“Let me think on it, Simone. We’ll come up with something.”
I don’t know which I enjoyed more—showing Paris to Harmon or watching Paris react to my husband. Harmon was a beautiful sight, walking down the Champs-Elysees with his blue jeans, brown leather jacket, western hat and cowboy boots. More than one Parisian asked him if he was John Wayne.
If I thought he was getting too cocky about it, I’d walk away and hide around a corner, leaving him to try to talk to his admirers. In just a few minutes, he’d bellow out, “Bonita Faye, come on back here and help me out of this.”
We toured the Louvre and I showed him my lovely Winged Victory and my favorite Impressionists’ paintings. And the Mona Lisa. “You can’t come to Paris, Harmon, and not see the Mona Lisa.”
We went up in the Eiffel Tower and rode the boats on the Seine. And I even got him to a play at the Theatre of Paris. It was our first vacation ever and while he enjoyed the adventure of it I could tell he was happiest on the days we stayed in Boulogne and he walked down to Robert’s bookstore to jaw awhile or when he sat and drank coffee with Simone.
“I finally understand why you left France. Even why you left Claude. Your Harmon is quite a man,” Simone said. Everyone liked Harmon and even Michel began to talk to him. He was in awe of this big “cowboy” from Oklahoma, but wasn’t at all shy at practicing his English with him. Robert had kept up Michel’s English lessons all these years and although he spoke with an accent, his vocabulary was astonishing.
I watched the two of them sit together in a little outside patio that was new to me at the Regina. Simone said it was only for family, that it helped them get away from the continual openness of the hotel. The patio door was halved…a Dutch door Simone called it…and when I stood just inside it, and the top half was opened outward, I could see the patio visitors without them noticing me.
Harmon was telling Michel about Oklahoma. He’d die before he’d let anyone back home go on about his famous shoot-out in Panama, but now I heard him tell the wide-eyed youngster about the cold and rainy January night he’d shot four desperadoes. And how about he, too, had once walked with crutches.
Harmon was raising up his shirttail to show Michel his scars when Simone came up behind me and slipped an arm around my waist. We watched the two in the garden and exchanged an understanding look. I nodded in answer to her unasked question.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Claude dropped a pink rose in my lap. “Bonjour, madame,” he said as he sank onto the wrought iron bench next to mine.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Vermeillon.” I dropped the letters I had been reading and picked up the rose. “This is a surprise. I thought I wouldn’t see you again until we visited you in Geneva.”
“I had a little business in Paris, and it is not so far to Boulogne from there, so…” he shrugged as only the French can.
“Harmon is at Robert’s,” I said like the dutiful wife I was. “He’ll be sorry to miss you. Can you stay for supper?”
“Yes, I know where he is. Simone told me. She also told me that you were here at the park. It is you I wanted to see.”
It had been five years since Claude and I had been alone together. During the “family” reunion we had spoken, but mostly about our mutual business dealings. Neither of us had exchanged looks that signified anything other than an honest delight at seeing one another again.
“I think there are some things we should say, Bonita Faye.”
“Yes, Claude.”
“And now is the time.”
“Yes, Claude.”
Silence.
“Well, what are they?” I asked.
“Give me time.”
“You’ve had five years.”
We laughed in the old way and with the release of laughter, we found the plane we had been seeking.
In a more comfortable way Claude said, “I was hurt when you left me.”
He paused to look at me and when I didn’t answer, he went on. “Now that I am older…mon dieu…I was young then…I understand more about what happened between us. I thought it was for always…” He stopped. “I have worked out a lot of it in my mind, but there is one question I have always wanted to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“If Harmon had not been injured…if there had not been the threat of his dying…would you have stayed with me?”
I’d had the same years to think of an answer to that one. Without hesitancy I answered, “Yes.”
A satisfied smile crossed his lips. “Have you ever regretted going?”
“No.” And that was the truth. Over the years I’d spent wondering and playing “what ifs” in my mind, my going to Harmon in Hawaii and marrying him there was one thing I’d never regretted.
“I love Harmon, Claude.”
“I have always known that.”
“And I love you.”
“Aie!” he groaned. “That is not fair.”
“The County Fair.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a saying back home. The only fair is the County Fair. Let me ask you something. Do you love Didi?”
“But of course, but that is…No, it is not different. I could not imagine my life without Didi.” Claude took my hand. “Are we always going to love each other, Bonita Faye?”
“I hope so, Claude.”
There. We had said most of the words I had imagined in my head for ages. And we were still friends and lovers. Oh, not in a passionate sense, but in the feeling anyone gets when they know another loves them. I’ve always thought there was too little of that in life. Too few people who said they loved you when they did.
We stood up and I took Claude’s arm and we walked through the park together.
“What really is not fair is Simone, Robert and Denis,” Claude said.
“I understand what you mean, but it seems all right for them. I couldn’t live that way. I’d have to make a decision.”
Claude threw back his head and laughed. “Well, we all know that.” Then seriously he asked me, “Why do think Simone is not able to do so? To make a decision?”
“Well, now that I know that you know all about her work in the Resistance and about Max…”
“Yes, I know. Michel’s father.”
“Well, I think it’s all tied up in that time. Or maybe it has something to do with our killing Max…”
Claude stopped in the middle of the path and grabbed my arms. My letters and the rose fell to the ground. “Killing Max! Max is dead? Who killed Max?”
It was hard to answer with him shaking my arms, but I said, “Claude, I thought you knew. Simone said you knew all about Max so I thought you knew she and I killed him. Well, not really, it was Denis. And Robert, too, of course…”
“Denis? And Robert? You and Simone? When?” He kept on shaking me.
“Let me go. It was when you graduated from the University.”
He didn’t let go. “Where? How?”
In between the shakes that were making my head hurt, I tried to tell Claude how it had been. Most of it came out as hiccups.
“What are you doing to my wife?” Jesus Christ it was Harmon.
“Your stupid wife…” Claude began.
Watch it Claude, I remember thinking.
Sure enough, Harmon grabbed one of my arms and jerked me out of Claude’s grip. I spun around and landed on the gravel path.
Harmon said, “Now what about my stupid wife?”
From my vantage point on the ground I looked up at the two men who were circling each other like hungry wolves. Harmon had three inches over Claude plus about eighty pounds. Their confrontation looked like it had been choreographed by someone with a bizarre sense of humor: Harmon in his western attire and Claude in his business pinstriped suit.
“Maybe you don’t think it was so stupid for her to risk her lif
e killing a German Nazi? Maybe you think it is all right because that is the way you do it in Oklahoma!”
Oh, ho. More than ol’ Bonita Faye knocking off a German was in the works here.
“Bonita Faye never killed anybody in her life.”
Oh, well. Just once, I thought.
“Oh, yeah?”
I was getting mixed up. Oh, yeah, was a line Harmon was supposed to use. Claude had been watching too many American gangster movies.
“Who? Who’d she kill?”
“Michel’s father, that’s who.”
Harmon stopped his shuffle around Claude and turned to look down at me. “Is that true, Bonita Faye? ‘Cause if it isn’t…”
He drew back his fist to show me what he was going to do to Claude if I hadn’t really killed anybody.
“It’s true,” I said.
“Bonita Faye Adams! You killed a German Nazi?”
“Well, almost, Harmon. You see I was going to kill him, me and Simone, but Denis did it first. Shot him in the head out at the farm. But, it was my idea…”
Harmon jerked me up off the ground and lifted me up in the air and shook me like Claude had…only harder. “You stupid woman…you idiot. Did it ever occur to you that you could get hurt or killed?” Harmon dropped me just like that and I fell into my previous position on the ground. His boots spit gravel in my face as he spun around to face Claude.
Harmon held out his hand. “Claude, I’m right sorry about that…” His shrug indicated their former sparring area.
“It is all right, Harmon. I would have reacted in the same way. I had no right to shake Bonita Faye, but it was such a stupid thing for her and Simone to do. Here, have a cigar.”
Harmon, who hadn’t smoked anything but an occasional pipe since Korea, took the cigar and waited while Claude lit it. Both men’s hands were shaking and it took awhile for Harmon to get it lit. Then Claude lit his own cigar.
As quick as if the lighting ceremony had signaled a change of acts in a play, the two men began a different script.
“Now do you think you could explain all of this to me, Claude?”
“Surely can, Harmon.”
“First, though, I need a drink. Do you know a good bar around here?”
“Matter of fact, I do. There is one right outside the park. I will consider it a pleasure to buy you a whiskey.”
“Oh, no. I said it first. You’re my guest.”
Then those two gentlemen just flat turned and walked away, leaving me sitting in the gravel with a crushed rose in my hand.
TWENTY-NINE
I watched from my favorite seat in Patsy’s kitchen as she put the last stack of Girl Scout Cookies into a large cardboard box. “Here, Bonita Faye. Let’s eat this spare box of chocolate mint ones. I swear I don’t know who ordered ‘em. I hope Cherry appreciates all this.” Her broad gesture indicated the room full of boxed orders of cookies.
With her mouth full of cookie, Patsy dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s of the last order. She looked up and grinned, little bits of chocolate crumbs falling from her mouth. Pointing her yellow pencil at me, she said, “You know. Show me a woman who can successfully be a Girl Scout Cookie Chairman and I’ll show you a woman who can run the world.”
Patsy is so smart.
She moved the paperwork aside and poured us both a fresh cup of coffee. Her first gulp washed away the crumbs and she reached for another handful. “Now, you were telling me about Didi.”
“Not just about Didi. About going to her and Claude’s home in Geneva.”
“Were you over being mad at him and Harmon then?”
I said I had been, and I guess that was the truth.
It had been way after supper the day they had left me sprawled in the park before the two of them came home drunk as lords.
I hadn’t even pretended to be asleep when Harmon staggered into our room. I was sitting, propped up by all the pillows in the center of the bed. My low-cut, sleeveless gown showed off the bruises on my crossed arms. As he stumbled around, trying to pull off his clothes, I gave him one of Mama’s looks. You know, one of those looks that don’t require any words to let you know of your low standing in the community.
Naked, Harmon half fell onto the bed. “Poor Bonita Faye. Did I do that to you?” His big fingers outlined the blue marks on my arm. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Don’t you sweetheart me, Harmon Adams. You’ve never hurt me before in my life and I can’t just forget about it with sweet talk.”
“And I’ll never do it again,” he promised. Then he drew back a bit, “But, goddam it, Bonita Faye. How on earth did you think you could do something as dangerous as killing a German Nazi? No wonder I went berserk.”
“I didn’t kill him. Denis did.”
“Same difference. You planned it. I’m just glad you didn’t do it in my jurisdiction. Imagine having to arrest my own wife for murder.”
I decided to forgive him then before his thoughts went on in that vein. I put my arm around his shoulder and caressed his muscled neck.
“That’s better.” He pulled the gown from my shoulders and slipped his hand below my breasts. He whispered into my ear, “Hey, Bonita Faye, you’re getting a little weight on your ribs.”
I swatted his hand away and he moved it to a better place.
As I told Patsy, Claude and Didi’s home in Geneva was more than you could ever imagine a royal palace to be. It was a perfect Swiss chateau overlooking one of the best views of Lake Geneva. And it was furnished with French period furniture of the kind that before I had seen only at Versailles. It was beautiful and I told her so.
“Thank you, Bonita Faye. Coming from you, that is a real compliment. Claude values your opinion so highly. He chose the house, but he left the decoration entirely up to me. I think it is nice, but I am always happy to hear someone confirm it. Claude seems happy here. Do you agree?”
We looked out of the French doors to where Claude and Harmon sat on the wide marble terrace, enjoying their cigars and an animated conversation. The Vermeillons’ English nanny sat on the far steps and held Francois while petite Belle played at the foot of the formal gardens at the left of the terrace. Every so often she ran up the stairs to give her father a feather or some other treasure she’d found in her play. Claude would stop his conversation and give the child a hug and kiss before she ran off again.
I answered Didi slowly. “In fact, Didi, I more than agree. Now that I’ve been here, I can’t imagine Claude in any other setting or with any other woman.”
She clasped my right hand in both of hers. “Thank you, Bonita Faye. Again, I think you know how much your approval means to me. And I am glad that you are the other woman that Claude loves.”
I drew my hand back in surprise.
“It is all right. I know all about it. Claude told me before he proposed. At first, I was jealous of an unknown, perfect Bonita Faye, whoever she might be. Then as the years went by and Claude was so good to me and our children…I must confess, though, I was nervous about your coming back to France. Simone told me not to worry. That everything would be all right and she was right. I have seen how much you love your Harmon and it is good to know that you are the one who also loves my Claude. We Europeans understand such things, but do you know? I think Harmon understands, too.”
Whatever.
Didi wasn’t the only one who could give out compliments. I asked her, “Tell me, how do you do it? This big house, servants, children and Claude is so demanding of your time. Yet, you seem so serene through it all. You’re everywhere, but you’re never harassed or frazzled about nothing. How do you do it, Didi?” I really wanted to know her secret.
“Well, first this was how I was reared. This is the type of life I am accustomed to living. All this was expected of me. But, mostly I draw strength from my religion. You know that I am Catholic?”
> Well, now I hadn’t. I didn’t know much about Catholics. There wasn’t a Catholic church in all of eastern Oklahoma that I knew of. The nearest ones were in Fort Smith across the Arkansas border. And all I remembered of them were the stained glass windows and the black-clad nuns from the convent that I often saw on the streets there. So I answered in the only way I knew about religion.
“You mean faith from the Scriptures? Do you read your Bible a lot? My best friend, Patsy, in Poteau, knows it by heart.”
“No, not really, Bonita Faye. Catholics aren’t encouraged to read the Scriptures. We derive our comfort from the rituals and sacraments of the church itself. The sisters tell us how we must conduct ourselves and the priests hear our confessions and read the Holy Scripture. There is a beautiful, well-ordered rhythm to our religion.”
I began to understand the orchestrated life I had observed at the Vermeillons. Still I protested, “But what do you do when things go bad on you? How do you cope when Belle is sick, and Francois is crying, and the help quits, and Claude is gone…and…and you have a headache?” I’d tried to think of what the people around here would call a catastrophe.
I think Didi got the general idea. She answered, “Why, then I just offer it up.”
“Offer what up? Who to?”
“Why, to God. When things are beyond my control, I say the right prayers and offer up the problems for God to solve.”
And here all this time I thought I had to go to God and tell him the solutions, even murder, I had come up with for my own problems. Maybe this Catholic business wasn’t all bad.
I was pondering on that, sitting on the same steps where the nanny had perched when I overheard Harmon and Claude on the terrace.
“When do think you will go to Washington, Harmon?”
“Not long after we get back to the states. The next classes start around Labor Day. That’s the first Monday in September.”
“What has made you so interested in the FBI?”
Bonita Faye Page 16
