“With your wife?” She eyed him suspiciously. She wasn’t sure what he had in mind.
“Not necessarily, Chantal. Not necessarily at all. I am planning a number of changes next year.” He looked at her with the faint hint of a smile, and something in her eyes lit up too.
“You’d move back to Paris? Why?” She wanted to say “For me?” but she didn’t quite dare.
“I have a number of reasons for moving back, and you’re not least among them.”
“You’re serious?” She stood watching him and she liked what she saw.
“I am.”
“And in the meantime?”
“I might just let you stay here.” He wore a half-smile. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, she flew across the room and into his arms.
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes, my darling, I do.”
30
Marc-Edouard parked his Jaguar at the corner and pulled the large plainly wrapped box off the seat. He had already sent her flowers, and they would have been awkward to carry down the street. The box was cumbersome, but discreet. He stopped at the narrow house tucked between the palaces on Nob Hill and pushed one of two buzzers. It was a quiet flat up a shallow flight of stairs. The floors were black-and-white marble, the fixtures all well-polished brass, and he waited in amusement as he heard her run to the door. They had rented it furnished from November until June. And they had found it in less than a week. She had been in it for exactly two days, but this would be their first dinner “at home.”
He listened to her footsteps hastening toward him, and couldn’t suppress a smile. It had been the right decision, even if she had forced his hand, but it would be good to have her there all winter. Spring. Deanna didn’t keep him company anymore; she hid in the studio most of the time, not that she seemed to be working there. She just sat.
“Alors!” He pushed the buzzer again. Suddenly the door flew open and there she was, dazzling in a white chiffon caftan with silvery sandals on her feet.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.” She curtsied low, then rose with a mischievous grin. The lights in the apartment were dim, and in the back room he saw a small round table set for dinner with flowers and candles.
“How pretty everything is!” He held her in one arm and looked around. It was all silver and candlelight; everything sparkled and shone. It was a pretty little apartment, owned by a decorator who was spending the winter with his lover in France. A perfect arrangement. He pulled her closer into his arms. “You are a beautiful woman, Chantal, ma chérie. And you smell heavenly too.” She laughed. He had sent her a huge bottle of Joy the day before. It was delightful having her so nearby. He could run away from the office at lunch meet her at night before he went home. He could stop by for coffee and a kiss in the morning or for love in the afternoon.
“What’s in the box?” She was eyeing the large package with curious amusement. He slipped a hand slowly up her leg. “Stop that! What’s in the box?” She was laughing, and he was running his hand up and down her bare legs.
“What box? I didn’t bring anything in a box.” He brought his mouth to the back of her knee, and then slowly upward, on the inside of her thigh. “I find you much more interesting, my love, than anonymous packages.” And so did she. In minutes the caftan lay crumpled on the floor.
“Merde!” She jumped away from his arms, as they lay drowsing on the bed. They had been asleep there for almost half an hour. Marc-Edouard sat up in surprise.
“Merde? What do you mean?” He tried to look offended as he stretched his long naked body across the bed. He looked like a very long, very pale cat. But she was already halfway across the room.
“The turkey! I forgot!” She sped into the kitchen, and he lay back on the bed with a grin. But she was back in a minute, looking relieved.
“Ça va?”
“Oui, oui. I’ve been cooking him for almost six hours, but he still looks all right.”
“They always do. They just taste like straw. And why, may I ask, after a mere three weeks in the States, have you already started cooking turkey?” He laughed at her as he sat up, and she came to sit next to him on the bed.
“I cooked it because tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am very thankful.”
“Are you? For what?” He lay back again, as he tousled her thick auburn hair. It touched her shoulders now and delicately framed her face. “What are you so thankful for, pretty girl?”
“You. Living here. Coming to the States. La vie est belle, mon amour.”
“Is it? Then go open your package.” He tried to conceal a smile.
“Oh, toi alors! You!” She ran into the other room and came back with the brown-paper-wrapped box. “What is it?” She looked like a little girl at Christmas and he smiled. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Open it and see!” He was enjoying it now almost as much as she was as she tore off the brown paper and discovered a very plain-looking brown box. He was delighted at the ruses he had used. She sat staring at the box, afraid to open it, still enjoying the surprise.
“Is it something for the house?” Her eyes were enormous as they held his, but his gaze rapidly slipped down to the perfectly shaped breasts as she knelt, naked, next to him on the bed, clutching the large box.
“Go on, silly … vas-y.” She pulled off the lid and burrowed into the tissue paper to discover what was there. Her hands shot backward as though she had touched flame and instantly flew to her mouth.
“Ah, non! Marc-Edouard!”
“Oui, mademoiselle?”
“Oh….” Her hands burrowed back into the tissue, and her eyes grew even wider as slowly, carefully, with exquisite caution, she pulled it out. This time she gasped as she held it aloft, then ran her hand gently up and down the pelts. It was a very beautiful, bittersweet chocolate, Russian sable coat. “Oh, my God.”
“Let’s try it on.” He took it from her and slipped it carefully over her shoulders. She shrugged herself into it and buttoned it to her chin. It was beautifully cut and it looked magnificent on her as it fell in sleek lines over her tiny waist and narrow hips.
“Bon Dieu, chérie, que tu es belle. How incredibly beautiful you are, Chantal. Oh, my dear!” He looked on in mingled awe and ecstasy as she twirled on one foot, the coat opening subtly to reveal a bare leg.
“I’ve never had anything like this.” She looked stunned as she watched herself in the mirror and then back at him. “Marc-Edouard, it’s such … such an unbelievable gift!”
“So are you.” Without another word he left the room to get the bottle of champagne. He returned with the bottle and both glasses, set them down, and took her into his arms. “Shall we celebrate, my darling?”
With a golden smile she nodded and melted again into his arms.
“What’s Marc doing tonight?”
“Business meetings, as usual.” Deanna smiled at Kim. “He has clients here from Europe these days. I never see him.” It was the first time she had actually let Kim drag her out to dinner. Between the death of Pilar and her pregnancy, Deanna had been nowhere for months. They had decided, as usual, on Trader Vic’s. “Jesus, I hate to admit it, but it feels good to get out.” And here she had no qualms about running into Ben. She knew he hated places like this.
“How do you feel?”
“Not bad. It’s hard to believe I’m already almost five months.” But it was finally beginning to show, just the merest of bulges in the A-shaped dress of black wool crepe.
“Do you want a shower?” Kim looked at her with a grin over the hors d’oeuvres.
“A baby shower?” Deanna asked. Kim nodded, and Deanna rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I’m too old for that. My God, Kimberly!”
“You are not. If you’re not too old for a baby, you’re not too old for a shower.”
“Don’t start me on that one!” But Deanna was looking at her with a wry smile. There was no anger or pain in her eyes tonight. Kim hadn’t seen her looking this peaceful in weeks, and her sense of humor seemed to
have returned. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving by the way? Anything special?”
“Nothing much. I’m having dinner with some friends. You?”
“The usual. Nothing.” Deanna shrugged. “Marc will be working.”
“Want to come with me?”
“No. I’ll probably manage to drag him out to dinner somewhere. I always did with Pilar. A restaurant or a hotel, it’s not what you’d call a real Thanksgiving, but it’ll do. And at least we won’t be stuck with turkey sandwiches for two weeks.” But suddenly she found herself wondering what Ben was doing. Probably going to Carmel, or maybe he was still back East. She didn’t want to ask Kim.
The conversation drifted on to other subjects then. It was ten-thirty when at last they stood up, a little tired, a lot full, and having spent a very pleasant evening without any strain.
“Can I lure you out for a drink?” Kim asked. But she didn’t look as though she wanted to drag out the evening any longer. And Deanna was tired.
“Maybe another time. I hate to admit it, but I’m beat. I’m still at the stage when I’m tired all the time.”
“When does that stop, or does it?”
“Usually almost exactly at four months, but this time it seems to have dragged on. I’m four and a half, and still sleepy all the time.”
“So enjoy it and be glad you don’t work.” But she wasn’t. She wished that she did. It would give her something to think of while she didn’t paint. She still hadn’t been able to start her work. Something stopped her every time she sat down. Her thoughts would shift instantly to Pilar or Ben, or she would find herself panicking about the baby. Hours would drift by while she did nothing but sit, staring blindly into space.
They brought Kim’s little red MG up to the door. With a groan Deanna got in as Kim tipped the valet and slid behind the wheel.
“I’m going to have to give up driving with you in a couple of months.” Her legs were cramped almost up to her chin and she laughed, as did Kim.
“Yeah, I guess you’d have a hell of a time getting into this thing with a belly.” They both laughed again, and Kimberly drove off, turning left out of Cosmo Place and then left again, until she made a sharp right at Jones to avoid some construction blocking the street. “We might as well drive past Nob Hill.” She glanced over at Deanna with a smile, and they sat together in silence. Deanna was longing for her bed.
They had stopped at a stop sign when she saw them. For a moment she marveled at how much the man looked like Marc, and then she realized with a start that it was he. She felt herself gasp. Kim looked sharply at her, then in the direction she was staring. It was Marc with an elegant woman draped in a magnificent dark sable coat. They were wrapped in each other’s arms. He looked like a much younger man, and she looked especially beautiful with her hair loose and full and a bright red dress peeking through the coat. She threw her head back and laughed, and Marc kissed her full on the mouth. Deanna stared.
As the woman pulled away, Deanna suddenly saw who she was. It was the girl from the airport —the one she had seen him with the night Pilar died. She suddenly felt as though all the air had been squeezed out of her until she had to gasp for breath. They climbed into his car. Deanna clutched Kimberly’s arm.
“Drive, please. Let’s go. I don’t want him to see us … he’ll think….” She turned her head away from the window, wanting to see no more, and as though by reflex Kim stomped her foot on the gas. The car lurched forward, and they sped toward the bay as Deanna tried to settle her rapidly whirling mind. What did it mean? Why was the girl there? Was it … did it … had he … but she knew all the answers, as did Kim. They had sat there for five minutes, silent and staring, in the little red car. It was Kim who finally spoke first.
“Deanna, I—I’m sorry. Is there … shit! I don’t know what to say.” She glanced at Deanna. Even in the darkness she looked terrifyingly pale. “Do you want to come home with me for a while until you calm down?”
“You know what’s very strange?” She turned to Kim with those huge, luminous green eyes. “I am calm. I feel as though everything has suddenly stopped. All the whirling and confusion and fear and despair … it’s all over, it’s gone.” She stared out the window into the foggy night and she spoke to Kim without turning to see her face. “I think I know now what I’m going to do.”
“What?” Kim felt worried about her friend. It had been one hell of a shock. She herself was still shaking.
“I’m going to leave him, Kim.” For a moment Kimberly didn’t respond, she only looked at Deanna’s profile, sharply etched against the night. “I can’t live like this for the rest of my life. And I think it’s been like this for years. I saw him with her in Paris … the night Pilar … she came in with him from Athens. The joke of it is that when he came home in September, he swore it was over.”
“Do you think it’s serious?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. The trouble is”—she finally looked back at her friend —“there isn’t enough in it for me. No matter what. I’m alone all the time. We don’t share anything and we won’t even share this child. He’ll take it away from me, just as he did Pilar. Why should I stay with him? Out of duty, out of cowardice, out of some insane feeling of loyalty that I’ve dragged with me over the years? For what? Did you see him tonight? He looked happy. Kim. He looked young. He hasn’t looked like that with me in almost eighteen years. I’m not even sure anymore if he ever did. Maybe she’s good for him. Maybe she can give him something I never had. But whatever it is, that’s his problem. I’m getting out.”
“Why don’t you give it some thought.” Kim spoke quietly and looked at Deanna. “Maybe this isn’t the right time. Maybe you should wait until after the baby comes. Do you want to be alone when you’re pregnant?”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed—I already am.”
Kim agreed, but she was afraid of the look in Deanna’s eyes. She had never seen that burning determination there before. It was frightening. Finally they came to a stop in front of her house.
“Do you want me to come in?” At least they knew that Marc wouldn’t be home. But Deanna shook her head.
“No. I want to be alone. I have to think.”
“Will you talk to him tonight?”
She looked at Kimberly for a long time before she answered, and this time Kim saw pain in her eyes. It did hurt. Somewhere inside her she still cared. “Maybe not. He may not come home.”
31
Alone in her bedroom, Deanna slowly pulled off the black dress and stood staring at herself in the mirror. She was still pretty and in some ways still young. The skin on her face was supple and taut her neck had the graceful sweep of a swan, the eyes were large, the eyelids didn’t droop and the chin didn’t sag, the breasts were still firm, the legs thin, the hips small. There was no real sign of age, and yet she looked at least ten years older than that girl tonight. She had had the glow and the glamor and the excitement of a mistress. There was no fighting that. Was that what he wanted then? Did that make the difference? Or was it something else? Was it that she was French, that she was one of his own … or maybe only that he loved her. Deanna wondered as she climbed into her robe. She wanted to ask him all those questions, wanted to hear all the answers from him—if he’d tell her, if he’d ever come home. She didn’t want to wait all night long to ask him she wanted to ask him now, but it had been clear that he and the girl were going out on the town. It might be daybreak before he came home claiming that he had been involved in interminable negotiations and had had a sleepless night. She suddenly wondered how many of his stories had been lies, how long this had gone on. She lay her head back in the chair and closed her eyes against the soft lights. Why did he go on with the marriage, now that Pilar was gone? He’d had the perfect opportunity to leave Deanna in Paris, to tell her they were through. Why didn’t he? Why had he stayed? Why did he want to hang on? And then suddenly she knew. The baby. That was what he wanted. A son.
She smiled to herse
lf then. It was funny really. For the first time in their nearly twenty years together, she had the upper hand. She had the one thing he wanted. His son. Or even a daughter, now that Pilar was gone. But Marc wanted her child. It was mad really. He could have had a baby with that girl, since he appeared to hang on to her too. But for some reason he had not. It amused her. In a way she had him now. By the throat. She could leave him, or stay. She could make him pay. Maybe she could even force him to get rid of the girl. Or pretend to, as he had. He had let her think the affair was over, but it very clearly was not. With a sigh she sat up in the chair and opened her eyes. She had been living with her eyes closed for too many years. Silently she walked out of the room and down the stairs of the darkened house. She found herself in the living room, sitting in the dark and looking out at the lights on the bay. It would be strange not being there anymore, leaving this house—leaving him. It would be frightening to be alone, to have no one to take care of her, or the new child. It would all be terrifying and new. But it would be clean. It wouldn’t be lonely in the same way. … It wouldn’t be a lie. She sat there, alone, until dawn. Waiting for him. She had made up her mind.
It was just after five when she heard his key turn in the lock. She walked softly to the door of the living room and stood there, a vision in white satin.
“Bonsoir.” She said it to him in French. “Or should I say bonjour?” The first light of day was streaking pink and orange into the sky over the mirror-flat bay. For once there was no fog. The first thing she saw about him was that he was drunk. Not disgustingly so, but enough.
“You’re already up?” He tried to hold himself steady, but he pitched forward slightly and steadied himself on the back of a chair. He looked uncomfortable to have to be talking to her at all. “It’s terribly early, Deanna.”
Summer’s End Page 26
