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CHAPTER 21
publish date:
2026-10-23 16:57:33
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Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 39
Victor comes back on a Friday, with a paper bag of empanadas and an apology.I'm sitting on the back steps of the clinic with my shoes off and my feet propped on an upturned bucket, because my ankles have decided to join the rebellion. Marisol is inside lecturing a teenager about vaping with the zeal of a woman who has made peace with being feared."I should have called first," Victor says, from the alley. "But I didn't want to give you the chance to say no."I look up.He's standing at the foot of the steps in a charcoal sweater, with the bag held out in front of him like an offering. He looks tired, and sorry, and a little bit lost, exactly the way he did when he first came."I'm not very good at being turned away," he adds, with a small, rueful smile."Neither am I," I say. "Sit."He sits, a respectful foot away, and unwraps the empanadas on his knee. The smell of cumin and onion rises, and my stomach, which has been staging a revolt for twenty weeks, rumbles in approval."They're
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 38
Naomi Park flies in on a Thursday, with two briefcases and a very small smile.She sits in the clinic's back office on the metal stool, knees together, a stack of documents on her lap, looking like a woman who has defeated a great many men in a great many conference rooms and enjoyed every minute. I sit across from her on a box of gloves."It's done," she says.I blink. "What is?""The transfer." She turns the topmost page toward me and taps a line with a pen. "Thirty percent of the Vance Hospital group. Registered, notarized, filed. As of nine o'clock this morning, you are the single largest individual shareholder in your family's company."I stare at my own signature on the bottom of the page. It doesn't feel real. It feels like looking at a photograph of a woman I used to know."Your father's lawyers have already filed an injunction," Naomi adds, with enormous calm. "They'll argue the trust was improperly formed. It's weak. There's a hearing in about two months.""Two months.""You
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 37
He comes anyway.Thatās the thing nobody warned me about. I thought a word like Again would be a door. I thought if I slammed it hard enough, the man on the other side would finally go away.Instead, on Sunday morning at ten fifty-eight, I stand on the clinic steps with a mug of tea going cold in my hands, and Damien Hartwell crosses the town square in a white shirt and sits down on our bench.Alone.āOh, honey,ā Marisol says softly, behind me.I donāt answer.He takes out his phone. I watch him set a timer, the small deliberate motions I know by heart, and place it face-up on the wood beside him. Then he folds his hands between his knees and looks straight ahead at the fountain, as though someone were sitting next to him.Beside him on the bench is a paper cup of water. Next to the cup, a little gray sleeve of saltines.He doesnāt look toward the clinic. He just sits there in the sun with his back straight, as still as a man at a funeral, while the bells ring and the little girl in t
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 36
I see them on Saturday morning, through glass.Iām not looking for them. I want ginger tea, and the only place in town that sells it is CafĆ© Luz, a narrow yellow storefront on the corner of the square with a window full of sugar skulls. Iāve been awake since four. Iām halfway across the cobblestones with one hand pressed to the small of my back when something in the window catches my eye, and my feet stop.A corner table. Two chairs. A white tablecloth.A woman in a cream silk blouse with her hair swept over one shoulder, leaning forward on her elbows, smiling at the man across from her.Bianca.And the man is Damien.I donāt breathe.Heās in the gray jacket. The same one as Thursday. He looks terrible, gray-faced and hollow-eyed, sitting very straight with both hands flat on the table, like a man in a dentistās chair. He isnāt smiling. But he isnāt leaving either.Bianca says something. I canāt hear it. I only see her mouth curve, slow and sweet, and her hand slides across the tablec
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 35
(D)The photograph is already everywhere by Sunday night.Damien reads it on Mrs. Ortegaās tablet, in the kitchen, under a yellow light, while she stands behind him with her arms folded and her mouth in a flat line. She doesnāt say anything. She has been saying nothing for forty minutes, which, for Mrs. Ortega, is a form of violence.HARTWELL HEIRāS SURPRISE FAMILY REUNION IN TEXAS!His own face looks back at him. Shirt sleeves rolled. A baby in his arms. And on his expression, caught in a single sharp frame, a naked, helpless tenderness he has never meant for anyone but one woman.Bianca stands beside him, laughing, her hand on his shoulder.It is a very good photograph. He would admire the composition, if he werenāt fighting the urge to be sick.āIs it yours?ā Mrs. Ortega asks at last, in a quiet, steady voice. āThe baby.āāI donāt know.āāMijo.āāI donāt know, Mrs. Ortega.ā He closes his eyes. āIāve been told yes. Iāve been shown nothing. I held her for four seconds and I feltā¦ I d
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. HartwellĀ Ā Ā CHAPTER 34
The Riverbend Fall Festival is Mrs. Ortegaās idea of heaven.She has been planning it since August. Paper flags crisscross the town square. The fountain is wrapped in marigolds. There are tables of tamales and candied pecans and a man with a guitar playing the same three songs, and in the middle of it all, a booth with a hand-lettered banner that reads FREE BLOOD PRESSURE CHECKS, ASK THE DOCTORA.Thatās me.Itās a perfect autumn Saturday. The light is golden, the air smells of woodsmoke and sugar, and for two uninterrupted hours I take the blood pressure of every grandmother in the county and tell each one to eat less salt. Nobody has asked me to forgive anybody. Iām wearing a loose yellow dress that Marisol bullied me into buying, and my back aches in a way Marisol swears is normal.Iām almost happy.Across the square, Damien is hauling crates of oranges for Mrs. Ortegaās stall, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He doesnāt look at me. He hasnāt, since the scan, not directly, as though loo
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