It had been a long, hot day.
Ella had turned eleven earlier in the week and, to celebrate, Scarlett had suggested that her daughter invite a few friends over for a pool party and barbeque on the Sunday. But somehow a select gathering had swelled into a party for forty. Sue had come up from the country with Will and their five daughters, Ashley had come with Beau and his fiancée and even Aunt Pitty and India had stopped by for a couple of hours – timing their arrival just as mimosas were being served. And then, just as the caterers arrived to set up in the kitchen, Ella's aunt, and Frank's sole surviving sister, Michelle, had called out of the blue and asked whether, as she was passing through town, she could stop over with her own two kids to see her darling niece.
It had been fun and tiring and Scarlett half-regretted not inviting Richard over, but she hadn't been quite prepared to deal with the quizzical looks, or dodge the well-intentioned, but probing questions that she knew would be directed at her and him. And, more importantly, she hadn't quite decided how she was going to answer his own question that he had posed to her a week ago, and which remained hanging between them.
She waved the last guest off, checked that Wade and Ella weren't watching anything unsuitable in the cinema room, and then walked up the stairs and into her own bedroom. She took off her emerald drop earrings that had begun to irritate her earlobes, dropping them carelessly on her dresser, and sloped into the bathroom to start running a bath. Then, she switched on the television that was at the bottom of the bath and flicked the channels before she found an old black and white screwball comedy with Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. That would do, she mused. She wanted to watch something mindless, that didn't involve too much concentration.
With the water running, she ran downstairs, poured herself the remaining dregs from a bottle of champagne that lay on a side table in the dining room and went back upstairs to her room. She pulled off her red jersey dress, removed her bikini and dipped her toes in the bath water. Bliss. Water had always had a calming effect on her.
Just as she was about to fully submerge herself in the bubbles, her cell phone rang. She reached across to the vanity unit to get it, swiped across its face with the hand that wasn't wet and accepted the call.
"Hello?" she said as she shut off the faucets with her left hand, muted the bathroom television with her right and precariously balanced the telephone between her cheek and shoulders.
"Hello, Scarlett."
She knew who it was, just by the way he said her name and it still had the same effect on her. Rhett Butler. The man who had had her heart for the last four years but didn't want it.
"Hello, Rhett," she replied finally and then, because she couldn't think of anything better to say, she added, "How are you?"
She knew she sounded stilted, unnatural but what did he expect? She hadn't spoken to him in three years and she was out of practice. Ever since they had both had too much to drink on the day of Wade's confirmation and he had ended up staying the night in her bedroom, in their old marital bed, she had insisted they communicate via email and text message and, occasionally, through the children.
"I'm fine."
"I'm fine, too," she said. There was another pause. Even after sixteen years of knowing him, he could still unnerve her. She cleared her throat. "Do you want to speak to Ella or Wade? I can get-"
"No. I wanted to speak to you. Where are you, by the way? There's a lot of echo."
"I'm in the bath…room."
"Are you on your own?"
She looked down at her body. Was he imagining her naked? He had always made it clear he desired her, even if he no longer loved her. Then, she snapped back into reality. "What do you want, Rhett?" she said tersely.
She heard him sigh and then there was another pause. She wondered where he was, what he was doing, whether he was alone. His number hadn't shown up on the telephone when he had called which either meant he was out of the country or he had withheld his number. Or maybe it meant both.
"I want to see you. On your own. Can you meet me on Wednesday at five o'clock? At Jimmy's." Jimmy's was a wine bar in Buckhead that they had used to frequent regularly. It was where he had proposed. And where she had hosted Frank's wake. "The children are at camp all next week, aren't they?"
She nodded, slowly, and then verbalised her response. "Yes." Did she really have any choice?
"Is that a "yes" you'll meet me or a "yes" the children are at camp?"
"It's a "yes" to both."
"Good," he replied abruptly. "I'll see you next week."
Then, the line went dead.
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When Wednesday afternoon arrived, she got ready with more thought than she usually gave. Over the last three years since they had stopped speaking, he had seen her, but only from a distance. After he had slept with her that last time and then told her that it didn't change anything between them, she had finally awoken from her delusions and realised he was never, ever coming back to her. He had sheepishly crept out of the house, not even bothering to shower and she had slammed the door after him and told him that she didn't want to see him again.
He had respected her demands. Of course, the children still saw him but, whereas before he would pull up on the driveway and toot his horn and wait for Wade and Ella to come running out with their bags, or even, sometimes, ring the doorbell and then engage in small talk with his estranged wife whilst the children got ready, from the morning after Wade's confirmation, he had taken to pulling up outside the large mansion at the designated time in whatever sport's car he deigned to drive that day and wait. Even if it meant waiting for an hour. And if she ever had to drop them off at his penthouse, Scarlett relied on Wade to navigate himself and his little sister through the elevators and the concierge. She had never gone inside. She had no need, or desire, to see him.
She blow-dried her hair, put some rollers in it and then put on the new La Perla underwear set that Richard had bought for her a few weeks ago but which had remained unworn. She caught her reflection in the long gilt mirror that hung in her bathroom and gave a wry smile. She didn't look bad for a woman of thirty-two. Her legs still looked lithe and toned, her arms had definition and she still had a flat stomach, even after three pregnancies. Four, she corrected, as she winced at the memory of her lost, unnamed, baby.
She walked over to her dressing area and began to rummage through her closet before she found what she was looking for - a mint coloured, wrap dress. She was a dress girl and if she suddenly turned up in jeans, he would think she was trying hard not to be seen to be trying hard. She had to wear a dress, as she had throughout most of their relationship, but it couldn't appear new. The mint garment was an old favourite and one Rhett should recognise. He had bought it for her on their honeymoon.
She was ready by four o'clock and so, sat on the chair in her bedroom and typed a quick email to Sue to thank her for coming down for the party. Then, she did the same to Michelle. Finally, the clock in her room showed that it was half past four and so she walked down the staircase, popped in on Dilcey in the kitchen and told her she would not be home for dinner, and walked out of her front door.
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It began to rain, just as she stepped in to Jimmy's. He was already there, sitting at the bar and sipping on a beer. She observed for a few moments, unseen. The passage of time suited him. His face was less bloated, he was noticeably trimmer and he was tanned. It must have been from his two month long vacation in South Africa that Wade had told her he had been on, she decided. He wouldn't have got that tan from the cold winter in Georgia that had only passed a month ago.
She moved a step closer and stopped as she felt her stomach knot and her breath catch in her throat. She inhaled deeply a couple of times, wiped her clammy hands on her dress and walked towards him.
"Hello," she said.
He swivelled round on the stool and smiled. "Hello, Scarlett." Their eyes locked for a few seconds and she felt an unwelcome blush rise to her cheeks. She still found him irresistibly attractive, even after all these years.
"I ordered you a Chablis," he said gesturing towards the half full wine glass that was next to him. "Unless your tastes have-"
"No no. Chablis is fine." She pulled up a bar stool, feeling his eyes boring into her, and then took a couple of sips from the wine glass. "So why did you want to see me? Why couldn't you email?"
His dark eyes scrutinised her in that way that always made her feel as though he could see right through to her soul.
"My uncle's dying and he wants me to take over the business in New York," he said. "And I've agreed. It's going to be announced to the media tomorrow."
So the prodigal son was finally fulfilling his destiny. He was going to be the "B" in the largest private equity company, RTB.
"Oh." She felt a pang of disappointment bubble up from nowhere.
He cleared his throat. "And I'd like to sort out our divorce before I go." She flicked her eyes up to meet his gaze. He was being serious, this wasn't any joke. "It's been four years, Scarlett," he said quietly.
She stared at him, trying to understand the man she had married all those years ago. Why had he waited until now, to ask for a divorce, and not done it earlier?
"Have you met someone?" The words slipped out and she cursed her treacherous tongue. She didn't want him to think she cared. Not in that way. Because she didn't.
"I've met lots of people, Scarlett-"
"You…you know what I mean."
He shook his head. "No one in particular." He paused, contemplative, before he swigged from his beer bottle. He had always been impossible to read.
"I've met someone…" she offered, trying to regain her pride. At least someone wanted her, even if it wasn't the man she wanted to want her. Richard made her happy, he was wealthy enough, he didn't have any children, he hadn't been married before. For a forty year old, he had remarkably little baggage.
"I heard."
She swallowed. It must have been Wade. Or maybe it was Maybelle. She knew Maybelle and René still saw Rhett from time to time, usually with the children.
"He asked me to marry him, as a matter of fact," she said, feeling the need to substantiate the relationship.
He raised his eyebrows at her but didn't say anything.
She reached for her wine, sipped on it and then said. "I'll sign whatever you want me to sign, Rhett. Just give me the house. I don't want anything else."
He frowned. "Why do you persist in living there, with all those memories of her?"
"I'd prefer to be surrounded by memories of her rather than run away from them."
"You think I've been running away?" he asked.
She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I don't know what to think any more."
He smirked and she saw that old, twisted malevolence momentarily sweep across his face. "You still think I murdered her?"
"No. Rhett…I…" Unwelcome tears suddenly sprung from nowhere. She had wanted to tell him for years that she had only hurled that accusation at him because she had been hysterical with grief. She hadn't really thought it. They were both culpable. If only they hadn't argued that morning, if only she had locked the door, if only they had noticed Bonnie slip out of the house. Then, they might have seen her playing in the driveway as he had reversed the car.
"I never meant to blame you for Bonnie's accident. It was just that. An accident." She heard her voice crack and then the familiar throb rise in her throat. She pushed it back down and looked away, staring at the sheets of rain that had begun to shroud the windows of the bar. "It could just have easily been me," she said softly. "I could have been driving."
The tears started streaming down her face then, silently. Did the agony of losing a child ever go away? she wondered. True, the suffocating, intolerable feeling had given way to a constant ache. But the excruciating pain was still bubbling underneath the surface. Even after almost five years.
She felt his hand gently rest on her back.
"I know you didn't mean it," he said simply. "Just as I didn't mean to call you…all those names. Grief can bring people together but it can tear them apart too. I guess we were unlucky. It tore us apart."
"I wish it hadn't," she mumbled, voicing a wish that had, up until then, remained unspoken. She had hated him but she loved him more.
He moved his stool closer to her and instinctively she swayed towards him before he caught her in his arms. Why were they only now – years later – able to comfort each other? It made no sense.
"We have to move on," he whispered into her hair.
"And you moving to New York…is moving on?"
He nodded, slowly. "I think so. I've got to try it. And I'm pleased you've met Richard. From all accounts, he's a good guy. You deserve some happiness."
"I haven't said "yes", yet," she stammered. Why was she telling him that?
"But you're going to?"
She nodded and wiped away her tears, before she looked up at him.
"It's too late for us, isn't it?" she suddenly asked.
She felt his body tense and she knew then she had made a mistake. He was clamming up, in the way that he had clammed up in that first year after he had left her, when she had tried to broach the subject of a possible reconciliation.
"Don't, Scarlett," he said quietly. "Remember the good times."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out two twenty dollar bills and placed it on the counter.
He looked at his watch. "I'd better be going. I'll get my lawyers to start working on the divorce papers. I'll give you more than the house, Scarlett. I'm not just going to give you that."
She gave him a watery smile. He stood up stretching to his full six foot four height and then bent down and kissed her forehead. His eyes lingered on her lips and, before she realised what he was doing, he brushed them with his own. She scanned his face, looking for a reason, but he was inscrutable. As always. Then, he disappeared into the rain.
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A/N – I wanted to try writing something modern. I am writing my own fiction piece which is set in the 1940s in London – but decided to take a break and write this. Frank did have a sister in GWTW but we never knew anything about her. I think a modern day Scarlett and Rhett would find it easier to break up/move on – even if it was very painful – because divorce/separation is not a stigma, even if it is still very sad. But a modern day Rhett would still retain an active interest in the children. I had thought about extending this to a multi-chapter fanfic, but (a) I need to finish One Night before I write anything else multi-chaptered (and I have started working on it again) (b) if I carried on with this, I might end up making them reconcile and (c) there is already an amazing modern day sequel – Ondine's One of Those Days. And I wanted to write something bittersweet – I am mindful of Mark Anthony's comments!
A/N again - on reflection, I think this isn't fresh enough. Or original enough. I think it seems almost like an abbreviated version of Six Months Later. When I wrote this, I did hesitate about posting it but I was dallying with writing a modern day fan-fic. But I think I should leave this, finish One Night and then move on and properly take a break from the fandom. With regard to why Rhett is only asking for a divorce after four years, my reasons are that he is largely indifferent to marriage and if he is able to be with whoever he wants, then I don't think he would necessarily press for a divorce. I think rich people often don't bother to divorce for a while - especially if they don't hate their spouse. Rod Stewart took about 10 years to divorce his second wife, Rachel Hunter, Charles and Diana only ended up divorcing because the Queen put pressure on them to sort it out (after 4 years), Michael Douglas left his wife a good few years before he finally divorced her (so that he could marry Catherine Zeta-Jones). Anyway - that was my theory. I might be wrong and have this aspect of Rhett's character wrong. He is after all quite a tidy man!
Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. You are always so thoughtful.