“I do that for Jacqueline. A few only. Most go to Rohan. But you are only giving me information that anyone can see. I want to know about what is unseen.”
“I know.” And then it came, more easily than she would have thought. “I don’t love him. I’ve tried, but there is such a gulf between us of not knowing . . . I mean, I think he knows more about my past than he tells me, but I have no way of proving that, or even testing him. It’s a feeling, no more, but so strong that I can’t trust him. I believe him when he says he loves me and he’s very good to me: he’s let me do things he’d rather I didn’t do, like work in the shop with Jacqueline and cook with Robert—”
“Why should you not do those things?”
“I don’t know. He certainly doesn’t want a helpless woman who lolls on a chaise all day eating bonbons and humming French love songs—”
Léon was laughing. “A charming picture. Did he tell you that was what he didn’t want?”
“No, I asked him one day if that was what he was waiting for. He found it amusing, too, but he didn’t tell me what was wrong with working with Jacqueline and cooking with Robert. He does like it, though, that I’m redecorating the house and adding on a studio for myself.”
“Because you are at home when you do it.”
“Yes. And because . . . it fixes me more permanently there.”
“Have you given him reason to doubt your permanence?”
“I haven’t given him any reasons to be sure of me.”
Léon’s hand tightened on hers, and she shook her head. “I’m not proud of that. I owe him everything: my life, a home, a chance to make a real person of myself, Robert’s friendship . . . I’d have nothing if it weren’t for Max.”
“But you think he is lying to you.”
“Oh . . . such a harsh word. I don’t know. I just can’t be sure of anything with Max. I like him, you know; he’s a good companion and he’s a bulwark when I’m frightened or feeling lost, but there’s something about him that makes me think of danger, or of dangerous people . . . maybe both. I know that sounds foolish; I know he’d be astonished if I told him that, but I feel it and it won’t go away, even when I’m relying on him the most.”
She paused. “I can’t imagine myself changing the way I feel about him. Ever.”
Léon’s breath came out in a long sigh. “And what will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve thought of leaving him, but there are so many reasons not to . . . I don’t want to hurt him; he’s done nothing to deserve that. And I’m afraid. I know so little about anything, I don’t know where I’d even begin if I were on my own. Now that I have a job, soon perhaps I can think more seriously about leaving. But not yet. And there is one more thing . . .”
She looked at their clasped hands. Her voice was very low. “I will not move from being dependent on Max to being dependent on someone else. I will not exchange one protector for another.”
“No, that would not be good. And there is no reason for you to do it. But what of us?”
She looked up at him and gave a slow, impish smile. “You’re not offering to be my protector?”
“No. Though I would protect you if the need arose.”
Oh, I like that, Stephanie thought. That he knows there is a difference. And then she took a long breath and plunged into the future. “I want to be with you.”
“Then we’ll be together. We’ll discover all that we do not know and create our own memories.” It was as solemn as a ceremony, Stephanie thought, with their clasped hands to mark it.
After a moment Léon said, “I’ve been with someone for a few months. I’ll end it as soon as I can.”
“I’m not asking you to do that. And I’m not—”
“You’re not leaving Max. But it would not be fair to my friend to continue; we don’t love each other, but we’re good friends and I’ve always been honest with her.”
“Jacqueline said the same thing about the man she sees. It sounds so simple.”
He looked at her curiously. “Did she tell you the name of the man?”
“No, just that they have a good—” Stephanie stared at him and caught her breath. “No. It can’t be. Léon, it can’t be!”
“Why not?” His voice was gentle. “I told you my paintings were at her shop because of her; we’ve helped each other for a long time. And about a year ago we were both at a place in our lives when we needed companionship. We didn’t want love; we wanted warmth and solace, and that was what we gave each other. She’s a remarkable woman, you know; a very dear friend.”
“She’s been a friend to me. She gave me a job, she teaches me every day, we talk . . . about everything. I can’t hurt her; I can’t do anything that might hurt her.”
“Sabrina, this is not between you and Jacqueline; it is between Jacqueline and me.”
“No, no, don’t you understand? I talk to her about Max and she told me about you; we were two women, talking, trusting each other. She’s the only woman friend I have—well, there’s Madame Besset, but that isn’t at all the same—and I won’t take and take from her and then steal someone away, someone she cares about . . .”
“You cannot steal me; what are you thinking? That I am like one of those silver spoons in your shop that you can tuck inside your coat and carry away on tiptoe?”
A small laugh broke from Stephanie. “I’m sorry; that wasn’t a good word, but—”
“And as for Jacqueline caring about me, she does so as a friend, not as a serious lover. I told you that. Evidently, so did she.”
“She told me you need each other.”
His eyebrows rose. “She said that?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“She said that you have a good time and need each other and if you parted tomorrow she would miss you very much.”
Léon contemplated her. “Sabrina, I know Jacqueline well. I do not believe that was all she said.”
Stephanie looked away from him. What did she owe Jacqueline? Loyalty, gratitude, love . . . but not a lie. “She said she would miss you very much for a while, but she would wish you well for the pleasure you had together. And you would do the same for her.”
“She was right. Now please listen to me. Jacqueline and I have not looked for love from each other, and so we have not expected permanence. Each of us knew that what we had could change at any time, and then we would be friends of a different kind. That’s what she told you: we would wish each other well. How many people are lucky enough to find that when they need it? A loving friend who brightens a dark corner of our life, who chases shadows away, who strives to make us feel better about who we are and what we are doing. Jacqueline and I did that for each other. But we never touched the mystery in each other, or even tried—” He saw Stephanie’s eyes widen. “So she told you that, too. It seems she told you everything that was important about us. Now I will tell you what is important about you and me.”
He turned Stephanie’s hand within his and kissed the palm. It sent a shock through her and she gasped, and he kissed the same spot again, feeling her tremble. “I love you, Sabrina. I want to be with you and help you rediscover the world and yourself, and you will help me discover the world from this day on. We will be together as little or as much as you want, I’ll do whatever you want, and someday . . . Well, that’s enough. Predictions are folly; we have enough to learn about each other to fill the present. We’ll build the future as we go.”
A powerful joy flared within Stephanie. She had no past, and no real belief that she ever would find it, but now she saw the outlines of a future, a place to belong, where she would not be lost again. She felt a delight in herself that she had not felt before: delight in her youth and strength, in her mind that could learn and remember what it learned, in her work, in the affection of friends, and in this man’s love. Exhilaration buoyed her up: she was part of the earth and the sky, in this place, at this time. She was whole, and she was happy.
Almost without moving,
they were in each other’s arms. Stephanie put back her head. “I love you,” she said, and the words were a song that had been locked within her, waiting for a chance to soar. When they kissed, her mouth opened to Léon’s and her arms drew him down to lie on her. She desired and she loved, and for Sabrina Lacoste, whose memory was eight months old, it was the first time.
CHAPTER 13
“’Morning, Mrs. Andersen,” the garage attendant said. “How long for you today?”
“About three hours, Juan.” Sabrina slipped the ticket he gave her into her purse and took her briefcase and small suitcase of samples from the back seat. “How was your friend’s wedding?”
“Oh, that was one great party. They better stay married after that send-off. Nice of you to remember. You want your car washed today? I’ve got time.”
She started to say no, because that was Cliff’s job, but Cliff was at soccer camp every day, coming home exhausted from some fierce determination that drove him from morning to night, and why not have someone else do it? “Yes, please. And would you try to get the stain off the back seat? I think it’s ice cream, or maybe pizza.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Kids, they are a trial. And put it on your bill?”
“Yes.”
She walked from the cool garage to the heat of Dearborn Street, humid air heavy with fumes from cars and trucks, the smell of chickens turning on spits in a nearby restaurant, the faint spicy scent of carnations at the florist next door. The end of July, she thought. This has to be as hot as it gets. But then, why did Madeline say August is usually worse?
At the Koner Building the door swung open as she tried it. Vern was there, she thought, surprised; usually he sauntered in after she and Koner had been waiting for fifteen minutes.
Her footsteps echoed as she climbed the stairs to the room they had cleaned out to use as an office. “Good morning,” Vernon Stern said. “Have I impressed you?”
“You have.” She smiled at his grin, self-deprecating but eager, like that of a small boy who had lain in wait to spring a surprise. He was extraordinarily handsome, she thought as she did each time she saw him: his blond hair curlier than usual in the humidity, but still looking perfectly groomed. He was carefully craggy but polished, wearing jeans and cowboy boots and a blue silk shirt open at the neck.
“That’s the goal: to impress.” He took her suitcase and laid it on the folding steel table in the center of the room beside his rolls of drawings and the morning newspaper. “What is this? It feels like you packed rocks.”
“A few wood samples and paint chips; mostly tiles and quartzite. So, yes, basically I packed rocks.”
They laughed together as Sabrina opened her briefcase and took out three thick loose-leaf binders. “These are the specs; I finished them late last night, so I haven’t gone over them. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me have your comments within a week.”
He was scanning one of them. “Very good. Looks very complete. Quartzite in the foyers of the double apartments. I like that. And in the foyers of the smaller ones?” He leafed back. “Slate. Verde. Good choice. And six-inch floor moldings; wonderful. I hope Billy goes for the expense; they’re the only ones that look right in a vintage building. You have a good sense of tradition—the best of it, anyway. I haven’t met many designers who do; it’s more European than American.” He looked up at her. “You’ve had fun doing this.”
“The best designs come when it’s fun.”
“I agree. I wasn’t criticizing. My dullest buildings are the ones designed to clients’ idiosyncrasies; no fun at all. In fact, I detest them.”
“Why do you do them?”
“Because when you’re on your own and dependent on the whims and whispers of the public, you keep your eye on what’s truly important, which is keeping your name visible and memorable while doing your best to create excellence. Success and fame are wondrous things, though; they do make it possible to say no. And I think I’ll be there in a few years.”
“I hope you will. It gives you such a feeling of strength, of being in control of who you are through what you’re doing.”
He looked at her curiously. “Now, how would you know what it is to depend for survival on the vagaries of fickle, wealthy, slightly bored socialites and know-it-all corporate types?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“Which means you don’t want to tell me. Hints of a colorful past. I’d like to hear about it.” Sabrina was silent. “I’m serious; I really would. You’re a fascinating woman, Stephanie; I can’t find a category for you. Suburban housewife, antique dealer, terrific interior designer . . . but more than that, much more, and I’m damned if I can put my finger on it.”
“Why should you?” she asked coolly.
“Because I don’t like mysteries. I’m a very literal guy: I design buildings, I don’t write poetry. You told me you’d grown up in Europe, so that explains your accent, and I suppose your feel for tradition, but there’s something else, sort of a second person somewhere; you’re so guarded, almost secretive. It’s a challenge, getting close to you.” He waited, but Sabrina met his eyes and said nothing. “You know, that’s hard to do: to say nothing. Most people try to fill a silence. You’re not a babbler; I find that fascinating, too.” He paused again. “Well, someday, perhaps; I don’t give up easily, you know.” He looked again at the notebook and skimmed more pages. “Double doors into the master bedroom suite?”
“I know you drew a single door, but it’s at the end of the gallery, with a vestibule behind it, and I thought if we could find old stained glass it would be more dramatic from both sides.”
“It would. Nice idea. Have you some ideas for locating the glass?”
“I’d try Salvage One first. And I have a list of other possibilities.”
“So you know Salvage One. A designer’s dream.”
“Yes, but a nightmare, too, don’t you think? All those bits and pieces of buildings that have been torn down—doors, windows, fireplace surrounds, sinks, grates, wall sconces—fragments of people’s hopes and dreams and tragedies. I always feel as if a whisper follows me through all the floors, saying that everything is fragile, everything dies, and we should write down everything we do and think; otherwise it will vanish so completely . . .”
“Yes, I’ve felt that. But more than that: that we shouldn’t believe in anything too devoutly, because it will soon be gone.”
“Oh, no. It has nothing to do with trust and belief and love; just because something is fragile is no reason not to believe in it. Maybe it’s a reason to believe in it even more; then we’ll try to protect it.”
“You have faith. I admire that.”
Their eyes met and they smiled. Sabrina thought how much she liked him, and liked working with him. “Is there anything else in the specs you want to talk about now?”
“Well, let’s see.” He turned more pages. “What are the question marks? Decisions you haven’t made?”
“Items where you and Billy and I disagree. He thinks the quartzite is too expensive, for example. I hope we can settle most of them today.”
“I’m sure we can.” Stern closed the book and laid it down. He sat on the edge of the table, lightly swinging one foot. “Where do you do your work? Do you have an office?”
“I’m using our attic until we figure something out. Why?”
“Our firm has an extra room; it’s yours if you want it.”
Her eyebrows rose. “That’s very generous.”
“No, it’s quite selfish. I want to see more of you.” His eyes, improbably blue, gazed at her, and Sabrina was conscious of her Indian gauze skirt over bare legs, and her sheer cotton blouse with a deep V neck. He took her hand. “I enjoy talking to you, Stephanie, and working with you. I think about you when we’re not together; you sneak up on me while I’m doing other things and then you stay there and I like it, I like the idea of your being with me. I like your quietness and your mysteries, I like the way you think, and you are wonderfully beautiful. E
very time we finish up here I feel cheated because I want more of you, and it’s seemed to me that you feel the same, that you wished you could stay.” He paused briefly, as if waiting for her to agree. When she did not, he added, “And we make a good team; I can see us working on a lot of jobs together, even bigger than this one.”
Sabrina nodded thoughtfully. “We do work well together.” She was thinking how astonishing it was that a man so smoothly put together could be so crude. That shows how far I’ve come from London: it wouldn’t have surprised me at all in those days to find a perfectly groomed member of a perfectly groomed society making a proposition and dangling at the end of it the temptation of more and bigger jobs through his influence.
She thought of Garth and smiled to herself. The idea of any other man in her life was incomprehensible. Once she had been able to visualize herself at dinner or the theater or in bed with a man she met; now she could not even imagine it. No one, ever, but Garth, she thought; how ridiculous for Vernon Stern to fantasize that I long to stay with him when it’s time to go home.
I liked him, she thought; and now I don’t. Now I just admire his work.
“Good,” he said and smiled his boyish smile once again. “You can move into that room whenever you want; just let me know so I can tell the secretary you’re coming.”
“Oh, I won’t be using it.” She slipped her hand from his and moved away. “I do thank you, Vern, but I’m quite happy where I am.”
She thought of stopping there, since that said everything about her life, but she went on, her voice friendly but a little distant, as if she were thinking aloud about an abstract problem that had nothing to do with him; as if, in fact, she had already forgotten what he had said. It gave them a chance, she thought, to continue to work together comfortably, on this job or any other.
“I do believe in things; I do have faith in what I can do. But I have faith in luck, too, and in magic. Because it seems to me that the world is so complicated, with twists and turns that can transform whole lives in an instant, if we find love and work and a family and a home, and if we can hold them together, a lot of it is because of luck and magic. And that’s too special and rare to toss away for an adventure. It would be like daring the gods to repeat a miracle, and I’m not brave enough to do that.”
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