The Ghost

by Danielle Steel

  I'll have to look into it, she said coolly. Do you have a number where I can reach you? But he shook his head in answer to her question.

  Not yet. I won't have a phone till next week. Ill call you and see what you've come up with. And then, as though wanting to warm her up, though he didn't know why, except that somehow her coolness challenged him, he told her that he had just rented the house that Fran+oois and Sarah had once lived in.

  You mean the chateau on the hill? she asked, intrigued this time, and her eyes warmed slightly, but only for an instant.

  Tes, that one, he said, still watching her. It was as though a door somewhere had opened just a fraction of a crack, but just as quickly she had slammed it.

  Have you seen a ghost yet? she asked sarcastically, amused that he was so interested in Sarah Ferguson and Fran+oois de Pellerin. It was a sweet story, but she had never paid much attention to it.

  Is there a ghost? he asked casually. No one's told me about it.

  I don't know. I just assumed there was. I don't think there's a house in this part of the world that doesn't claim at least one. Maybe you'll see the lovers kissing one night at midnight. She laughed at the thought, relaxing for just a fraction of an instant, and he smiled, but she looked away from him when he did. She looked frightened to see him smiling.

  I'll call and let you know if I see anything. But she seemed to have lost interest. The door was not only closed, but locked and bolted very firmly. Do I need to sign the books out? he asked in a businesslike tone. She nodded and slipped a piece of paper across the desk to him, and reminded him that he had a week to return them.

  Thanks, he said, barely saying good-bye to her, which was unlike him, but she was so cold, so closed, that he almost felt sorry for her. It was hard to say, but he wondered if something really awful had happened to her. It was difficult to imagine being as hard and cold as that at her age. He figured her for about twenty-nine or thirty. He couldn't help remembering Carole at the same age, she had been all warmth and laughter, and very sexy. This woman was like a. long thin shard of winter sunlight. He couldn't imagine her warming anything, least of all a man's heart. Not his at any rate. She was a pretty girl, but she was made of ice. And as he got back in his car again and drove back to the chateau, he forgot about her.

  He could hardly wait to read the books he'd borrowed from the historical society. He wanted to know everything he could about Sarah and Francois.

  And when Gladys came to visit the next day, he showed the books to her and told her all about them. He had already finished one, and had started the second one early that morning.

  Have you seen her again? she asked, looking at him conspiratorially, and he couldn't help laughing.

  Of course not, he said quietly. He had already begun to doubt he had seen her the first time.

  I wonder if you will, she mused, noticing the few things he had done since he'd been there. Everything was neat and clean, and orderly, and even the little he'd added had a great deal of style. It did her heart good to know that he was living in the little chateau she had always loved. It always seemed so sad to her when it stood empty. It had made her unhappy when her daughter-in-law had refused to stay there.

  You never saw her again, Charlie reminded her, and she laughed at his remembering what she'd told him.

  Perhaps I wasn't pure enough, or wise enough, or didn't have a strong enough spirit, she said, playing with him a little bit, and he smiled at her as he answered.

  If those were the criteria, rest assured I would never have seen her either. And then he told her that he had spoken to his ex-wife two days before, and had told Carole all about her. She thought you were going to be my next wife. I think she was quite pleased at first, but I told her I didn't think I could ever be that lucky. He loved teasing her, and she loved playing with him. Gladys Palmer thanked her lucky stars every day for the afternoon he'd walked into her life, fresh off the highway. They both thought it had been kismet.

  How was it when you talked to her? Gladys Palmer asked him kindly. He had already admitted to her how much pain he'd been in for the last year, and although she didn't know him well, she worried about him.

  Difficult. He was there. They had guests. It's so odd thinking about her having a life with someone else. I wonder if I'll ever get used to it, and stop being angry every time I see him.

  You will. One day. It may take a while. I suppose we can get used to anything if we have to. Although she was very grateful that nothing of the sort had ever happened to her, she felt certain it would have killed her if Roland had ever left her. It was bad enough losing him to illness and age, but losing him to someone else early in their marriage would have been an agony and humiliation she couldn't bear to think of. And she had a great deal of respect for Charlie for surviving all he'd been through. What's more, he didn't seem bitter to her. He seemed decent, and kind, and whole, and he still had a healthy sense of humor. She could sense the scars here and there, and there was something sad about his eyes at times, but there was nothing even the least unpleasant or unkind about him.

  I thought I should call her to wish her merry Christmas. I guess it was a mistake ' I suppose next year I'll know better, he explained to Gladys.

  Maybe next year you'll be with someone else, she said hopefully, although he couldn't imagine it. He couldn't even dream of living with anyone but Carole.

  I doubt it, he said with a rueful smile, unless I manage to entice Sarah.

  Now, there's a thought! Gladys Palmer laughed with him, and before she left, Charlie told her that the next day he was going skiing. He was going to Charlemont as she had suggested to him, and he had rented a room for four days, so he could ski over New Year's. He asked her if she'd be all right on New Year's Eve, or if she'd like him to come home to be with her, and she was deeply touched by his offer. It seemed typical of the little she knew of him. He was always offering to do things for her, to chop firewood, or do errands, or buy groceries, or cook a meal for her. He was like the son she hadn't seen in fourteen years, and missed so much. He was a blessing life had bestowed on her, and she smiled warmly as she answered his question. You're a dear to ask, she applauded his kindness, but I haven't celebrated New Year's Eve in years. Roland and I never went out. We stayed home and went to bed at ten o'clock, while everyone else stayed out and got drunk, cracked up their cars, made fools of themselves. It was never a night that appealed to me much. No, you're kind to ask, but I won't miss it. You stay in Charlemont and go skiing. He promised to leave the name of his hotel with her, in case she needed him, and she kissed him fondly when she left, and wished him a good time skiing.

  Don't break anything! she warned, as he settled her in her car. Sarah wouldn't like it! she teased, and he laughed at her. He loved the look in her eyes when she spoke of Sarah and Francois.

  I wouldn't like it either, believe me! The last tiling I need is a broken arm or leg, he said with feeling. A broken heart had been enough in the past year, broken limbs would have been a massive inconvenience.

  He waved as she drove off to visit a friend in town, and he walked back to the house, and finished reading the second book on Sarah and Francois. He found it fascinating, and this one spoke mostly about Francois's work with the Army, trying to negotiate treaties with the Indians. He had been the main spokesman for the Indians in this part of the world, and had been very involved with all six Iroquois nations.

  Sarah didn't come to him again that night. In fact, he felt nothing at all, as he wandered around the house. He just felt comfortable and at ease there. And before he went to bed he packed his things to go skiing. He set his alarm for seven the next morning. And just as he fell asleep, he thought he heard the curtains move, but he was too tired to open his eyes again, and as he drifted off to sleep, he was sure he felt her near him.

  Chapter 7

  THE SKIING AT Charlemont was surprisingly pleasant for him, although Charlie had been spoiled by the many ski vacations he and Carole had taken in Europe. They were
particularly fond of Val d'Isere and Courchevel, although Charlie liked St. Moritz and had a great time in Cortina. Charlemont was fairly tame compared to all that, but the trails were good, the expert runs challenging, and it felt great to be on the slopes again, out in the air, doing something he was good at. It was just what he had needed.

  He hadn't been skiing in a year, and by noon he felt like a new man as he went up the lift for a last run before going in for lunch, and a steaming cup of coffee. The weather was crisp and it had been cold when he left the house, but he felt warm in the sun, and he smiled as he got on the chairlift with a little girl who was half his size. He was impressed that she was skiing alone, and going all the way up the mountain. There were expert trails, and he was surprised her parents weren't worried. But as the bar came down, she turned to him with a broad smile, and he asked if she came there often.

  Not too much. Whenever my mom has time. She's writing a story, she said informatively as she looked carefully at Charlie. She had big blue eyes and strawberry-blond curls, and he wasn't sure how old she was. He thought somewhere between seven and ten, which was a broad range, but he didn't know much about children. She was a pretty little girl and she looked completely at ease with herself as they rode up the mountain. She hummed a little song and then she looked at him again with her impish smile, and eyes full of questions.

  Do you have children? she asked, and he smiled as he answered.

  No, I don't. He almost felt as though he should apologize, or at the very least explain it, but she nodded as though she understood. She was just trying to establish who and what he was for the brief ride, and she looked interested in him as she continued to look him over. He was wearing black pants and a dark green parka. She was wearing a bright blue one-piece suit almost the same color as her eyes, and a red hat that looked just right with her outfit. She reminded him of the children he'd seen whenever he and Carole skied in France. There was something very European about her, the little cherub face, the bright eyes, the curls, she looked happy and innocent and healthy And although she seemed perfectly at ease with him, she wasn't rude or precocious. There was nothing overly sophisticated about the child, she just seemed very wise and very happy, and he liked sitting next to her, and couldn't resist her infectious smile.

  Are you married? she asked him then and he laughed at her. Maybe she was more sophisticated than he'd thought at first glance. Her mother had warned her not to say too much to people she met on the lift, but she loved talking to them, and had made a lot of friends there.

  Yes, I am, he said almost by reflex, and then thought better of it. There was no reason to lie to a child. Actually, it's kind of complicated to explain, but no, I'm not. I am ' but I won't be for much longer. He was exhausted after chasing his own tail, but this time she looked serious as she nodded.

  You're divorced, she said solemnly, so am I. The way she said it made him smile again. She was an irresistible little pixie.

  I'm sorry to hear that, he said, trying to look serious for her benefit, as they slowly reached the top, how long were you married?

  All my life. There was a look of tragedy as she said it to him, and then he realized what she meant. She wasn't teasing him. She was talking about her parents. They had obviously gotten divorced, and she felt that she had been divorced as well.

  I'm really sorry, he said, and meant it this time. How old were you when you got divorced?

  Nearly seven. Now I'm eight. We used to live in France.

  Oh, he said, with fresh interest. I used to live in London myself. When I was married. Do you live here now, or are you just here for a visit?

  We live pretty nearby, she said matter-of-factly, and then turned to him again, happy to supply more information, whether or not he asked for it. My father's French. We used to ski in Courchevel.

  So did I, he said, as though they were old pals now. You must be pretty good if your parents let you come all the way up to the top of the mountain by yourself.

  I learned to ski with my dad, she said proudly. My mom skis too slow for me, so she lets me ski alone. She just says not to get into trouble, not to go anywhere with anyone, and not to talk too much. He was glad that she hadn't learned her lessons too well. He was actually enjoying her company. She was an enchanting little person.

  Where did you live in France? They were old buddies as they reached the top and had to hop off. And as they did, he gave her a hand. But he could see by the way she got off the chairlift that she was a good skier and she was completely comfortable as they moved off toward an expert trail that would have daunted most grown-ups.

  We lived in Paris, she answered him, adjusting her goggles. On the rue du Bac ' in the Septi+!me ' my daddy lives in our old house. He wanted to ask her why she had come here, and if her mother was American. Charlie assumed she was, as the child spoke English like a native. He wanted to ask her a lot of things, but he didn't think he should, and as he watched her, she started down. She moved with the speed of a little snow bunny, heading almost straight down the mountain, and making smooth perfect turns. He followed her easily, and was only a few feet behind her. She looked up then, and saw him skiing near her, and her broad grin told him she was happy about it.

  You ski just like my dad, she said with a tone of admiration, but it was Charlie who was in awe of her. She was a remarkable little skier, an adorable little girl, he felt as though he had made a new friend on the mountain. And he had to laugh at himself as he skied swiftly behind her. His life was certainly different these days. He was spending all his time with a seventy-year-old woman, ghosts, and children. It was a far cry from his busy, settled, predictable life in London, running an architectural firm. Now he had no job, no friends, no wife, no plans. All he had was the brilliant white of the snow beneath his skis, and the sunlight on the mountains as he followed the little skier most of the way down.

  She stopped finally, and he came to a flashy stop beside her, as she commented on his style. You ski great. Just like my daddy. He used to be a racer. He was in the Olympics for France. That was a long time ago. Now he thinks he's old. He's thirty-five.

  I'm even older than that. And I was never in the Olympics, but thank you. And then he thought of something and turned to ask her a question, as she looked up at him and brushed her curls back. What's your name?

  Monique Vironnet, she said simply, with a perfect French accent, and he realized that she probably spoke French flawlessly. My daddy's name is Pierre. Did you ever see him race?

  Probably. But I don't remember the name.

  He won a bronze medal, she said, as he watched her eyes grow sad.

  You must miss him a lot, Charlie said gently, as they looked at the bunny slopes far below. Neither of them seemed to want to finish their run and go down. He liked chatting with her, and she seemed to be enjoying his company a lot. He assumed she missed her father, she talked about him a great deal.

  I visit him on holidays, she explained. But my mother doesn't like me to go there. She says being in Paris isn't good for me. When we lived there, she cried all the time. He nodded. He knew the feeling. He had cried a lot in London in the past year. The end of any marriage hurt a lot. He wondered then what her mother was like, if she was as pretty and as lively as her little girl. She had to be, everything about the child was sunny and warm. That didn't happen by itself. In the case of children, it usually came from reflected light from their parents.

  Shall we go down? he asked her finally. They had been on the mountain for a long time, and it was later than they thought. It was well after one. And he was starving. And as he followed her down the side of the mountain, they skied in perfect unison, and they were both glowing at the end of their run. That was terrific, Monique. Thank you! He had told her his name was Charlie by then, and she looked at him with her most brilliant smile.

  You ski great! Like Daddy. From her, it was the highest praise, and Charlie sensed that.

  Thank you for that. You're not bad yourself. And then he didn't know wha
t to do with her. He didn't want to just take off his skis and walk away from her, and he didn't think he should take her with him. Are you supposed to meet your mom somewhere? He was only mildly concerned. The resort at Charlemont seemed wholesome and safe. But still, she was only a child, and he didn't want to leave her to her own devices now that they were off the mountain.

  Monique nodded at him. Mom said she'd see me at lunch.

  I'll walk you inside,' he said, feeling very proprietary about her, and protective of her. It was rare for him to encounter children, and he was surprised at how comfortable he was with her, and how much he liked her.

  Thanks, she said, as they walked onto the deck, and wove their way through the crowd, but she told Charlie she didn't see her mom anywhere. Maybe she went back up. She doesn't eat very much. He had visions of a tiny, delicate, modern-day Edith Piaf, although Monique had never said her mom was French, just her father.

  He asked her what she'd like to eat, and she asked for a hot dog, a chocolate shake, and french fries. Daddy makes me eat good stuff in France. Yuk. She made an awful face and he laughed as he paid for her lunch and ordered a hamburger and a Coke for himself. After skiing with her at full speed, he wasn't even cold. And he had had a great time.

  They took over a small table together, and they were hallway through their lunch when Monique gave a little shout, jumped up, and started to wave at someone in the distance. And Charlie turned around to see who she had seen in the crowd. There were flocks of people everywhere, people waving, talking, shouting, clumping by in, their heavy boots, excited about their morning runs, and anxious to get back on the mountain. He couldn't tell who she'd seen, and then suddenly, she was there, beside them. A tall thin woman in an elegant beige parka trimmed in fur. She was wearing beige stretch pants and a beige sweater and she took her dark glasses off as she frowned at the little girl. Charlie had the feeling he'd seen her somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where. Maybe she was a model, or their paths had crossed in Europe somewhere. There was something very stylish about her, and she was wearing a good-looking fur hat. But she looked anything but pleased as she glanced from him to her daughter.