She continued.
“I can survive bad news. I can survive losing the theater, if that's what happens. But I can't build something with a man who decides which truths I'm strong enough to hear.”
Nicholas looked down.
The words struck with devastating precision.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“I believe you.”
She wiped her cheek.
“But you did.”
He stood in the doorway, helpless.
After a moment, he said, “What do you want me to do?”
Maggie looked at him.
“I want you to stop trying to make everything right for me.”
He nodded slowly.
“And what else?”
She took a trembling breath.
“I want you to leave.”
Nicholas went still.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
He stepped into the hallway.
At the stairs, he turned.
“Maggie.”
She looked up.
“I am sorry.”
Her expression softened with pain.
“I know.”
He wanted to say more.
That he loved her.
That the thought of losing her was unbearable.
That she had changed his life in ways he could not explain.
But those words would have been another attempt to secure forgiveness before he had earned it.
So he simply nodded.
“Good night.”
Maggie closed the door.
Then leaned against it and cried.
On the other side, Nicholas remained motionless for several seconds.
Finally, he turned and walked down the stairs.
Neither knew whether they would ever find their way back to each other.
For three days, Nicholas did not telephone.
Maggie told herself this was exactly what she wanted.
She worked late at Tessa's shop, revised estimates, and argued with Leonard Brooks about structural solutions that seemed to grow more expensive each time they discussed them.
She drank too much coffee.
Forgot to eat lunch.
And avoided looking at the telephone whenever it rang.
On the fourth morning, she took the subway to Queens.
Her father opened the door wearing an old cardigan, slippers, and an expression of theatrical suspicion.
“Maggie.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He examined her face.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He stepped aside.
“Then come in and tell me about it.”
She smiled weakly.
Louis Bennett was sixty-four, broad through the shoulders, with silver hair, gentle brown eyes, and the slightly stooped posture of a man who had spent half his life bending over film equipment.
His hearing had deteriorated, but his powers of observation remained excellent.
He made coffee.
Maggie sat at the kitchen table.
For a while, they discussed ordinary things.
The weather.
The Mets.
A neighbor whose new car alarm had become the most unpopular invention on the block.
Then Louis set down his mug.
“All right.”
Maggie looked up.
“What?”
“Who's the man?”
She stared.
“Dad!”
He shrugged.
“You've been staring at the same piece of toast for ten minutes.”
“That doesn't mean there's a man.”