Chapter Sixteen
On the last Friday in May, Lacy arrived at the Auberge du Lac. Claudette hugged and kissed her, and Jean-Paul blustered and wiped his eyes.
“We were afraid you’d never forgive us,” he said.
“For what?” Lacy asked.
“For setting Max Petersen on you,” Claudette answered. “We didn’t mean any harm. We thought he could just…”
“We thought he could keep you safe. We were worried about you,” Jean-Paul completed Claudette’s thought.
Lacy smiled. “He did. He did his very best to keep me out of harm’s way. What no one could have known was that we would come to care for each other. And that it was impossible.”
“But why? Why should it be so impossible?” Claudette frowned, struggling to understand.
Lacy sighed. “I’m not the girl Max fell in love with. That girl was wild and impetuous and took chances. She changed her hair color like other people change their socks. Look at me. I’m just plain Lacy Jones from Ames, Iowa. I work as a simultaneous translator. I share an apartment with another girl in Brooklyn. I’m not into cloak and dagger.”
“C’est dommage. I wonder…” Claudette’s voice trailed off. “But who are your guests to be this week? It’s to be a good-bye party, you said? Who’s going away?”
“He’s already gone. It’s for Igor. I thought it would be good for the women in Igor’s life to meet each other, to come together to celebrate his life. I’ve invited Zsuzsa Szilard, Inga Graff, and Riana Rolfe to join us here. And Igor’s granddaughter, Irenke as well. We all, all five of us, loved him. I thought it would be fitting for us to say goodbye to him together.”
“Mon dieu! Quelle idée! Only you, Lacy, could think of such a thing.” Jean-Paul exploded in deep rolling laughter. “How Igor would have loved this!”
****
The first to arrive were Zsuzsa and Irenke. Zsuzsa was jet lagged and exhausted, but Irenke, having slept through much of the fourteen-hour trip, was lively and excited by her new surroundings. The boat ride to the Auberge was the first of her young life, and Irenke was bubbling over by the time they docked. She bounded down the dock and into Lacy’s waiting arms.
After brief introductions all around, Claudette showed Zsuzsa her to her room. Lacy and Irenke tagged along, Irenke hugging the cat, Sica, who had fallen instantly in love with the little girl.
“Get some sleep,” Lacy said. “I’ll look after Irenke. We’ll talk this evening.”
****
Inga Graff was the next to arrive. She carried only a duffel bag over one shoulder and wore a heavy sweater and much washed, paint-speckled jeans. She, too, disappeared into her room to rest before dinner.
At five in the afternoon, Riana Rolfe descended in a flurry of furs, with five suitcases. “I’m sorry about all the bags, darlings,” she said. “End of a tour. I sang at the Kennedy Center last night.” Then, taking in her surroundings, exclaimed, “What a beautiful place!”
After being shown to her room and freshening up, she rejoined Claudette, Jean-Paul, and Lacy in the sitting room. Irenke had been given an early supper and had finally collapsed. She was sound asleep in Lacy’s bed with Sica curled up beside her.
“What is that heavenly aroma coming from the kitchen?” Riana asked. “I’m starving.”
“We’ll eat as soon as the others join us,” Lacy said.
“Others?”
Inga came into the room and looked at the group seated around the fireplace. “You’re the singer, aren’t you? Riana Rolfe,” she said. “I once heard you in Frankfurt.”
“And you’re…” Riana looked puzzled.
“Inga Graff.”
“Do I know you?”
Inga laughed. “Perhaps not, but I’m the one who came after you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I lived with Igor Telchev in 2001. I think there were a few women between us, but none he actually lived with.”
Riana burst out laughing. “I’m delighted to meet you. And what do you do? No. Let me guess. You’re an artist!”
Inga looked down at her jeans and laughed with Riana. “I’m afraid these are typical of my clothing. Everything I own is paint splattered, except the clothes I wear for show openings. I do have those with me. I can dress up if the occasion demands. But this place feels comfortably informal.”
Riana looked at her own, out-of-place designer dress. “I, on the other hand, have to dress always the part of the prima donna. It gets tiresome at times.”
“A singer and a painter,” Riana mused. “Who else have you invited, Lacy? The ballerina, perhaps? The actress? Igor was ever a patron of the arts.”
During the laughter that erupted, Zsuzsa entered the room.
Lacy stood and brought her into the circle. “Ladies,” she said, “this is Zsuzsa Szilard, Doctor Szilard. She’s a pediatrician. She’s Igor Telchev’s widow, the mother of his son, Imre, and the grandmother of Irenke Telchev, a delightful little girl you’ll meet when she wakes from her nap.”
Two voices echoed in unison.
“But that’s impossible, you’re…”
“How can that be, you’re…”
Lacy laughed. “Zsuzsa married Igor in 1984, and never got around to divorcing him. A minor inconvenience that didn’t keep him from marrying me.” There was no bitterness in the words, only humor.
The other women joined in her laughter.
“Igor was never one to be worried by technicalities,” Riana said.
The laughter stilled as they each remembered the man they’d loved and lost.
“I met him at a lecture at NYU,” Lacy said. For the next hour she told them about her five years with Igor, the good and the bad. The other women listened without interruption. As she was drawing her account to a close, Jean-Paul announced dinner.
A tousled-haired Irenke came downstairs looking for them, and Zsuzsa took her on her lap at the table. The conversation was lively and inconsequential.
****
The next morning breakfast was served in installments. Lacy and Irenke took theirs early in the kitchen with Jean-Paul and Claudette and then went down to sit on the end of the dock and watch the birds in the shallows and the fish jumping. There was a chill in the air and both had on heavy wool socks and down vests. Lacy, knowing what to expect, had brought warm clothing for all her guests.
An hour later, Zsuzsa joined them. “Thank you for the clothes I found in my closet. I’d never have expected it to be so cold at the end of May.” She sipped her coffee and sat in companionable silence beside Irenke and Lacy, enjoying the morning.
It was lunch time when Riana emerged, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. “Sorry. I keep performer’s hours. I rarely get to bed before midnight. More often one or two o’clock in the morning. I’m accustomed to sleeping late. My working hours are those of the opera house and concert hall.”
“It’s no problem,” Lacy assured her. “We’re on no schedule here.”
“Thank you for the warm clothes I found in my closet. I’d have frozen without them.” Riana took a sip from her steaming mug. “I love it here. I can’t remember when I was anyplace as peaceful. But just why are we here?”
“It’s just something I had to do,” Lacy answered. “I couldn’t get past the sense of being suspended in time. I thought if we could all be together, if we could make our goodbyes to Igor together…”
“It’s crazy. But I know what you mean,” Riana said. “I’ve had no time to mourn Igor. And he mattered in my life.”
“How did you meet him?” Zsuzsa asked.
“It was after a concert,” Riana began.
****
That evening after they’d finished dinner and Irenke had been put to bed, the four women sat together by the fireplace.
“It’s your turn,” Lacy said turning to Zsuzsa.
“It was so long ago,” Zsuzsa protested.
“But you’ve never remarried,” Riana pointed out. “You never even took the step o
f divorcing Igor. He must have mattered to you.”
“Yes, he did. More than I was ever willing to admit. When he left, I was devastated. At first I hoped he’d come back to me, but as time went on and he never returned, never even tried to contact me…” Her voice faded as she reached back in time. “We were both students when we met…”
At the end of Zsuzsa’s tale, the three women sat in silence.
Finally Lacy broke it. She asked Jean-Paul and Claudette to join them and tell the others about their years working beside Igor. Of their friendship.
When there seemed nothing left to say, Lacy asked Jean-Paul to bring out the Cristal champagne, Igor’s favorite, she’d put on ice earlier.
After Jean-Paul poured sparkling wine into tulip glasses, Lacy proposed a simple epithet, “To our Igor.”
They all echoed the toast.
“He was one of a kind,” Jean-Paul said as they stood to make their way to bed.
“One can devoutly hope so,” Zsuzsa commented.
They all laughed.
****
The next morning, after a late breakfast, Jean-Paul took Lacy’s guests on the motor launch back to Belle Rive. From there a hired limousine would take them back to Dorval Airport in Montreal, and they would be on their way home.
“Are you content with the way things went?” Claudette asked as the boat disappeared down the lake.
“Yes. More than content. I feel I can begin to live again,” Lacy responded. A weight that had been sitting on her heart lifted. She felt young and whole once more.
“I’ve given Jean-Paul a shopping list. He won’t be back for a few hours.” Claudette said.
Lacy nodded. “I think I’ll just take a walk in the woods.”
****
The sun was setting when they heard the hum of the approaching boat. Claudette appeared from the vicinity of the kitchen, and the two women strolled out of doors to watch the boat come in. As it neared, they could make out two figures in the cockpit.
“Now who’s coming?” Claudette fussed. “I’ll have to lay another place for dinner.”
Lacy stared. Her heart jumped. It couldn’t be. She wanted to run back to the house and hide, or rush down the pier and into his arms, she wasn’t sure which. She remained frozen in place.
As Jean-Paul cut the engines and edged the boat against the dock, Max jumped to the pier and threw the mooring ropes over the pilings.
Lacy started to run down the grassy incline toward the boat dock. Half way there she stopped, her heart hammering, her face flushed.
Max walked slowly, deliberately, down the pier and up the lawn, stopping directly in front of Lacy. For an endless moment they simply stared at one another.
Max broke the silence. “You once said you didn’t know me, so…” He extended his right hand toward her, “How do you do? I’m Max Petersen. I’m from Toronto, and I also have a house in the Salzkammergut. I’m a cop by profession. My grandmother and my friends, Jean-Paul and Claudette, will vouch for the fact I’m basically a decent fellow. A bit slow to clue in at times, but good at heart.”
A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
Lacy paused only a moment before taking his proffered hand. “Lacy Jones of Ames, Iowa. I’m a simultaneous translator presently working and living in New York.”
He pulled her toward him and kissed her. His arms tightened around her. When his raised his lips from hers, he murmured, “When I thought I might never see you again, I was nearly out of my mind.”
Lacy melted against him. Why had she denied herself the comfort of his arms for so long? She looked into his warm brown eyes. “How did you know I was here?”
He nodded toward Claudette. “Friends in high places.”
Claudette had the grace to blush.
Lacy laughed. “I see. An informant in the camp.”
“Are you sorry?” Max asked.
“No. I’ve missed you.”
“If you missed me, why didn’t you answer any of my letters or phone calls?”
“I’m not sure I can explain,” Lacy said. “I wasn’t ready. I’m still not completely sure…”
Her voice trailed off as she thought about the all steps she’d taken since that night on Lake Balaton.
“I brought you something,” Max said. Reaching into his backpack, he started pulling something out of it. First the two slender crossed wooden bars, then the four strings. He pulled gently at the strings, and the puppet fell free.
“My pig! You brought me my flying pig!” Lacy squealed.
“I know I lost your clothes regularly, but the pig was always in my backpack.”
Lacy was crying and laughing at the same time.
Max pulled her close again, nuzzling her hair. “This pig has wings, Lacy. Against all odds, it can fly. You have wings too. You can fly. Don’t ever again be afraid to fly.”
A word about the author...
Blair McDowell's first career was as a musician and teacher. She studied in Europe and, during the course of her academic career, lived in Hungary, the United States, Australia, and Canada, teaching in universities in the latter three countries. She has always loved to write and has produced six widely used professional books and numerous articles in her field.
A voracious reader, Blair decided when she retired from university teaching to turn her talents to her first love, writing fiction. She moved to Canada's scenic west coast and, with a friend, opened a bed & breakfast. Mornings she makes omelets and chats with guests from far and near, and afternoons, she writes. From March through September, the world comes to her doorstep, bringing tales that are fodder for her rich imagination, but once the tourist season is over, she packs her bags and takes off for exotic ports. Europe in the fall, the Caribbean in the winter.
Romantic Road is set on some of her favorite destinations in Germany, Austria, and Hungary.
http://www.blairmcdowell.com
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