Fear was a hard habit to break, and hope hurt, but it hurt in a way that promised a happy ending. So he stood, outside the door of the room he and Bonnie had occupied—Room 704—and waited a full five minutes, feeling the pain of that hope, not wanting to exchange it for the pain of despair. Then he took a deep breath and stuck the key into the slot. When the locks disengaged with a sleek buzz, his heart hitched, and he pushed the handle down and opened the door.
Bedding was piled on the floor, like housekeeping was in the middle of a thorough clean. The TV was on, blaring, and Finn searched the space, walking farther into the suite, climbing the platform that housed the huge bed beneath a ceiling of mirrors. He’d watched Bonnie in those mirrors, worshipped her. Even as she’d slept, feathers in her hair, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes away from her face, from the way she’d looked curled next to him, from the image of them together in that way. Perfect, untouchable.
There was no sign of Bonnie. She hadn’t called out when he entered the room or come running to see who was there. The euphoria of a working keycard plummeted and pooled like tar in his belly. He felt sick. He walked to the TV, needing to silence it, to soak up what was left of them in the space, and he saw himself, wearing the tux he now wore. He was smiling down at Bonnie and she was beaming up at him like they weren’t surrounded by flashing cameras and shocked faces. They’d made their statement, all right. He could see the stunned fascination wherever he looked. Bonnie had waved and glowed, laughed and blown kisses to fans who were seated in makeshift bleachers in designated areas for a small number of diehard stargazers.
The screen split, showing the continuing footage from the awards, as well as the news anchor seated on the Entertainment Buzz set, wearing a sleeveless top that showed off her toned arms and her fake tan. She was talking into the camera with the practiced sobriety and professional cadence of a serious journalist, and as the picture on the screen morphed from footage of him and Bonnie Rae into an old black and white photo of Bonnie and Clyde, she began to tell their story, as if it were breaking news and hadn’t happened 85 years before.
Bonnie Parker met Clyde Barrow in Texas, in January of 1930. It was the height of the depression and people were poor, desperate, and hopeless, and Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were no exception. Clyde was twenty years old, Bonnie, nineteen, and though neither had much to offer the other, they became inseparable . . .
Clyde listened, unable to look away, to turn it off. He listened as the reporter compared them to the outlaw couple, twisting their story until it was almost unrecognizable. He listened until the reporter shook her head sadly and asked, “What happened to Bonnie Rae Shelby?”
Then he couldn’t take anymore. Maybe because he didn’t know what had happened to her. He didn’t know where she was, and he didn’t know where to go looking. How was he going to find her? He switched off the TV with a violent shove and turned to leave. He was striding toward the door when he thought he heard the sound of water running. He stopped abruptly, suspended between the fear of being caught in a place he shouldn’t be and the hope that finally he was in exactly the right place at the right time. It was the shower. And in that instant he became a believer. God’s voice did sound like rushing water.
Finn walked toward the huge bathroom with the heart-shaped, sunken tub and the giant, glass walk-in shower. When he neared the door he heard her, and he smiled, even as his chest ached at the sound. Crying. She was crying in the shower. Again. And Finn found himself laughing through the tears that were suddenly streaming down his own face.
The door wasn’t locked. Thank God. Or thank Fish—his guardian angel. Somehow he thought Fish might be the one unlocking bathroom doors for his brother. Naked girls were Fish’s favorite thing. He turned the handle and silently asked Fish to please remain outside if he was still lurking around. He needed to hold his wife without an audience.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the vanity as he pulled open the shower door and stepped under the spray fully-clothed, taking Bonnie into his arms before she even had time to react. She jerked and pulled back, even as she realized it was him.
“Finn? Oh, Finn,” she cried, falling against him, holding him tightly and looking up into his face in disbelief. He pushed her streaming hair out of her eyes even as his own dripped heavily down his back.
“Bonnie. You aren’t fooling anybody crying in the shower, baby. The water hides your tears, but it doesn’t hide the sound, and I don’t want you to cry anymore.” He kissed her as the water soaked through his shirt, plastering the white cotton to his skin, seeping into the black suit pants, and soaking the shoes that had cost way more than Bonnie’s ring. She still wore it, and he kissed that too, frantically. And she cried harder.
“I didn’t think you were coming back.” She sobbed into his chest, and Finn held her tightly, letting the cascading water wash away the words. He almost hadn’t come back, and the thought made his legs weak and his heart quake. He held Bonnie closer, burying his face in her neck and letting his hands stroke the naked length of her body, needing to reassure himself that she was still his. Bonnie was suddenly as frantic as he was, pulling at the buttons of his shirt, trying to peel it off his chest, as if she needed to feel his skin the way he could feel hers. His shirt fell to the shower floor with a heavy, wet slap.
“Your grandmother told me you didn’t want to see me again, Bonnie.”
Bonnie closed her eyes and her hands stilled, her face crumpling with his words. She shook her head emphatically. “No. That’s not true. That’s never been true! Not for one second since I met you. I knew exactly what I was doing when I married you. I was just hoping, just praying, that you knew what you were doing.”