The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

EVELYN’S EYES ARE WET. THEY have been for some time. She stands up and grabs a tissue from across the room.

She’s such a spectacular woman—by which I mean she, herself, is a spectacle. But she’s also deeply, deeply human. And it is simply impossible for me, in this moment, to remain objective. Against all journalistic integrity, I simply care about her too much not to be moved by her pain, not to feel for all she has felt.

“It must be so hard . . . what you’re doing, telling your story, with so much frankness. I just want you to know that I admire you for it.”

“Don’t say that,” Evelyn says. “OK? Just do me a favor, and don’t say anything like that. I know who I am. By tomorrow you will, too.”

“You keep saying that, but we’re all flawed. Do you really believe you’re past redemption?”

She ignores me. She looks out the window, without even looking at me.

“Evelyn,” I say. “Do you honestly—”

She cuts me off as she looks back at me. “You agreed not to press. We’ll be done soon enough. And you won’t be left wondering about anything.”

I look at her skeptically.

“Really,” she says. “This is one thing on which you can trust me.”