A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  He pulled her sweater over her head, caressing her breasts as he did; then he fumbled with the clasp of the gold and pearl belt. “Why the hell you wore this . . .” he muttered, and Stephanie broke into nervous laughter. “Maybe I wanted a chastity belt.” Panic was rising inside her. I don’t know what to do; I’m not even sure I want this. But he bent to take her breast in his mouth, and a gasp broke from her. She opened the belt and stepped out of her pants and then, wide-eyed, stared unseeing across the room while he undressed her completely. She kept her gaze away from him, hearing him take off his own clothes, until he pulled her to him and she gave a start at the shock of his skin on hers. Her breasts were flattened against the thick hair on his chest; his large hands moved over her back, her buttocks, her waist, her thighs, as if shaping clay, and then her long sigh broke the silence. She remembered nothing about making love to him in the past, but his hands were insistent and her body, fervid and open, rose to meet his. It knew what to do.

  At dawn they put on two of Max’s silk robes, Stephanie rolling the sleeves up to her elbows, and they went downstairs to the breakfast room and ate cold coq au vin and slices of marquise au chocolat, and finished a bottle of burgundy. “An excellent dinner twice excellent,” Max said. “I’m in Robert’s debt, and even more in yours. I haven’t been this hungry or this satisfied since October twenty-fourth.”

  “What was October twenty-fourth?” Stephanie asked idly. She was drifting on the languor of the night, remembering how it had felt to live fully in the moment, as if neither of them had a past and so finally were equals.

  “Nothing. It was a slip of the tongue.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was a specific date. Tell me what it was.”

  “It can wait.”

  “Max.”

  “Well. That was the day the yacht exploded. Since then I haven’t been sure when we would find each other again, and so I haven’t felt satisfied. Until tonight. That was all I meant.”

  “But you’ve never told me what happened. Every time I ask, you put me off.”

  “There’s no rush; it might be a shock to you to hear the details. Anyway, this is not the time to dredge it up; I’m sorry I mentioned it. You talk to me instead. Tell me what you meant about learning to drive; a joke, I assume, but I seem to have missed the point.”

  “It wasn’t a joke. Madame Besset taught me to drive.”

  “Madame—” He frowned. “I told you I would teach you when the time came.”

  “Well, the time came, and you weren’t here.” A spark of annoyance cut through her languor. “Max, I’m not a child, and I’m not a prisoner. Am I? Do you plan to keep me locked up forever?”

  “Of course not; don’t be absurd. I wanted to make sure you were well and strong.”

  “I’ve been well and strong for at least a month.”

  “But you still get headaches, and you’re frequently depressed—”

  “And driving makes me feel better. It makes me feel wonderful.”

  After a moment he shrugged. “Where have you driven?”

  “Only up here. Twice. Once in a torrential rain and once with blue sky and puffy clouds and birds flying all around us and I felt as if I was flying with them. It was absolutely wonderful; I loved it. I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to go into Cavaillon, but Madame Besset thought it would be best to wait for you.”

  “The first sensible thing I’ve heard about her tonight. I should fire her; she had no right—”

  “Max, you will not fire her! She taught me because I insisted, and I like her and I want her here. And I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. “Well, then, this time she stays. But you understand, Sabrina, I will not have servants breaking my rules in my home. I do not give directions frivolously, and I expect everyone to understand that they are to be scrupulously followed at all times.”

  “Everyone?” Stephanie sat back in her chair, putting space between them. “You’re not talking only about servants; you’re talking about me, too, isn’t that right? I’m to obey all your orders, scrupulously, in your home. Isn’t this my home, too?”

  “Of course it is. We share it as we share our lives, which gives both of us satisfaction and enormous pleasure. But you have no knowledge of the world, Sabrina; you know that you have everything to learn. Until you do, you’re in my care and you’ll defer to me and let me guide you. Good God, do you know how I worried about you in the hospital—that without me to watch over you, you would die? You’ve been entrusted to me, Sabrina, and I will decide how to protect you so that nothing can harm you.”

  She was stunned, almost buffeted, by the force of his words.

  “And I need order in my life,” he went on. “This house is a refuge for me, and for you, too. I promise I’ll take care of you; you will never lack for anything. Whatever I can do to make you happy and content, I will do; I promise you that. But you can’t fight me, Sabrina; I’ve lived by my own rules for a long time, I’ve never lived with anyone else, and I have no interest in learning to live with chaos.”

  “All I did was learn to drive. What does that have to do with chaos?”

  “Nothing; you’re right, of course. I exaggerate. But I will not have a breakdown of authority.”

  “Your authority.”

  “My dear, you can’t believe that I would bend to anyone else’s. As for your driving, would it have been so painful to wait another week or two? If you had asked me, I would have been delighted to teach you. In fact, I was looking forward to it.”

  Stephanie was silent. Her week-long exhilaration at learning to drive, her pleasure in standing up to Max regarding dinner with Robert, the night’s sensual languors were all gone. She felt as helpless and vulnerable and alone as she had in the hospital and in the weeks after Max brought her to this house.

  I will decide how to protect you so that nothing can harm you.

  I’ve lived by my own rules for a long time.

  I will not have a breakdown of authority.

  She looked at her hands, folded compliantly in her lap. The only thing he hadn’t said was that if she didn’t like it she could leave.

  But where would I go? I don’t know anything, I have no money, I have no other place. I have no one but Max to take care of me.

  Her throat tightened and she closed her eyes to prevent tears from forming. No one but Max. Robert was there and he cared for her, but he had his own life, restricted in many ways; Madame Besset was there, but she had a husband, a family, a farm, and she knew what was correct and what was not, and her employer coming to live with her, even temporarily, would definitely not be correct.

  The silence dragged on; Max would not break it, and Stephanie could not. The sky was brightening. She could see the kitchen come to life, but what she saw most clearly was that she was alone with a man she barely knew in a small town nestled in the fields and hills of southern France, and she had nothing of her own, not even a name. She had only what Max gave her. Somewhere in the world there were people who knew her and who were wondering what had happened to her, but she had lost them. She had no connections, except to Max. She had no family, except for Max. She was lost to everyone, even to herself, except for Max.

  “My dear,” he said at last, and took her clasped hands between his. “We will do many things together, go many places. You will learn so much it will be as if you never forgot anything. You will never feel deprived. Now come. We’re going to move your things into my room.”

  She followed him from the breakfast room, the fine silk of his robe brushing her skin, wrapping her, enfolding her. I belong to him, she thought, and shivered.

  In the small room that had been hers, Max pulled clothes from the closet and laid them on the bed. He piled cosmetics into one box, shoes into another, lingerie and sweaters into a third. “We can do this in two trips.” He draped clothes over Stephanie’s outstretched arms and picked up two boxes. “You’ll decide where everything goes; I bought an extra armoire
and bureau for you.”

  Surprised, she stopped on the bottom stair and looked back at him. “I didn’t see them.”

  “I put them in the dressing room. If you want them in the bedroom, we’ll move them.”

  On the second trip, Max paused beside the wide arch to the living room. It was daylight now, and he saw the room for the first time. “What have you done here?”

  Behind him, Stephanie stopped short. “I changed a few things.”

  “So I see.” He put down the box he was carrying and walked forward. Stephanie watched from the doorway. He strolled around the room, examining the arrangement of the furniture, the lamps and bowls of fruit, the groupings of small sculptures, the paintings and patterned rugs, as if he had never seen them before. He came back to the center of the room. “Why did you do this?”

  “It wasn’t right before.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “It wasn’t harmonious.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “I don’t know. I just knew it.”

  “You just knew it? The idea just came to you out of nowhere that this room wasn’t harmonious?”

  “It wasn’t an idea. I felt it. I knew it. And I knew I could make it better. I would have liked to change some of the furniture, but I worked with what was here and a couple of pieces I found in the attic.”

  “What made you think you could make it better?”

  “I don’t know! That’s just what I thought!”

  “Based on nothing else?”

  “Oh.” She caught her breath. “You think I did this before. You think I knew what to do because it was my profession. But you said I never talked about a profession. Did I ever say anything about designing rooms?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “And I have no reason to think that was your profession. You might have done it as a hobby, but we have no way of knowing that. We’ll have to see what other inspirations you come up with. Did you have any while you were cooking with Robert?”

  “He says he’s sure I’ve spent a lot of time in kitchens.”

  “An easy guess, true of most women. Where did you get the rug in front of the fireplace?”

  “In the attic. Madame Besset took me up there. I think it may be very fine; the weave is tight and the colors . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me, to ask me if you could do this?”

  Anger flared within Stephanie. She had worked hard to make this room beautiful, and she knew she had succeeded. He had not thanked her, or even acknowledged that she had improved it. Instead he had put her through a quiz and treated her like an ignorant servant. Whatever I can do to make you happy and content, I will do, I promise you that. Well, he has a hell of a lot to learn, She thought, and snapped, “Change it back.”

  “No,” he said musingly. “I wouldn’t do that. It is indeed far better, far more pleasant than it was. In fact, it is superb. You have an excellent eye. Thank you, my dear. I hope you’ll look at the other rooms of the house without waiting for me to go away again.”

  Stephanie’s anger simmered, with nowhere to go. Damn him, she thought, and wondered if she had been able to keep ahead of him before she lost her memory. But they had known each other for only a few days. I didn’t know him then, and I don’t know him now. I wonder how long it will be before I figure him out.

  He was looking at her, waiting for her to respond. “Of course,” she said. “I’d like that,” and followed him up the stairs.

  It took only half an hour to make her a part of his bedroom. Max hung her clothes in one of the closets in his dressing room and in the new armoire; Stephanie laid sweaters and silk underclothes in the new bureau and arranged her jewelry box and cosmetics on the dressing table. Max replaced the burned-out bulb in the lamp on one of the nightstands. “Max,” Stephanie said, piling her books beside the lamp, “do we have a copy of Alice in Wonderland?”

  “I have no idea; I don’t read fantasy. Why?”

  “Robert mentioned it. I’d like to read it.”

  “Then we’ll buy a copy if we don’t have one.”

  Stephanie yawned, her eyelids suddenly so heavy she could not keep them open. “I think I need to go to sleep.” She looked at him curiously. “Aren’t you even tired?”

  “No, I’ve stayed up all night many times. You lie down; I’ll be downstairs in my office.”

  Stephanie wanted to say, Stayed up for what? but she was too sleepy; her body was shutting down, legs, arms, neck, eyelids, all drooping, letting go. She lay down on Max’s bed—no, now it’s my bed, too—and felt him cover her with the quilt before she sank into sleep.

  Max stood over her, gazing at her beauty, still astonishing to him when he came back to her, even from another room of the house. His face darkened when he focused on the small scars on her face and the large one on her forehead, partially visible through her hair; that anything should diminish her beauty enraged him. He saw her beauty as art, and he was a collector of art; he had studied it all his life and had made acquaintances around the world with whom he could talk in the private vocabulary of those who were familiar with art and could afford the greatest works of the present and the past.

  And art had been his business, too, for two decades, until last October. He had been perhaps the world’s most successful smuggler, arranging for his people in Central and South America and the Middle East and Far East to rob museums, tombs and ancient temples—sometimes whole sections of the temples themselves, dismantled for shipment—and to smuggle them out of their countries and into Europe and America, where collectors willing to pay huge fees were waiting. He had been preeminently successful because he was far more than a businessman: like his clients, he knew the intrinsic value of what he was obtaining, and often they came to him for advice on filling out a collection or selling something they had tired of.

  Now, as he looked down upon the woman in his bed, his rage was the same rage he would feel if one of those irreplaceable works of art had been damaged, not grossly, but enough to cast a pall over its perfection and reduce its value to anyone who might have wanted it.

  Still, he felt a certain satisfaction in that: the scars on her face and her loss of memory made her less perfect and therefore more dependent on him. And he needed her dependence. His love for her had grown in the past months to an obsession, desire eating at him wherever he was, whatever he was doing, and he had known, through the night just ended, that he had to possess her completely and permanently, and to receive from her a passion equal to his.

  He was sure that would come, had already begun, and so when she came to his office after her nap, and he stood up and confidently took her in his arms, he was stunned and then infuriated by her instinctive withdrawal. His arms tightened. “Well?”

  Stephanie saw the flat coldness in his eyes and her body went slack; she stood passively within his arms. “I don’t know. I was just . . . surprised.”

  “By your husband embracing you in the house you share after a night of making love.”

  She did not answer. He made it sound absurd, but something in the way he had taken her to him, as if he had the right . . .

  But didn’t he have the right? She had married him. She lived with him. She had made love to him all night.

  “Well?” he demanded again.

  “I don’t know.” She moved away from him, and he did not try to hold her. “I don’t know you,” she burst out. “You never let me know who you are, inside.”

  His eyebrows rose. “What would you like to know?”

  “Oh . . . so many things. What you really want, what worries you, what makes you happy, what you’re afraid of.”

  “Are you afraid? Is that what’s worrying you?”

  “No, should I be? Of what? The explosion on the yacht? You won’t tell me about it. Or everything you know about me—”

  “Why do you think I haven’t told you everything I know about you?”

  “I don’t know. I feel it.”

&
nbsp; “The way you felt the living room was not harmonious?”

  He was smiling, but Stephanie’s face was somber. “Yes. Exactly. Something between us isn’t harmonious, and there has to be a reason for that. And there are other things I want to know. I think you’re hiding something, and I want to know what it is and why you’re doing it; I want to know if maybe you’re not as absolutely sure of yourself as you pretend to be, if you’re worried about not always being in control of things around you, of what happens to you.”

  “I’m not afraid, I’m not worried, I’m not hiding anything,” he said flatly. “You know as much about me as anyone does, probably more. I don’t show my feelings the way Robert does; you’ll have to accept that. Now, that’s enough; I don’t fritter my time away speculating about motives. What would you like to do today?”

  She thought of trying again to make him understand how important this was to her: that as long as she felt he was hiding things, as long as she felt they were not harmonious, she could not love him. Then, with a small gesture of resignation, she dropped it. Later, she thought, as she seemed to think so often with Max. Later she’d make him understand, and then, perhaps, she would love him.

  “Could we go for a drive?” she asked. “I mean, would you come with me while I drive into Cavaillon? We could have lunch and I could see the town; I haven’t seen it at all.”

  “Whatever you’d like. Give me a few minutes to finish up here.”

  He went to his desk and began to sort through papers spread out on the large blotter. Stephanie watched for a minute, trying to see from his face if he was angry, but he showed nothing but concentration, and after a moment she left and went to the kitchen. Madame Besset was opening and closing cabinets, a deep frown on her face. “Is something wrong?” Stephanie asked.

  “No, madame, though I had my fears. Everything is exactly where it belongs and nothing is broken. I am very pleased.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased,” Stephanie said gravely. “We didn’t want you to think we’d invaded your kitchen.”