Bittersweet

by Danielle Steel

  But for the moment, there was still no sign of it for her. There were long, lonely days, and nothing more to hang on to but his phone calls. And now he was coming home. But as she walked slowly upstairs with a smile, she told herself it meant nothing. But in spite of that, it would be good to see him.

  Chapter 20

  INDIA DROVE her station wagon to the airport on Sunday night, after leaving the children with a sitter. There was a light rain falling, and the traffic was bad, and it seemed to take forever. But she had given herself plenty of time for delays, and when she parked the car in the garage, she still had half an hour to spare before Paul got there.

  She wandered around the terminal, looked at the shops, and checked herself in the mirror. She had worn a gray pantsuit and high heels, and she was carrying a trenchcoat. She had thought of wearing something more glamorous for him, like her black suit, but in the end, she decided it was silly. They were just friends, and they knew each other so well by now, she would have felt foolish trying to look seductive or sexy. She had worn her hair in a French twist, which was her one concession to dressing up for him, and makeup.

  But now as she stood waiting for him, she began to wonder what he expected of her, and why he had asked her to meet him. She wondered if he was afraid to come back to New York, to face his memories there, and she suspected that he would be. It wouldn't be easy for him, even after all this time, especially going back to their apartment. He had hidden in a cocoon for the past six months, cloistered on the Sea Star, and holding her hand, for whatever comfort she could provide, from the distance. But whatever his reason for calling her, she was happy to be there.

  She checked her watch repeatedly, and looked up at the board, to see if he'd arrived, wondering if he'd be delayed. And finally the notice to his flight was changed, and told her that he'd landed. But she knew it would still be a while. He had to go through Customs. It seemed interminable to her, standing there, waiting for him.

  It was another half hour before passengers began to dribble out, fat grandmothers, and men in jeans, two fashion models carrying their portfolios, and a vast array of ordinary people and young children. She wasn't sure if they were from his flight, but finally she began to hear a flood of English accents, and knew this had to be the flight from London. And then suddenly, she panicked, wondering if she'd missed him. There was an enormous crowd in the terminal, and people were eddying all around her. She hadn't seen him in nearly a year, six months since the funeral, but that had been only a glimpse. The last time she'd had a good look at him was the previous summer. And what if he didn't recognize her? What if he'd forgotten what she looked like?

  She was looking around for him when she heard a familiar voice right behind her.

  “I wasn't expecting you to wear your hair up,” was the first thing he said to her. He had been looking for her braid, and nearly missed her. And she spun around quickly to see him and all she could remember were Gail's words when she'd come back from Cape Cod, telling her that the press had called him “indecently handsome …and ruggedly alluring.” He was every bit of it as he smiled at her, and then pulled her to him. She had forgotten how tall he was, and how blue his eyes were. His hair was cropped short, and he had a deep suntan from the wind and sun on the Sea Star. “You look terrific,” he said as he hugged her close, and she felt breathless for a moment. This was the voice she had talked to for six months, her confidant, the man who knew everything about her, and had held her hand through the unraveling of her marriage. But suddenly, seeing him again, she felt shy and embarrassed.

  “So do you.” She smiled up at him as he pulled away from her to see her better. “You look so healthy.”

  “I should. I've done nothing but sit on my boat for the past six months, and get fat and lazy.” But he looked neither. He looked powerful and young and athletic, better even than he had the previous summer. If anything, he was thinner.

  “You've lost weight,” he commented about her too, as he picked up his bags again, and they walked slowly toward the exit. He had only brought a small overnight case, and his briefcase. He had everything he needed at his apartment. “It suits you,” he complimented her. He looked so pleased to see her that she was still grinning.

  “I was just thinking you have too. How was the flight?” It was the kind of conversation she would have had with Doug, if she'd picked him up. In a way, they knew each other so well, it was almost like being married. But she didn't delude herself, as they walked out of the terminal, Paul was neither her husband nor her boyfriend. He was something very different. But it was wonderful no longer talking to a disembodied voice. He was real and tangible and alive, as he stood next to her, smiling. “I can't believe you're here.” She had begun to think he would be away forever, and she'd never see him.

  “Neither can I,” he beamed, “and the flight was dreadful. There must have been two hundred screaming babies, all of whom had been abandoned by their mothers. And the woman next to me talked all the way from London, about her garden. If I never hear about another rosebush again, I'll be happy.” India laughed as she listened. They walked toward where she had left her car, and he tossed his bags into the backseat as soon as they found it. “Would you like me to drive?” he offered, but she assumed he was tired and hesitated.

  “Do you trust me?” She knew how some men hated women drivers. Doug had.

  “You drive more car pools than I do, and you haven't had three Scotches.” It had been the only antidote to the crying children, he'd decided. But he looked completely sober.

  They got into her car, and she turned to look at him for an instant, as her eyes grew serious and he met them with his equally blue ones. Their eyes were almost the same color. “I just wanted to thank you,” she said softly.

  “What for?” He seemed startled.

  “For keeping me going all this time. I couldn't have gotten through it without you.” But she had done the same for him, and he knew that.

  “How's it going now? Is Doug still torturing you?”

  “No, his lawyer's taken over for him.” She smiled as she turned the key in the ignition. “But I think we've pretty much settled it.” Doug had offered her enough child support and alimony to live on comfortably, as long as she took a few assignments every year to pad it out a little. He had made her a very decent offer, and she could keep the house for nine years, until Sam went to college, or she remarried. Her lawyer had told her to take it. And she'd be divorced by Christmas. She'd discussed most of the terms with Paul already on the phone, and he had told her he thought it was probably the best she could do. It wasn't extravagant, but it was acceptable, and it still left Doug enough to live on, and even remarry, if he chose to. He made fairly decent money. Not by Paul's standards, but by normal ones. And they had agreed to split their savings, which wasn't an enormous sum, but it gave her something to fall back on.

  “I can't believe I'm back, India,” he said, as they watched the skyline appear. She knew it had to seem strange to him, after all this time, and the places he'd been. Turkey, Yugoslavia, Corsica, Sicily …Venice … Viareggio …Portofino …Cap d'Antibes. He had chosen some pretty places to hide in, but they hadn't brought him much joy during his months of suffering. And as she had guessed, he was nervous about going to his apartment. He said as much to India on the way into town, and she smiled gently at him.

  “Maybe you should stay at a hotel,” she suggested sensibly. She was nervous for him. She knew about his dreams, and the trouble he had sleeping, although lately he said he was better.

  It was so odd to be sitting next to him now, after all their hours on the phone, for months and months, and all the secrets they had told each other. It was odder still putting the voice and the man together. It was something for both of them to get used to. He kept combing her with his eyes, while she was driving, and he looked happy to be there.

  “I was thinking about a hotel too,” he confessed. “I'll see how it goes tonight. I need to organize my papers anyway. The board meeti
ng is tomorrow.” His partners had threatened his life if he failed to join them. It had been hard enough making do without him for six months, and he had already missed two board meetings, for the last two quarters. And they felt that this time he had to be there.

  “Will it be a difficult meeting?” she asked easily as they sped onto the FDR Drive, next to the East River.

  “I hope not. Mostly boring.” And then he glanced at her seriously for a moment. “Would you like to go somewhere for dinner?”

  “Now?” She looked surprised, and he laughed.

  “No. I meant tomorrow. It's two o'clock in the morning for me right now, and I'm a little bleary-eyed. But I thought maybe tomorrow night we could go somewhere you'd enjoy. What's your favorite? ‘2G? Cote Basque? Daniel?”

  She laughed at the suggestions he was offering her. He was forgetting what her life was. “Actually, I was thinking more like Jack in the Box or Denny's. You forget, I only eat out with my children these days.” And Doug never used to bring her into the city for dinner. They came in a couple of times a year, to go to the theater, and they usually ate somewhere nearby. Doug was not one to take his wife to fancy restaurants, only clients. “Why don't you decide?”

  “How about Daniel?” It had been one of Serena's favorite restaurants, but he liked it too. Serena thought Daniel wasn't as showy as La Grenouille and Cote Basque, which was exactly what he liked about it, and she didn't. He thought it was more elegant, and subtler than the others. And the food was terrific.

  “I've never been there,” she confessed. “But I've read about it. One of my friends says it's the best in New York.” Going out with Paul was certainly different from her little life in Westport.

  “Can you find a sitter?”

  She smiled at him as they turned off the FDR Drive on Seventy-ninth Street. “Thank you for asking.” It had to have been years since he worried about things like that, but it was nice of him to consider what she had to do to get some freedom. “I'll find one. Would you like to come out and meet the kids this weekend? Sam would love to see you.”

  “That would be fun. We could take them to pizza and a movie.” He knew this was a favorite for them and he wanted to share it with her. It was a whole new world for both of them, and India was still a little bowled over by his unexpected appearance. She had no idea what it meant yet, or how long he would be staying. And she thought it would be rude to ask him. Besides which, she was sure he had lots of other friends to see, and she had no idea how much time she'd be spending with him. Probably very little, and they'd be back to daily phone calls. But that was all she expected of him.

  His apartment was on Fifth Avenue, just above Seventy-third Street, in an elegant building with a doorman, who seemed amazed to see him. “Mr. Ward!” he said, and stuck his hand out, as Paul shook it.

  “Hello, Rosario. How's New York been treating you?”

  “Pretty good, Mr. Ward, thank you. You been on your boat all this time?” He had heard rumors of it, and they sent his mail to his office.

  “Yes, I have,” Paul confirmed with a broad smile as he and India walked into the building.

  Rosario wanted to tell him how sorry he was about his wife, but with a pretty blonde with him, it didn't seem appropriate. He wondered if it was his new girlfriend, and hoped so, for his sake.

  India rode up in the elevator with him, and waited while he looked for his key in his briefcase, and as he fumbled with the lock, she saw that his hand was shaking. She gently touched his sleeve then, and he turned to look at her, thinking she was going to ask him something.

  “It's okay,” she said softly. “Go easy, Paul….” He smiled at her. She knew exactly what he was thinking. She always did. And more importantly, what he was feeling. She was that way on the phone as well, and he had come to love her for it. She was a place he could always come to for comfort. And before turning the key in the lock again, he put his briefcase down and hugged her.

  “Thank you. I think this is going to be even harder than I expected.”

  “Maybe not; Let's try it.” She was right there with him, as he had been for her for the past six months. She knew she could always call him and find him, waiting for her, on the Sea Star, Suddenly the face she saw no longer seemed so separate from the voice she knew like a brother. It was one man, one soul, one person she had come to rely on.

  And slowly, he turned the key in the lock, the door opened, and he turned the light on. No one but the cleaning woman had been there since September. The apartment looked immaculate, but seemed very empty and silent, as India looked around a spacious black and white hallway, filled with lithographs and modern sculptures. And there was one very handsome Jackson Pollock painting.

  Paul didn't say anything to her, but walked straight into the living room, and turned more lights on. It was a huge, handsome room, filled with an interesting mixture of antique and modern furniture. There was a Miro, a Chagall, and a group of bright, interesting paintings by unknown artists. It was all very eclectic, and for some reason, reminded her enormously of Serena. Everything in the apartment seemed to have her stamp on it, her style, her force, her humor. There were photographs of her everywhere, from her book covers mostly, and there was a large portrait of her over the fireplace. Paul stood silently beside India, mesmerized by it.

  “I had forgotten how beautiful she was,” he said in a ragged whisper. “I try not to think about it.” India nodded, knowing how difficult this was for him, but she also knew he had to go through it. She wondered if he was going to move the painting eventually, or leave it there forever. It had a commanding presence, as she had. And then he walked into a smaller, paneled room, where his desk was, and set down his briefcase, as India followed. She was beginning to wonder if she was intruding, and should leave him. There was no way to know, but to ask him.

  “Should I leave you?” she asked quietly, and was surprised when he looked disappointed, and a little hurt, as he looked up at her.

  “So soon? Can't you stay a while, India? Or do you have to go back to the children?”

  “I'm fine. I just don't want to be a nuisance.”

  He left himself bare then, but she knew him anyway, and he was not afraid to show her his sorrow. “I need you. Do you want a drink or something?”

  “I shouldn't. I have to drive back to Westport.”

  “I hate having you do that,” he said, falling comfortably into a velvet settee that faced a smaller marble fireplace than the one in the living room. The whole room was done in deep blue velvet, and the painting over the mantel was a Renoir. “I should get a driver for you when you come into town. Or I can drive you back myself sometimes if you'd prefer it.”

  “I don't mind driving.” She smiled, grateful for the thoughtful gesture. He got up to make himself a drink then, a light Scotch and soda, and she accepted a Coca-Cola. “The apartment is beautiful,” she said softly. But she had expected that. The Sea Star was no less lovely than this, and in some ways it was more so.

  “Serena did it all herself,” he sighed, looking at India, and seeing again how beautiful she was. She was even more striking than he remembered, with all her blondness, and classic features. She sat on the couch with her long legs crossed gracefully. It reminded him of the summer before, when they had sat for hours, talking on the Sea Star. “Serena had so many talents,” he said, thinking of his late wife again. “I don't think there was anything she couldn't do. Sometimes it was hard to live with.” He had said as much to her before, but here in the apartment, India could see it. The whole place had an easy elegance, and a kind of wit and spice that had been characteristic of her. “I don't know what I'll do with this place,” he sighed. “I guess I should pack it up and sell it.”

  “Maybe you shouldn't,” India said, sipping her Coca-Cola. “It's a wonderful apartment. Maybe you should just move things around a little.”

  Paul chuckled at the suggestion. “Serena would have killed me for that. She always felt that if she put something somewhere, God had to
ld her to do it. She raised hell if I moved an ashtray. But maybe you're right. Maybe I need to make it more mine. It's still so her now. I'd forgotten until we just walked in how powerful her style was.” She had never touched anything on the boat, or cared about it, that had been Paul's world, which was why it had been so easy to be on it since September. There, the reminders were fewer and more muted. Here, she resonated from the rafters.

  “What about you?” he asked then. “Are you going to redo the house in Westport, and get Doug out of your hair? Did he take a lot of his things?” There had been some discussion of it, but in the end, other than his computer, and a few old souvenirs from college, he had taken very little. Neither of them had wanted to upset the children more than they had to.

  “He didn't take much. And I think it would unnerve the kids if I started making changes. They already have enough to adjust to.” He knew it was like her to think of that, and to suggest to him he only “move” things, rather than tell him what to get rid of. That wasn't her style anyway, but she was also well aware that it was not her place to tell him what to do with his apartment. She was, as in all things, respectful of him, and he liked that. In all the months he'd talked to her, he had never felt threatened by her. Instead, she provided a safe haven for him. And then, she wondered about something. It seemed a safe question to ask him. “Are you going to bring the boat back here now?”