They stood there looking at each other. She had a tremendous desire to reach out and stroke his dark face, to watch his expression change. She thought his skin must feel very warm. No one else looked like him. The breathing silence between them, she realized, was far more dangerous than words. The little dog went on dancing and barking on the ledge. Libby went and got the dog, but he wriggled out of her arms and leaped onto the floor, running mad circles around Cap Lockwood’s feet. Cap was wearing elegant brown wingtips, burnished like old wood. Her eyes were riveted on his shoes. Had she even said hello? The dog went on barking madly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This dog is lovely but very badly behaved. He’s never had any training and won’t obey.”
“Sit,” said Cap to the dog. The dog immediately sat. “Down,” said Cap. The little dog lay down, panting.
“No one told me you were coming today,” she said. “Henrietta is behind this. It . . . wasn’t kind.”
“She means well,” Cap said mildly.
“Good intentions—” She stopped. “I can’t pretend I’m not glad to see your face. I’m very glad . . . I’m very glad indeed to see you.”
He crossed toward her, came very close, and then stopped still. She shivered. He took her hand between both of his, shook the hand, in a manner of speaking—it was half a handshake and half a caress—then let go and stepped back. The silences between them, as they had always been, were long and electric. Libby resisted the impulse to begin babbling. He stood shifting his weight from one long leg to the other, looking around the room. “I’m here,” he said in a voice that restored normality. “I’ve come a long way. May I sit down?”
“Of course. Please do,” she said. She stood beside the long library table and gestured at a seat across. He sat. She remained standing. “Can I get you some tea?” she asked. “Are you hungry? Shall I ring for something?”
He shook his head, and a few lank pieces of dark hair dropped in front of his eyes. She remembered this. Her hand moved in the air as if to brush them back, but did no such thing. “Are you interested in raising birds now?” he asked.
“What?” she said blankly.
He gestured toward the big book she clutched. “Raising the Home Duck Flock,” he said.
“Oh!” She flushed. “Not really.” She set the terrible book on the table, face down. Why, of all possible volumes, this one? She sat catty-corner to him, pushing the book back and forth, back and forth.
“I flew to Ireland to see if you were well,” Cap said. He held up a hand. “I know you sent a card, but I needed to see for myself. A postcard reveals nothing. I wondered if you were homesick. If you wanted to come home, and perhaps might have felt”—he hesitated, searching for the right words—“that you didn’t have a place to come home to. I wanted to say clearly that you always have a place. As long as I’m alive, Libby, and even after I’m gone, you will always have a place with me.”
Her eyes shone at him. They were very green and bright just now. She seemed like some exotic creature, perhaps some woodland animal. One misstep and she might turn and bolt.
“That is so kind,” she said. Her voice quavered. She had not stopped shivering—around him her body often reacted this way, and she hated it.
“I don’t say it to be kind,” he told her.
“Which only makes it kinder.”
“Or more stupid. . . . The last time I saw you, you told me never to come near you.”
“I don’t remember saying never,” she said.
“To go away for ten years, or a hundred years—it’s all the same.”
“I disagree. If you could just stop thinking of me . . . a certain way . . . for even a few months, I’m sure we could be friends again.”
“That is just what I don’t want. Is it your plan,” he said speaking slowly and carefully, “that if I begin not thinking about you for a certain fixed period of time, I might find that I could keep it up indefinitely?”
She pulled Raising the Home Duck Flock toward her, then pushed it away again. Why, at least, couldn’t she have been holding the first book? The Roman history. “Indefinitely is more than I’d ask. More than I’d want, even.”
“I won’t stop thinking about you,” he said bluntly. “My thoughts are my own, Libby. You can’t control them. And you can’t stop my loving you.”
“You might try,” she insisted.
“My efforts too are my own,” he said. “If you are a strong person, you can’t help loving strongly. Loving ardently. That’s simply my nature. Don’t try to change me.”
“No,” she said. “I have no right to do that.” She looked down and there were his shoes again; his impossibly beautiful, masculine leather shoes. Her cousin’s white dog lay right by the shoes, wagging his tail as if in admiration or delight. “Think of me or not,” she said, “but please let me be for a year or two. I am happy here. I am finding my way.”
His firm lips tightened. “Which do you want? There’s all the difference in the world between one year and two.”
“Call it two then.”
He flushed as if she had slapped him. Yet of all the people she might ever wish to hurt, he was the very last. He had been kind when she was at her lowest point. He’d made her think her captivity, the narrowness of her life in Rochester, might not last forever. He put one hand down and automatically, hypnotically stroked the dog from head to flank. “And what’s to be my reward for all this patience?” he asked.
“You’ll have my gratitude and admiration,” she said. “I hope that’s worth something.”
He did not return her smile. “I don’t give a fig for your admiration, Libby,” he said. “When will you marry me? That’s all I care about.”
“Are we back to that again so soon?” she exclaimed impatiently. “I don’t want to marry you or anyone else, and it’s no kindness to me if you insist. Listen, Cap . . . isn’t it possible you don’t have the right to change me, either? Perhaps I will never want to marry . . .” She saw his look and colored. “Yes, never! It’s how I feel right now, and I have as much right to my thoughts and feelings as you have to yours. Do men have all the say in the matter? Why not a woman? She must always be chosen—she herself can never choose.”
“I want you to choose me,” Cap said grimly. “I’d settle for nothing less.”
“Then I choose you for my friend. Listen, Cap,” she pleaded. “I know women say they want to be friends when they want nothing at all, but if you let a little time pass, we might become real friends again, as we once were. Do you remember our long walks together? . . . How we would drive beside the lake with the windows rolled down?”
“I remember,” he said. “You walked barefoot on the boardwalk at Charlotte Beach one night. In a yellow two-piece bathing suit.” He had come up behind her and put his arms around her waist that night. But neither of them mentioned that part.
“Give me my chance,” she pleaded. “Let me see all I can. A woman has so little freedom in her life. My chance has come unexpectedly, and at great cost. You of all people know it, Cap. You knew me in my father’s house. When was I free to breathe my own air? To think my own thoughts, even? You have always been free to do as you like.”
“Yes, except where it matters most,” he said. He got up and pushed back his chair. The little dog jumped to its feet as well. “I will leave you alone,” he said. “I’ll fly back to America tomorrow.” He paused at the door, turning to look at her. “Only—I hate to lose sight of you.”
“I won’t do anything that will make you ashamed of me,” she promised.
“You’ll marry someone else, as sure as I’m standing here,” he said.
“Do you think I’m so easily won?” she shot back. “I’ve already turned down a British lord.” She couldn’t keep the note of bragging out of her voice.
“Have you?” he said. But he put his hand on the doorknob. “I suppose you expect me to be happy. I’m not. I’m glad he’s disappointed. But it only means you are preparing for some gran
der gesture. A lord would never do for you—oh no! It must be a pauper, I suppose . . . or a thief. Someone for you to rescue!”
“Won’t you at least stay for tea?” she asked. “Must you always slam in and out with a parting shot?”
“No. I won’t stay,” he said.
“Can’t you be friendly?” she begged.
“I’m not a friendly man,” he replied. “I’m barely civil. You’ve told me so yourself, a hundred times. Give Henry my regards. Tell her I’ll see her back in New York.” He pulled the doorknob back and forth. “Just watch out for dazzling men, Libby. Especially the clever ones. Try not to fall too hard for the worst of them.”
She rose but made no move to follow him out. “Why would I,” she said, “when I couldn’t fall for the best of them?”
He pulled the door open and looked into the hall. Something about it seemed to fill him with despair. His shoulders slumped. He looked, for almost the first time in their entire acquaintance, weary. “Explain to me how it’s done, Libby. Tell me how to live alone for the next two years,” he said.
“Oh, you should marry!” she exclaimed without thinking.
“God forgive you!” he muttered between clenched teeth, and stalked out.
Chapter Nine
Libby walked alone on a rainy autumn evening in Paris and was not surprised to hear silvery piano music pouring from her aunt’s apartment window. It seemed as if it should always be raining in Paris, and as if music—she thought she recognized the composer, but couldn’t be absolutely sure—should always be playing in a nearby room, at a slight distance.
She stopped and let the music drift over her with the soft rain. She had a rain bonnet in her coat pocket, but how could one wear something so hideous as a plastic rain bonnet in a place as beautiful as a Parisian street in the 5th arrondissement? Every chance she had, she wandered across one of the bridges and lost herself in the smallest winding streets of the Left Bank, as if trying to reach a point at which the street itself, and she herself in it, would disappear. It was the rare moment of quiet in this vast, ancient capital city that she loved most . . . the way the Parisian sky turned a shimmering shade of dark blue just before nightfall. She carried a bag of pastries in one hand and a baguette tucked under the other arm. Perhaps she was a cliché, but she didn’t mind being a cliché just then. She stood in the street a moment, captivated, looking up. There was a stranger sitting framed in her aunt’s bay window playing the piano: a woman whose profile was as perfect as a finely cut cameo, with golden hair piled neatly and tightly into a bun, a woman wearing a masculine-looking black suit. How like Paris, thought Libby, to admit a stranger into her aunt’s apartment, a stranger who played the piano so beautifully.
She opened the front door and went up the stairs as quietly as possible, trying to step over the one riser that creaked, but even while she was easing the door open the woman swung around in one fluid movement and said in a soft, accentless voice, “I hope I haven’t disturbed you?”
“Not at all,” said Libby, crossing the room to shake the woman’s hand. “I assume you are a friend of my aunt’s. You play exquisitely. I thought at first it was a record album.”
“Chopin,” said the other woman, smiling and shrugging as if to suggest that Chopin must get all the credit, that his beautiful music played itself, and that she had nothing whatsoever to do with it. “I am Madame Merle,” she added, rising from the piano. “But please—call me Clara.”
“I’m Libby,” she said, feeling self-conscious and ungainly, shaking the water off her bright-colored raincoat, which suddenly looked garish rather than chic, removing her damp things and looking awkwardly around for a place to put the baked goods. Madame Merle—the wonderful Clara—took them from her and immediately arranged everything to the best possible advantage.
“I know who you are,” said the woman. “Your aunt is so happy to have your company.”
“I am very grateful to my aunt,” said Libby. “I never would have left my own country without her kind invitation. I am seeing and hearing,” she said, gesturing toward the piano, a small but very good Boisselot & Fils, “so much. It’s like a whole college education, being here in Europe.”
“Oh, my dear,” laughed the older woman. “It’s a great deal more valuable than a college education.”
Libby pushed her bangs out of her eyes. She tried glancing into the small mirror by the door. Did she really look as rumpled and chaotic as she felt, next to this poised blonde woman? “And did you go to college?” she asked eagerly.
The other woman’s smile faded a shade. “I have taken night classes,” she said. “But let us not talk about me. I am a dull subject. Tell me your first impressions of Europe—of Paris. It is your first visit, isn’t it? It’s been such a long time since I’ve looked at any place through fresh eyes.”
“Have you met my friend Henrietta?” asked Libby. “She could describe everything much better than I. She is a professional writer,” she added proudly.
“No, luckily there was no one at home but your aunt when I arrived,” said Clara, with a crooked smile. “And your aunt has gone out. She gave me leave to sit and play. I seldom get to play on such a beautiful instrument. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I think I could just sit here and look at you all night!” Libby burst out. She didn’t usually give way to her enthusiasms, but it was in her nature now and again to be carried away. And where would one be carried away, if not in Paris at dusk?
“How sweet of you!” returned Madame Merle. “Americans do say the funniest things. It’s very charming. No wonder the rest of the world loves you.”
“And where are you from?” asked Libby, failing to detect any clue.
“Oh, me—” Clara Merle laughed a tinkling laugh, a sound with silvery tones in it, but an undercurrent of sadness too. Laughter like that is like music, Libby thought. “I am from here . . . there . . . everywhere, I suppose. But chiefly I must say nowhere.”
“And where did you get that wonderful suit?” Libby asked.
Clara sank into a small armchair just across from Libby, crossing her long slim legs and looking at them admiringly—as if the legs and the suit did not in fact belong to her. “Now that I can answer!” she said. “It is Chanel.”
“A real Chanel?” asked Libby.
“Of course it is real!” A flash of annoyance came across Clara Merle’s composed face, and two pinkish red spots appeared, one on each sculpted cheek. But her expression softened when she saw how she had flustered her new acquaintance.
“However, you mean no harm,” said Clara. And then, as if speaking to herself, with a light laugh, “And really, what harm can she possibly do me?” Her whole look brightened; she appeared in that instant fifteen years younger. “You must forgive me, chérie. I live amongst people who say nothing by accident, who often wish to inflict harm. I have kept my guard up so long that I no longer remember how it works to let it down.” She stood, removed the black jacket, and handed it to Libby.
“I could show you several ways to recognize the authentic from the frauds; for example, in the straightness of the seams, and the turn of the hand-sewn hem—and one must never trust the label. Never a label! They are so easily added on. . . . In fact, I, myself—but, never mind. Here. Try it on.”
She helped Libby into the jacket and smoothed it over her shoulders, giving it an expert tug in the back. “Just so! It’s all in the details, you know.” She stepped back to take a look. “Very nice. Of course I am taller than you are, and a bit . . . fuller. But yes. Black becomes you. Look in the glass.” And she steered Libby to a mirror, wherein both women were reflected. Madame Merle cocked her golden head, and stepped back a little, as if automatically.
“I have only recently given up wearing black,” said Libby, looking not at herself but at the glamorous Madame Merle. She looked a bit like an older Grace Kelly. But she had other qualities that Grace Kelly would not have wanted to possess. A hardness. And two sharp lines around her lovely mouth,
one on each side.
“Yes, I know,” said Madame Merle. “Your aunt told me. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“He was a drunk,” blurted Libby. “I loved him very much. He was unhappy.” She turned away from the mirror and removed the Chanel jacket, handing it back. “This is beautiful,” she said. “But it doesn’t really suit me.”
“I agree.” Clara nodded approvingly. “It’s important to know what looks right on us and what doesn’t. Sometimes I think that is the only choice we women have in this life. But then, you young women may change all that, in the future. A suit is like a coat of armor. Someday you may suddenly find you need one.” She went to a small bag sitting by an armchair and fished out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Libby shook her head.
“Don’t begin, and you won’t have to quit. One day we’ll probably learn that cigarettes are deadly. But till then”—she lit the cigarette and breathed in deeply, tilting back her head—“I find it soothes me. Just as the ads say.” She eyed Libby through a veil of smoke. It obscured her features. “It would be nice to have a friend, not for usefulness, but . . . simply, because.” She smiled. “So tell me. Why are you here? First in Ireland with your decrepit uncle and cousin, and now in Europe with your aunt? Why are you here, really?” She spied an ashtray across the room and set it on top of the piano. “You can confide in me if you like. I know how to keep secrets.”
“They are not decrepit,” said Libby, feeling a trifle uneasy around this fascinating woman. “I’m only sorry that my uncle is ill.”
“He is not as close to dying as your cousin,” said Madame Merle. Then, expertly reading Libby’s expression, she added, “I am very fond of Lazarus. Truly. And I know there are things one is not supposed to say—”
“Oh, but those are often the most important things!” Libby burst out. “You ask why I’m here. Just look.” She pointed out the window, at the city of Paris, glimmering blue and gold outside the glass, and partly reflected within. “Look at this magnificent old city. It’s all a dream—a childhood dream. To see the world! To really look at things, for myself, by myself. I could never have imagined it possible. . . . I am sorry, truly sorry, that my father’s death led me here—but how can I not be grateful, all the same? I am in Paris, talking to you, a beautiful, accomplished woman wearing a real Chanel suit!”
Beauty and Attention: A Novel Page 9
