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Published:
2025-04-27
Updated:
2025-11-05
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7/?
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The lines they crossed

Chapter 2: The first word

Notes:

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
― Emily Dickinson

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“But… we promised him…” she said quietly as she pressed her back against their bedroom door.
“Don’t make it a bigger deal than it is… please...” He looked tired. “He’s six years old for Christ’s sake… And it’s not like we’re breaking a promise,’ He scratched his nose and avoided her eyes, “He’ll have to wait a bit longer to see his cousins and that’s it.”
She felt her jaw tightening despite herself.
“Well, I’m not the one who’s telling him,” she added coldly.
It was late on that December evening, far too late to get into unnecessary arguments, he thought.
“I’ll speak to him tomorrow…” he sighed and he tossed his tie on the bed before heading to the bathroom.
Isabel Fisher Conklin, hated how her husband would shut her out, how he’d often dismiss her when something uncomfortable came up. But she could deal with that, she’d learnt to, the hard way…
What had become increasingly more difficult however, was his detachment, his aloofness, when it affected Albie.
Ever since he’d met his cousins the previous summer, the boy had developed a deep sense of belonging, and all he was talking about, was Christmas and his next visit to the beach house, when he’d finally wake up to the sound of seagulls and he’d laugh and play with Agathe and Anaïs again.
And this, Isabel understood all too well: she’d once been obsessed with this place too -  with Susannah, the ocean, with Conrad.
With Jeremiah too…
When Conrad had talked to her about his father’s summer plans, her heart had jumped in her chest.
“That will be fun,” she’d said softly as she’d stepped out to get something – anything – from the pantry.
She hadn’t seen him in years; she hadn’t seen him since the day she’d married Conrad; and in the months that had followed, she’d called him, she’d texted him, like they were still friends, like she hadn’t betrayed him in the worst possible way. He’d answered and texted back at first, always in a rush, always distant and to the point, but he did answer.
Then he’d gradually stopped.
He'd ignored her and she’d ignored the aching realisation that he simply didn’t want her in his life anymore – until she’d had no choice but to accept it.
And everything she knew about him now, every single detail she had patiently gleaned over the years – from overheard conversations, to the few photos he would post online, from the half-statements Conrad would throw into family meals like bait into a river, to the post cards Adam would display on the kitchen fridge, she’d pieced them all together and had created for herself this happy and perfect picture of the man he had become.
But once the logistics of the family gathering had been finalised and she knew for a fact that she would see him again, she’d felt unsettled, restless, for weeks.  She would think about him, often - on her way to work or in the middle of the night. She would remember the past, their past; and the urge to reach out and to reconcile was sometimes all she could think about. 
She was longing to see him - just as much as she was dreading it; and when she’d pushed the door of the summer house that late August afternoon and she’d realised he’d already gone, a part of her had sunk in disappointment, another had fluttered with relief.
So, Isabel hadn’t seen him that week, but she had met Margot - and she had liked her, in a confusing, star-struck kind of way. Margot was everything she once was and everything she would never be again.
The two women had spent many hours together by the pool, watching the kids, talking about French literature and bitching about Parisian snobbery. Conrad would join them occasionally, displaying genuine interest in Margot’s life.
“So? Where about in South Korea does your family come from?” he’d asked after biting into his ice cream.
“Hmmm… My father grew up in Danyang, in the Sobaek Mountains,” she had replied as she’d reached for the sun lotion. “Have you ever been to South Korea?” she’d added while applying some cream on her shoulders and forearms.
“Not yet, but we are planning to,” he’d said, smiling at Isabel, “And, you said you were born in the French Alps? How is that?!” he’d asked, his eyebrows arched with curiosity.
“My dad was a ski technician for South Korea during the 1992 Albertville Winter Olympic Games. He met my mum and… voilà!” she laughed, lifting her palms into the air.
Margot hadn’t minded engaging in small talk but had remained guarded when it’d come to sharing personal stories, Isabel had noticed. She’d also asked them very little in return - out of indifference maybe, or of unwavering loyalty for Jeremiah…
Isabel could understand her restraint, but she’d also quietly hoped that she’d managed, somehow, to reconnect with him, through her words and recollections. Much to her disappointment, this had not happened; and frankly, she would never dare asking her any question.
The days had flown by, lazy and effortless - all filled with children’s races to the beach and giggles under pillow forts; and despite the lightness of their games and laughter, Isabel would feel overwhelmed by nostalgia at the most unexpected moments.
“Is everything ok?” Margot had asked as she was watching the children running around the garden one last time before they’d drive back to Boston.
“Yeah… I always feel a bit sad when it’s time to leave…” she’d replied, brushing the matter off with a gentle movement of her hand, “But you know what?” she’d perked up, “We have to take a photo of the kids on the peer before we go.”
“We do? Why the peer?”
“That’s a Fisher tradition.”
And she’d gathered the children, Agathe in the middle, her arms wrapped around her sister’s and cousin’s shoulders.
There are three of them; there were four of us…


 ***

Christmas dinner had mostly been a Conklin affair, and an enjoyable one, as a matter of fact.
Steven had flown from California with his new girlfriend - “Another one, Isabel!  And she’s nine years younger than him!” Laurel had lamented on the phone. But by the time she’d made it to their house, she’d forgotten all about her grievances and had unpacked a car boot full of paper bags and beautifully wrapped presents.
To Albie’s delight and Isabel’s relief, Conrad had made it home for dessert and a late bedtime story, and when he’d joined his wife in the kitchen after Albie had fallen asleep, he’d presented her with a small velvety box.
“Merry Christmas,” he’d said and he’d kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Now?” she’d smiled.
“Now,” he'd smiled back.
She had slowly opened the box and gasped at how much she’d liked the look of the delicate gold chain she’d found inside.
“I love it, it’s beautiful…” she’d whispered,  “Thank you,” and she’d snuggled in his arms, warm and happy.
“Should you try it on?”
She’d turned her back and lifted her long hair up for him to fasten the clasp. She’d touched it with the tip of her fingers and walked to the mirror in the living room
“It’s perfect,” he’d said as he’d stood behind her.
“You couldn’t wait until tomorrow, could you?” she'd laughed.
He looked at her and kissed her neck.
“I wanted to enjoy it,” he paused, “I’ll have to rush to work once Albie has opened his presents.”
“Oh…” she’d said
His eyes had met hers in the mirror for a few seconds then he’d turned away and sat on the sofa.
“You know how bad it’s been trying to staff my unit lately -  I had to reshuffle my team’s rota  and everyone is pissed off with me.”
He’d sighed heavily.
“I’m swamped until the thirty-first, sorry… You’ll have to drive to Cousins on your own and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
So that was what it had all been about - the necklace, the tenderness - just another apology disguised as a romantic gesture, a golden balm for the sting of yet another broken plan.
“You’re upset?” he’d asked.
Isabel wasn’t even disappointed – and perhaps that was the most disconcerting part of it all, the dull acceptance that she’d learnt to master over the years.
“No, I understand,” she’d replied, “You know we’ll make the best of it.”
If not for herself, at least for Albie.
They’d driven to the beach house a few days later, the sky almost as blue as a summer day. Albie was a great companion and had kept her entertained with jokes he would read from a book he’d picked at the petrol station.
The familiar crunch of the tires on the coarse gravel – a sound that once marked the beginning of the best time of the year - triggered something very different that day. Something she didn’t really want to think about…
 “Hey! There you are!” Adam greeted them as they got into the entrance hall.
He took her duffel bag from her shoulder and hugged her for a second before kissing Albie on the forehead.
“Come, we’re in the living room.”
She walked slowly, aware of what she might see, of what she might feel, and she paused in the doorway, her breath shallow.
There he was, playful, grounded.
The winter sun was dancing in the wilderness of his curls, his daughters balanced on his broad shoulders; and for one short painful second, she thought: All of this could have been mine. And she forced that thought away, embarrassed by it.
She was ridiculous, Conrad had always been the one.
Everybody knew it.
She ran her fingers through her son’s soft hair, anchoring herself in what was, not what could have been.
“Hi…” she felt her throat tightening around the word, the first word that reached him after years of silence.
“Hi…” he answered, his voice so flat, his eyes so distant.
 He gently deposited the girls on the couch, then smiled warmly at Albie, arms wide open.
“Come here buddy!”
And, in that instant, she feared he would never be able to look at her with that much tenderness ever again.


Notes:

I've tweaked a few sentences here and there since I've posted this morning. I'm happier now!
Thank you for reading and for your encouraging comments. Adulterous fictions are not everybody's cup of tea, I know, but I also cannot imagine any other outcome for Belly and Jere!