“You’re not too old to find someone too, you know,” she reminded him gently.
“Not too old,” he admitted. He was thirty-eight. “But possibly too damaged and too badly burned. I’m not sure I could ever trust anyone again, in a relationship. She lied to me constantly and I believed her. She slept with her dealer. It took me three years to figure out she couldn’t stay off drugs. Addicts are incredibly convincing and amazing liars. She’s a piece of work. I feel sorry for her now, but I hate what she does to Ian.” Francesca nodded. He had been essentially out of the marriage for two years, ever since he gave up on her, although he had only left her six months before. He had stayed with friends in the beginning, then a hotel, and had finally come here. Francesca was sure he’d find someone again, and he was equally sure of it about her. They were both too young to give up on love forever.
“Let’s go see what Marya is cooking up for us tonight,” he said, to distract them both. They had been trying out recipes for her almost every night. She’d been cooking up a storm, and all of them were gaining weight.
Francesca followed Chris down the stairs to the kitchen, expecting to see Marya, and both of them looked startled when they saw a tall white-haired man instead. He had fierce blue eyes and a mane of shoulder-length white hair. He looked at them with suspicion for an instant and then burst into a broad smile.
“Francesca and Chris?” he asked in a heavy French accent. He seemed to know who they were. He introduced himself as Charles-Edouard, and suddenly Francesca realized who he was. His last name was Prunier, and he was one of the most famous chefs in France and obviously one of Marya’s friends. She appeared a moment later and explained that he was in town from Paris and was cooking for them that night. She promised that it would be an unforgettable experience, and he looked at her with eyes that sparkled. He was a very handsome man.
They shared a bottle of champagne he had brought with him, and everyone in the house was excited about dinner. Eileen came home a few minutes later with flowers she had bought for Francesca and Marya and a bottle of wine for Chris. They were a lively bunch talking about France as she walked in. Charles-Edouard said that he and Marya had known each other for thirty years. It was easy to see that he had a crush on her, and he flirted with her as they cooked together. She was playing sous-chef that night and chopping things for him, as he juggled half a dozen pans, and twice as many bowls. She looked at him with affectionate smiles from time to time, and they seemed very comfortable with each other.
The result when they sat down to dinner was stupefying. Everyone agreed that they had never had a dinner like it in their lives. He was modest and funny and outrageous, and he constantly looked at Marya with loving glances, which she happily ignored. She loved cooking with him, and they were thinking of writing a book together about the delicacies and herbs of Provence and how to use them. But the handsome Frenchman obviously wanted to collaborate with her on more than that.
“He’s adorable,” Francesca whispered to Marya as they did the dishes together. “And he’s crazy about you.” It was easy for anyone to see and they all had, while eating his astoundingly good dinner. He and Chris were smoking cigars in the garden, while the three women washed up. And after that, Eileen went upstairs. “What about him?” Francesca asked. She thought they made a very handsome pair, and he was about Marya’s age.
“Don’t be silly,” Marya said shyly, and then laughed. “And what about his wife? He’s very French. He’s married to a very sweet woman who used to be one of his sous-chefs. He’s cheated on her for years.” She said it as though talking about a badly behaved brother.
“Would he ever get divorced?” Francesca asked with interest. She was feeling better about Todd’s engagement after a very pleasant evening, an exquisite meal with good friends, and a bevy of fine wines.
“Of course not. He’s French. French men don’t get divorced. They cheat until they die, usually in someone else’s bed, like their mistress’s. I’m not sure she’s any more faithful to him, and he claims they’ve never been happy. But he sleeps with everyone in every kitchen he works in. I don’t want to get in the middle of a mess like that. I like him better as a friend.”
“That’s too bad. He’s cute. He’s very good-looking. Keep him away from my mother, or she’ll be chasing him and dragging him to the nearest divorce lawyer. Maybe you should think about that.” Marya shook her head and laughed. “Your mother might just be a match for him. I’m not. I can’t deal with men like that. John and I were faithful to each other all our lives. I prefer men like that. Charles-Edouard is handsome and exciting, but he’s a very, very bad boy.” Marya had no doubt about it.
“He sounds like my father before he married Avery. Sometimes men like that do reform.”
“Yeah, one in a hundred million. I don’t like those kinds of odds. I’d rather work with him and keep him as a friend,” Marya said firmly with a smile. “This way he’s someone else’s problem, not mine.”
Chris and Charles-Edouard wandered back into the kitchen then with what was left of the Cuban cigars the famous chef had smuggled in. He poured each of them a brandy then, and halfway through it he said he had been in love with Marya for thirty years. He looked at her adoringly, and she laughed at him. She took his declarations of love for her with a grain of salt.
“Yeah, me and ten thousand other women. That’s a long list, Charles-Edouard,” she teased him as he smiled.
“But you were always top of that list.” He twinkled as he teased her.
“That’s because you couldn’t have me, and you still can’t. Besides, I like your wife.”
“So do I,” he said matter-of-factly with a mischievous smile. “I’m just not in love with her. I don’t think I ever was. We’re very good friends now. She went after me once with a butcher knife,” he said, pointing to his lower parts with the stub of his cigar, and they all laughed. “I’ve been very nice to her ever since.” He said he had no children either, like Marya, and had never wanted any. “I’m too much of a child myself,” he confessed. He was totally charming and easy to be with. It had been a magical evening for all of them, and he promised to cook dinner for them again before he left. Francesca really liked him and wished he were available for Marya. It was obvious that they had a deep respect for each other, and a lot of fun together, and he loved flirting with her. She had opened up that night like a flower in spring. It was nice to see her that way and admired by a man. She was such a pretty woman, so kind and so talented, it made Francesca sad to think of her alone. She didn’t seem to mind it, but Francesca was sure she must get lonely at times. Marya didn’t have the strident quality of her mother, who was desperate for a man, but it made her all the more appealing. She was very feminine, and there was no question about it, Charles-Edouard was crazy about her. It really was too bad he had a wife. And she could sense that Marya was right and knew him well. He spoke of his wife with affection and fondness, and he would never get divorced. He was very French.
Francesca walked Chris to the landing outside his room that night, after they said goodnight to Marya. They talked about Charles-Edouard for a few minutes. He was definitely a character, and had enormous talent as a chef. Neither of them mentioned Todd again. Chris didn’t want to upset her, and Francesca was still digesting it but felt better after tonight. And then she went upstairs, and Chris went to his room. He had spoken to Ian during dinner, and everything seemed fine.
The house was quiet after everyone went to their rooms. They’d all had a lot to drink. The wines had been important and delicious. He had served Château d’Yquem with dessert, and the brandy finished them all off. They were all happily asleep in their beds, as Eileen tiptoed quietly down the stairs with her stilettos in her hand. She was quiet as a mouse as she opened the front door and closed it softly behind her. Brad was waiting for her outside. He had his motorcycle parked around the corner, and he looked annoyed.
“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for an hour.”
&
nbsp; “I’m sorry.” She looked at him nervously. She could cover what was left of the bruises with makeup now. He had convinced her that his punishment was her fault, because she hadn’t defended him as she should have and had pissed him off. Her father had always told her it was her fault too when he threw her or her mother down the stairs. He had broken her arm twice. “I had to wait until everyone went to bed,” she explained to Brad, and he looked furious as they walked around the corner to where his bike was parked.
“What are you? Twelve? You pay rent in that place. That bitch can’t tell you what to do.”
“Yes, she can. It’s her house. She can throw me out.”
“Fuck her,” Brad said angrily, and handed her a helmet, and a minute later they took off, with Eileen on the back of his motorcycle, holding on for dear life. He was pissed about it, but Eileen had been adamant that he couldn’t come upstairs. They were going back to his place. She wanted to make it up to him for upsetting him before. He was right. She hadn’t defended him to the others. And he had convinced her, just as her father had, that she was bad, and wrong. She was going to prove otherwise to him tonight.
Chapter 11
EILEEN SNEAKED BACK in the next morning before anyone got up. She felt like a kid again, and no one knew she had gone out. Brad hadn’t brought her home, and she didn’t want them to hear the motorcycle anyway, so she took a cab. She was home in plenty of time to shower and dress for work. Brad had been incredible to her, gentle, loving, kind, and it was the best sex she’d ever had. She thought it was a shame her roommates didn’t know him better. He was a very decent man. They had just gotten off to a bad start. She hoped that Francesca would relax about him in time and forgive him. Eileen already had. She was seeing him again that night. The relationship with him was heady stuff.
They all had a quiet evening at home that night. Marya was studying recipes, while Francesca did her laundry, and Chris was reading in bed. Eileen said she was going out with friends from work. They had had such an exciting evening with Charles-Edouard cooking the night before, that all of them took a night off. Marya had left some soup on the stove, and Francesca was on her way upstairs with her laundry, when Chris shot out of his room with a look of panic.
“She did it again!” he said, looking both furious and scared. “She OD’d again. She’s in a coma. Ian was with her, and they said he was frantic when they found her. Now he can’t speak. He’s in shock. She had a guy with her. He’s dead. They think she might not make it this time.” And somewhere in his heart, Chris hoped she wouldn’t. It would be simpler for Ian. He was desperate to get to his child. He flew down the stairs and out the front door as Francesca stared after him, praying Ian was all right.
She waited up for them to come back. It was four in the morning when they finally did. Chris was carrying Ian, who was sound asleep. She opened her door and came down the stairs when she heard the front door close.
“How is he? Is he okay? Can he talk?” She looked as worried as Chris, and he looked as though he had been hit by a bus. It had been a long night.
“He said a few words before he fell asleep. They said I could bring him home. He watched the guy die when he OD’d, talk about trauma for a kid. They’re holding Kimberly responsible for it. That’s what happens when someone OD’s, the survivors are charged with their death. That’s why no one ever calls the cops when someone OD’s. She’ll probably go to jail for this, or prison, unless her father’s lawyers can get her off again.”
“How is she?”
“Alive unfortunately,” he said angrily. “She was coming around when I left. I can’t let Ian go through this again,” he said with a look of desperation as she followed him into his room and he set his son down on the bed. Ian never stirred. “They sedated him. He was hysterical at the hospital. He thought his mother was dead. I’m going to fight for custody this time, and win. No sane judge can give him back to her now. I won’t let this happen to him again. She’s too sick.” Francesca nodded, and wondered who her father was, that his lawyers were so powerful. Chris had mentioned it before. But of course she didn’t ask. It was irrelevant. Ian was all that mattered now.
Francesca went down to the kitchen and brought Chris a cup of warm milk. She was just on her way back with it when she saw Eileen slip in. It was very late for an evening with friends from work. And Francesca guessed correctly from what Eileen was wearing that she’d had a date, but she had no idea with whom. At least she hadn’t brought him back to the house. All Francesca hoped was that she’d been out with a nice guy. Eileen looked happy as she ran quickly up the stairs to her own room, and Francesca delivered the cup of warm milk to Chris. He was sitting in a chair, watching Ian sound asleep on the top bunk.
“It’s going to make a huge stink if his mother goes to jail,” Chris said as he sipped the milk. But he had no regrets for her if it got him sole custody of Ian. He only cared about his son. He had stopped caring about her years before, except for her effect on Ian.
“Don’t worry about it,” Francesca said softly in the dimly lit room. “Get some sleep. You can deal with all that tomorrow.” And she knew he’d have to face another temporary custody hearing in the next few days. That was how it worked. Custody cases got priority and went ahead of everything else.
“Thank you,” he said to Francesca, and she slipped quietly out of the room and went back to her own.
The mystery of who Ian’s mother was was solved for all of them on the front page of the newspaper the next day. Chris had been married to Kimberly Archibald, of one of the most powerful families on the East Coast. Her father was an important venture capitalist who had made a vast fortune with the one he already had. The article told Francesca essentially what Chris already had the night before. It said that she was being charged with manslaughter for the death of a fellow addict in her apartment. The article claimed that she had bought and paid for the drugs. Francesca felt sorry for Chris and Ian as she read it, and then stopped as she saw the second paragraph that mentioned his name. She realized then what an innocent she was. It said that she had been married to and divorced from Christopher Harley of the Boston political family of the same name. More important, his mother was a Calverson. They were related to senators, governors, and two presidents. Chris’s marriage to Kimberly had been a merger of two of the most powerful families in the country, one financial and the other political. And Chris wasn’t just a graphic designer quietly making a living and renting a room from her on Charles Street. He was the heir of an important family, which he seemed to have divorced himself from to lead a quiet, simple life, until his ex-wife splashed him all over the front pages of every paper in New York. He was totally unassuming. Francesca put the paper in a drawer so Ian wouldn’t see it when they came down to breakfast a few minutes later. Marya still didn’t know what had happened the night before. She looked surprised to see Ian, but didn’t comment on how pale he was, or how shaken he looked. He didn’t smile, and hardly said a word at breakfast, even when she gave him his favorite Mickey Mouse pancakes. He still looked sleepy from the sedation they’d given him the night before and he hardly ate.
“What happened?” Marya whispered to Francesca when Chris thanked her for breakfast and took Ian back upstairs. Chris looked worried and exhausted, and he hadn’t seen the paper either. Francesca handed it to Marya, who read the article and gasped as she read it. “Oh my God, how awful. I hope Chris gets custody of him now for good.”
“He should, particularly if she goes to prison. Chris thinks her father won’t let that happen.”
“He may not have a choice,” Marya said wisely. “Ian looks awful.”
“He saw the man die, and his mother OD.”
“No child should have to go through that.” She felt terrible for both Chris and Ian, as did Francesca. Chris came back downstairs then without Ian. He had left him upstairs, he wanted to see the paper. His mouth was a thin line when he did.
“Nice, huh?” he commented to both women with a grim look. The st
ory was bad enough, but he hated it when they traced his family back through all the generations. At least most people who knew him never made the connection with him. And they hadn’t mentioned Ian being on the scene, which was a blessing. They had had some respect for the fact that he was seven years old. “Burn this, will you?” he said as he handed Francesca the paper and went back upstairs. Eileen had come in by then, and Francesca explained it to her after Chris left. She felt deeply sorry for him. Neither she nor Francesca mentioned the hour she got home the night before or where she had been. Francesca staunchly believed it was none of her business, as long as Eileen didn’t put the rest of them at risk with who she brought home. Francesca hoped she was using good judgment.
Chris kept Ian home from school that day, and he was still very quiet when Francesca and Eileen came home from work. Charles-Edouard was there that night. He had been with Marya all afternoon going over recipes and talking about their joint book. He offered to make them a light meal, and a special pizza for Ian. He had bought soft-shell crab, and a few lobsters, and in a short time he and Marya had whipped up another feast. She had told him about what had happened to Chris’s son, and he felt terrible for him. When the boy came into the kitchen that afternoon, Charles-Edouard introduced himself and asked if Ian would mind helping him for a few minutes. They hadn’t met yet until then. Charles-Edouard asked Ian to hold an egg in his hand and stand very still. Ian was expressionless as he stood there holding the egg, and Charles-Edouard looked extremely serious as he suddenly pulled the egg out of Ian’s ear.
44 Charles Street Page 12
