The Last Time I Saw Paris (17 page)

“Then we're not going to jail?” A smile lurked at the corners of Lara's mouth.

“It was touch-and-go, I'll tell you. If they had believed him, I would have been there.”

“That would have been a different way to see Paris.” Lara was unable to stop the giggle, it just burst out of her.

Baffled, Dan glared at her out of the corner of his eye. “What's so darn funny? That I might have seen Paris from the inside of a jail cell? Hah! That's some sense of humor you have, ma'am.”

“Don't call me
ma'am,”
she snapped, angry that he was still angry and couldn't see the funny side of it.

“Sorry.
Mrs.
Lewis.”

She slumped in her seat, shocked. It was like a slap in the face. He
never
called her Mrs. Lewis.
Ms.
Lewis was what he always said. Was it a deliberate dig to remind her of who she was and that she was
not Mrs. Dan Holland? Their wonderful romantic trip seemed suddenly trivialized and hollow and she wanted to cry but knew she must not, she couldn't let him see the hurt. Great, she thought miserably, it's history repeating itself. This is exactly what happened with Bill. The lost way . . . the fight … not speaking . . .

A
Toutes Directions
sign appeared through the murk. “Follow that,” she told him sullenly. She didn't know where it led but anything was better than winding their way around the back streets of Paris in an area of warehouses and crumbling buildings she had never seen before.

They were on the Périphérique, the motorway encircling Paris. Relieved, she thought surely from there she would be able to find the right exit for Tours. Soon, they could be in a nice warm hotel room and, maybe, when Dan had had a hot shower, he would come to his senses and see the funny side of it.

Her mouth curled into a smile as she recalled
les flics
striding toward them—the two rain-sodden and angry
criminels américains
—while the Citroën driver had his dukes up ready to fight it out.

“I thought it was pretty funny,” she said with that unrepentant giggle. “I thought he was going to punch you right there and then.”

A rueful grin curved Dan's mouth. “I figured I was either gonna end up in hospital or in jail.”

“Nobody would ever believe it,” she gasped between shouts of laughter. “Never in a million years …”

He shot her a penetrating look. “For a minute there I thought you were taking his part.”

“Who,
me
?” Eyes open wide, Lara gazed innocently
back at him.
“Never.
It was obviously the other guy's fault.” But she was smiling as she said it. She could almost hear Delia saying.
You're learning, Lara!

T
hey had been on the Périphérique for over two hours.

“I've passed this sign twice,” Dan said. He swung onto the exit ramp, made a right, and pulled over. “Give me the map.”

Silently, Lara handed it over.

“God, it's so simple, why didn't you see it? Right here; look.” He pointed out the route on the map, then, disgusted with her incompetence, took off again.

Lara stared out the window in rebellious silence. She didn't know why she hadn't seen it, she just hadn't, that's all. Maybe it wasn't just Bill, she thought, it was truly that all men were alike. They could all read maps in a flash—when they were parked on a quiet street. Huh, she thought, just give a man a map when the car is racing down the motorway at seventy miles an hour and the signs are flashing by and the driver expects an immediate answer.
That's
when the trouble starts. Of course she should have planned the route beforehand, she admitted that, but still, there was no need for Dan to be so mean about it. After all, they were on the right road now.

“I can't believe we spent two hours on that motorway,” Dan said, “when all you had to do was look at the map.”

“I looked,” she snapped. “You should try searching the small print at seventy miles an hour.”

“Kilometers,” he corcected her. “And you should put on the bifocals.”

“They
are
on!”

She glared furiously ahead at the rain-smudged fields as they splashed down country lanes.

Half an hour passed in silence. “Why are we out in the middle of the countryside?” she asked finally. “We should be on the main route to Tours.”

“I'm taking the green-arrow roads instead.”

“You're taking the
scenic route!
On a day like this?” Lara threw up her hands, stunned.

Dan's chin was set in a stubborn line, his eyes fixed grimly on the winding country road ahead. “Just leave it to me, Lara, why don't you?” he said in that same cold voice. “I figured there would be less traffic.”

“Of course there will. No one takes country roads in this weather. Look, there's a gas station. Let's ask for directions.”

“Too late. We're already past it.”

“Then, dammit, turn around,” she said, exasperated. “Unless, of course, you know where we are.”

Dan shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Why is it men never want to stop and ask directions?” she demanded through gritted teeth. “It's a failing of your sex, you know that?”

There was a frigid silence in the car. Is this what real love is? she asked herself. Not romance, not flowers and perfume and high heels and sex. Is it fighting and stubbornness and a refusal to see reason—me as well as Dan, I suppose. Yes, of course it's me as well. I'm just as stubborn as he is. And I'm a woman too—that's worse, at least in a man's eyes it is. They never think we act reasonably. Especially in a car.

She sneaked a glance at Dan. His face was impassive, his mouth tight. She told herself, doubtfully, it
was just that their nerves were frazzled, the stress of driving in a foreign country, the accident, the everlasting rain. But doubt quivered in her brain like the first rumblings of a volcano, and the tremors grew stronger with each silent, dreary, rain-sodden kilometer.

Panicked, she asked herself if she had made a mistake. A great, huge, terrible mistake. The mistake of a lifetime? Wait a minute, though, only weeks ago she had thought that her marriage to Bill took the Great Mistake award.

She huddled farther into her cramped seat, dwelling miserably on the trembling volcano of thoughts, wondering when they would erupt and end this so-called romantic idyll. She hardened her jaw, pressing her teeth together to stop from crying. She thought longingly of home, of the peace of being alone with just her dog for company, no fights, no mood swings—no mistakes. All she wanted right now was to be at the beach house. Just her and Dex, watching the sunset. Yet only hours ago, she had loved Dan so much she couldn't keep her hands off him, couldn't envision life without him.

All you have to do, girlfriend, is act reasonably,
that inner voice told her. Yeah, but you know what, I'm sick and tired of acting reasonably. If this is love, do I want it? Yes, yes, I do, darn it.

Oh, stop being so stubborn, Lara. Face it: of course you want it.

Another half hour passed and they were in a village of sorts—a straggle of houses along a bleak, lonely road edged with flat, drenched fields. Dan slammed on the brakes and swerved under an arch into a sodden courtyard fronting a ramshackle farmhouse. Mud and clucking hens scattered from beneath their wheels
and a black dog with liver-colored eyes barked and showed its teeth at them.

“Get lost,” Dan snapped as he stepped out of the car, and the dog ducked its head and slunk out of his way.

“So now you're mean to animals as well as women,” Lara commented. He turned and glared at her. She glared back. “Anyhow, where are you going?”

He pointed to the handwritten sign at the entrance.
Gîtes. Chambre à Louer.
Room for rent! Did he mean for them to stay
here
tonight? Dismayed, Lara stared at the yard. It was a sea of mud and cowpats, and the dreary old gray stone farmhouse had a definite list to the left and looked about to fall down. Through the sheet of rain she could see Dan talking to a thin, inhospitable-looking woman with scraped-back steel-gray hair and a blank expression.

The woman disappeared into the house then returned with a key. Throwing an old coat over her basic black, she shuffled around the corner with Dan following. He came back a few minutes later. “We're at least seventy kilometers from Tours and the weather's getting worse,” he said. “This is it for tonight.” He hesitated, then said glumly, “I'm sorry, Lara.”

She glared silently at him from beneath her lashes, unforgiving, despite the advice of her inner voice.

He drove the Renault around the back of the farmhouse and stopped in front of an ancient barn. Small windows had been punched through the crumbling stone walls and the roof was missing several tiles. Still silent, she followed him inside.

The room was open to the rafters and furnished, if that was the correct word, with the same small
lit
matrimonial
that the French seemed to prefer. This one was covered with an orange and brown chenille spread that matched the orange and brown polyester curtains. The bed and the pine dresser had obviously seen many years' service in the farmer's own bedroom until
gîtes
and unwary tourists and the good times had rolled around. Lara guessed that now he had a shiny new bedroom set from the local discount store. There was a flimsy table, a couple of old cane-bottomed chairs, and a worn, colorless rug on the uneven stone floor. A miniscule gas heater vainly puffed clouds of warmish steam into the icy room.

Lara thought longingly of the sweet little Hôtel de Groison in Tours, warm and cozy, waiting for them. She kicked the table leg angrily, then yelped with pain, hopping on one foot, frustrated, angry, tired, and cold.

“Great,” she snarled. “Looks like we'll have a perfect night.”

Dan shoved his hands in his pockets. He said, “Aw, come on, Lara, roll with it, can't you? I've said I'm sorry.”

She threw him a baleful glare; he was still dripping water onto the flagstones. Turning away, she opened up the bags. “You'd better take a hot shower and get into some dry clothing.”

She unlocked her suitcase then peeled off her own wet clothes. She was looking forward to that hot shower. It might be the only highlight of her day. She took out her little portable radio, turned it on.

Tina Turner was singing “What's Love Got to Do With It.” What, indeed, Lara wondered resentfully. She was still thinking about that when Dan emerged from the tiny bathroom. He was holding an extremely
small blue towel and looked even colder and wetter than he had before.

“Forget the shower,” he said. “There's no hot water.”

Lara stared at him, stunned. They could have been in Tours by now, bathing in hot water, dressing in clean clothes, dining in some cozy bistro.… Furious, she slammed the suitcase shut. Too late, she heard the lock click, remembered the key inside on top of the neatly folded clothes. Groaning, she sank into the old cane chair.

There was a rending sound and the seat gave way. The chair tipped over and she was on the floor, her bottom jammed into the broken chair, legs sticking into the air. Shrieking with frustration and fury, she kicked her feet, ridiculous, humiliated, and fed-up.

“Fuck,”
she yelled since it seemed the only appropriate word.
“Oh, fuck fuck fuck
…”

Dan's mocking laughter echoed from the icy rafters. “Never thought I'd hear you say that word, Ms. Lewis.”

She glared at him. Naked, he looked so beautiful she almost forgave him.
Almost
—but not quite. She said angrily, “It's all your fault.”

He knelt over her and pulled her with one hand, pressing the broken chair down with the other. She popped out so suddenly that he fell backward with her on top of him.

Lara felt a draft as the door opened. They turned their heads and their eyes met those of their hostess.

Madame Defarge stared at the naked woman straddling the naked man. Then,
“M'sieur, ‘dame,”
she said with great dignity, “I've brought you a little of my home-brewed calvados. To take off the chill.”

Lara felt the hot blush not just in her face but in
her entire naked body. She hid her face in Dan's chest. She heard the tray being deposited on the table then the sound of the door closing behind Madame Defarge.

“Oh … my … God,”
she wailed, horrified. “What must she have thought? I'll never be able to look her in the face again.”

She struggled to get up but Dan only gripped her tighter. Laughter rumbled in his chest and she glared at him, then suddenly she saw the funny side of it too. They rolled over and over on the old rug, still wrapped in each other's arms, hooting with laughter.

Dan brushed the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Do you really care what Madame Defarge thinks? After all, you'll never meet her again. And, anyhow, she's probably seen it all before.”

“Not like you, she hasn't. She'll be dreaming about you for years.” Lara snuggled hungrily into his arms. “I know she's never seen a naked man like you.”

“Oh? And how do you know?”

“Because neither have I. And I, my friend, am a woman of the world.”

Dan's shout of laughter set her off again, but he pulled her to her feet. “Come on, woman of the world, let's have a drop of that warming calvados.”

He poured the cloudy, brownish-green liquid. Lara stared doubtfully at it.
“Santé,”
Dan said, having learned the French for “cheers” early on in the game. They drained their glasses. Lara clutched her throat. They stared at each other, wide-eyed and speechless.

“Fire,”
she gasped, “it's firewater.… Oh, my God, I'm dying.”

Choking, Dan ran to get her a glass of water. She drained it in one gulp, then, still coughing, said, horrified,
“Oh, God, I forgot. We shouldn't be drinking tap water.”