“It matters to you, as much as what they did, it matters to you what they said. And the press matters to you. So you blame me.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She just shook her head. “You blame me. Your family blames me. For a while I blamed myself, but I’m not going to do that. It’s not my fault I fell in love with you. It’s not my fault you’ve stopped being in love with me.”

He looked away again. “I can’t do this. That’s what it comes down to. I can’t do this.”

“You were the first one who looked at just me, wanted just me. I’ll never forget that. You can’t feel that way about me now, so you can’t be with me. I can’t be with you, same reasons.”

She took a long breath. “The person you are came here to tell me to my face. The person I am can let you go without blaming either one of us. So.”

She lifted her glass from the table. “Break a leg, Noah.”

“I better go.”

He moved to the glass doors, paused. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she murmured when he’d gone.

Then she sat, shed a few silent tears over the sweetness faceless strangers had stolen from two lives.

PART III

TENDING ROOTS

To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition . . .

—SAMUEL JOHNSON

The voice is a wild thing. It can’t be bred in captivity.

—WILLA CATHER

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As her grandfather had once told her, life was a series of turns. Most of her life, Cate felt she’d taken those turns at someone else’s direction, or in reaction to another’s action.

The day of her great-grandfather’s memorial and the night that followed equaled a tectonic shift, forever altering her life’s landscape. Still, in the midst of the quake, she’d turned toward courage.

Years later, she’d turned to fear after her mother’s ambush.

Her loss of the joy and passion for a profession she’d loved, had intended to pursue, shifted her life yet again, and changed her direction to New York.

That first sweet coffee date with Noah turned her world yet again. Losing him forced her to take another turn.

It was time to stop reacting and choose her own direction.

When Hugh took a project filming in New York, settled into the condo, Lily extended her contract as Mame. And Cate began to hunt for her own apartment. It was time, she felt, she decided to claim real independence, and find out who she was living on her own.

At nineteen she could speak conversationally in Spanish, French, and Italian, and often volunteered as an interpreter, for the police—thanks to Detective Riley—for shelters.

She spent three months with her father in New Zealand while he filmed—on the condition she could serve as his assistant. She enjoyed every moment.

When she returned to New York, she continued the search for her own place, and turned twenty.

A new chapter, a new apartment, a new chance to explore.

But it was a chance encounter at a busy little bistro that shifted her life yet again.

She sat with Darlie—also filming in New York—over tiny salads and glasses of spring water. Over lunch, they caught up, Darlie’s work and life in L.A., Cate’s in New York.

“The physical training for this one’s been killer. Three hours a day, six days a week.”

“But look at those guns.”

Her hair Tinker Bell short, her body seriously ripped, Darlie flexed, studied her biceps. “They are seriously awesome.”

“I’ll say.”

“I have to admit, I like being strong, and doing an action film, playing an actual adult. I really get to kick some ass—and get mine kicked. We’re shutting down part of Chinatown tomorrow for a scene. You have to come see.”

“Text me the particulars, and I’ll see if I can work it into my busy schedule.”

“From what you’ve said, you are pretty busy. Learning Russian now?”

“Dabbling.”

“Interpreting.” Darlie nibbled on some arugula. “And you’ve moved into your own place. How does that feel?”

“Strange and wonderful at the same time. I stuck with the Upper West because it’s close to my grandparents and made them feel better. Plus, I know and like the neighborhood.”

Deciding a little flatbread couldn’t hurt, Darlie broke a piece in two. “I like New York, but I’m a California girl. Anyway. No men squeezed into that busy schedule?”

“You sound like my new neighbor. ‘Pretty girl,’ ” Cate said in an accent reeking of Queens. “ ‘How come you got no boyfriend? How come I don’t see boys knocking on your door?’ ”

Cate lifted her water glass. “And that brings another neighbor out. ‘She maybe like girls.’ ” A Russian accent this time. “ ‘It’s okay if she likes girls.’ ”

Cate rolled her eyes as Darlie laughed. And back to Queens. “ ‘You like girls? You got a girlfriend?’ ”

“I thought New Yorkers didn’t interact so much.”

“In my building they do. So when I explain, because they’re both standing in their doorways waiting, that I like boys, but I’m just not seeing anyone right now, I realize too late I’m now a project.”

“Uh-oh, not the blind date fix-her-up.”

“ ‘I got a nephew.’ ” Queens. “ ‘He’s a good boy. Smart boy. He’ll take you to coffee.’

“ ‘I talk to young Kevin who works at the market.’ ” Russian. “ ‘He has a pretty face and good manners.’ ”

Enjoying herself, Cate gestured with her glass. “About this time, yet another neighbor—this guy who lives down the hall—comes out of the elevator with his little mop of a dog, George. George sees the first neighbor and starts . . .” Cate let out a series of high-pitched yips. “Because she always gives him a little dog biscuit. She pulls one out of her pocket, tosses it to George, and keeps talking about her nephew with the other one rooting for the guy at the market. So then George’s dad, hearing all this, chimes in.

“ ‘Leave da girl alone.’ ” She used deep, gravely New York now. “ ‘She oughta play da field. Pretty young girls got oats to sow, too, amirite? Sow dose oats, girlie.’ ”

With an eye roll, Cate stabbed a grape tomato. “All this just because I took out the trash.”

“Excuse me.”

A man stepped up to the table. Somewhere in his middle thirties, Cate gauged, with a pleasant face made intellectual by horn-rimmed glasses.

“I’m going to interrupt. I was sitting just behind you, and heard. You have a serious talent with voices.”

“I . . . thanks.”

“Sorry, I should introduce myself. Boyd West.” He looked at Darlie. “We actually met once, briefly. I don’t expect you’d remember.”

“Yes, I do. You’re married to Yolanda Phist. I met you when we were working on Everlasting.”

“That’s right. Nice to see you. If I could just sit down for one quick minute.”

He did, and turned his attention back to Cate. Shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, he talked fast, a kind of whirlwind of words.