Callista cleared her throat and said something about “leaving you two alone” before she disappeared. Here was his chance, with a golden opportunity to make a decisive move before Ciaran Doyle popped up again, ready to tear Maggie away if the old lion of England could not catch his American prey. He looked in her eyes; they were not laughing at him now but she was speaking volumes. Not trusting himself, he could not say if he was hearing Maggie’s words, or only seeing the image of his own desires.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet,” he began, his face so close to hers, “but you look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and Trevor nearly cringed. He had just uttered the most trite and stupid line that he could possibly have formulated. Somewhere in his house, there was undoubtedly an old script that he could have studied earlier, to pick up a few well-crafted sentences that would flow softly like the Thames. Ad-libbing was never his strong suit.
“More than lovely, Maggie,” he added in a whisper. Now he had run out of conversation. A request to spend the night was forming on his lips, but that seemed much too forward. Without turning his head he could feel the presence of all those people that were only a few feet away and no doubt listening in, to find out what a man said to get a woman in bed when he had been married for twenty years and he did not know how to go about the romancing business. Words slipped out, harmless and innocuous, “Oh, and I haven’t forgotten my promise to show you my old house.”
“I think I need another drink,” she said, a smile returning to her face, but it was a false image that hid sadness. “I did promise to crawl out of here on my hands and knees.”
With her hands resting gently on his shoulders, Maggie reached up and kissed his cheek. Picking up the remaining glasses and her shoes, she slipped out of the pantry and went back to the kitchen, as if she were intent on cutting her losses before she embarrassed herself any further. He thought of running after her, to assure her that he was not a closet homosexual and that he did want to kiss her, very much, but already it was too late.
“Damn,” Trevor hissed, pounding his head against the doorframe. “Damn, damn, damn. Show you the house, show you right back to Ciaran and drop you in his lap, God what an idiot I have become.”
He picked up the box, which turned out to be the extra case of champagne that he ordered for Wednesday morning. A snort of derision escaped his throat as he suspected that it would not be needed now, and he put the case on the floor so that he could sink into the chair. He sat there with his head in his hands, cursing his incompetence. Before she walked in the door he knew that she was an American, making her a solid citizen of the most impatient country in the world. Like a deaf man or a fool, he had waved off Roger Barrington’s advice. A kiss was not too forward, not at this point in the evening. In reality, Trevor sensed that he could have asked Maggie to go up to his room at once and drop her knickers and even that would have been a timely request. With a low moan, he wished that she were an Englishwoman, someone who would know that the look in his eye said “‘I love you” and not “get out of my pantry”.
“She’s marvelous, Dad,” Callista popped her head into the little room, all cheery and full of smiles.
“I think she hates me,” he groaned.
“Why, did she slap you or something?” his daughter said.
“I don’t know what to say to her, and then when I do say anything she looks at me as if I were some sort of lunatic,” he ranted, pacing the tiny room in two steps before turning back. “And I do sound like a lunatic, or some sort of doddering, senile old fool.”
“You both have one thing in common, Dad, she’s on her own now and you’re alone. Maybe she could use some advice on being single for the first time in however many years,” Callista suggested. “Think back, to the time you were hurt in Los Angeles. You don’t want Ciaran to hurt Maggie like that, do you?”
“What if I’ve made her miserable already?” Trevor asked. “She’ll run back to Doyle just to have a warm body next to her.”
“Wouldn’t your old body be a bit better?” Callista was soothing, aware of her father’s memories of heartache and confusion. “Or do you plan to wait for her to crawl to you on her hands and knees and beg you to be nice to her for the next few days before she has to go home? She needs a kind word, Dad, not a line to get her into bed for one night.”
“Dear God, Callista, I cannot talk to a woman I barely know and tell her the sordid tales of my first foray into the dating scene,” he protested.
“Better to sit back and watch her make the same mistakes, is that what you plan to do?” Callista said coldly as she left her father on his own, to sort out his feelings and find the courage to move on with his life. At that moment, his loneliness hit him full in the face.
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