The Last Time I Saw Paris (26 page)

Afterward, they strolled up the street to the Place du Château, where they sat at the Renaissance cafe sipping coffee under a bowl of stars that were more
sparkly than the smart Parisians' enormous diamonds. The mistral had departed, leaving only a breeze to ruffle Lara's long hair. From all around came the pleasant murmur of multinational voices: the local Provence patois, the rapid Parisian chatter, the high-pitched voices of British women, and the guttural laughter of the Germans. They were a world away from reality, in a kingdom more magical than mere Disneyland.

Unable to believe he was really there, Dan said, “Shouldn't I be in Monterey putting up a taco stand? Or off building a ranch in the hills of Carmel? Can this be
real?”

“I'll pinch you if you like.” Lara laughed, but she understood exactly what he meant. This hill village was so remote from their own reality, from Dan's daily life and work, from her own lonely home in San Francisco and the lostness of her life, it seemed to promise new beginnings.

They lingered into the night. Dan was so easy to talk to; he really listened, tried to understand, and the thoughts just came out of her mouth, off the top of her head, completely unedited. Things she hadn't even thought about in years, but were just lurking there. About how she had adored her father and her desolation when he had died lingeringly of lung cancer when she was sixteen. About her mother, who had married again and gone to live in Florida, leaving Lara a lonely young-married, with no one to give her advice and help with the children. About never knowing much about sex except what she had gleaned from the Girlfriends. She told him she had never “known” anyone but Bill, never known any of the men with the predatory hands and a sense of entitlement to her body, the way Delia had told her she had.

“None of our mothers had told us about sex,” she said. “It wasn't considered a proper subject in suburbia.”

And she told him about how she felt now about her home, her children, her fears and hopes for them. Bit by bit, she told him her life.

 

They slept that night, the way they always did now, wrapped around each other, as though the big bed were a small one, with the shutters flung wide to the starry night and the cool breeze. And Lara's dreams were of sunlight and wine and love.

 

Lara canceled the rest of their reservations, deliberately avoiding the hotels where she had stayed with Bill, determined to put him—and their life—behind her. The next day, they chugged back down the hill, drove for a while, took a couple of wrong turns, and ended up in a hamlet—just a few houses and barns strung along the narrow road. A signpost showed they were in Joucas, and, curious, they followed another sign pointing to the Mas des Herbes Blanches.

When they found it, it was a honey-colored Provençal farmhouse converted into a hotel, and it fit as snugly into the landscape as though it had grown out of it. The low terra-cotta-tile roofs stuck out at many angles, and a courtyard terrace overlooked a deep blue swimming pool and parklike grounds where the white grasses, the
herbes blanches
that gave the hotel its name, grew.

Lara unpacked for the first time since they had left Paris, hanging up the creased garments, sending things out to be washed and pressed so they could be
repacked and creased all over again when she did her on-the-road nightly shuffle through them to pick out something to wear. Being on the road had its drawbacks as well as its fascinations.

Then they drove into the nearby small town of Apt. The morning market was still in full swing and they were instantly lost in the smells of Provence: the hovering aroma of rosemary and thyme and mint, the sharp tang of dozens of different types of olives, and the sweet scent of melons mingled with the tempting smell coming from a pizza truck. They bought a melon and ate it with the juice running down their chins, watching the local women picking through every vegetable and fruit until the perfect ones were found. Baskets of speckled brown eggs were displayed next to live chickens and quacking ducks, and overall hung a pungent odor of cheese—rounds of creamy-white goat and sheep cheeses, and cheeses that looked as though they had been around for a hundred years, hard, black, and crusty. There were tiny fresh-picked lettuces and little leeks; yellow zucchini blossoms and knobby green-red tomatoes; enormous white radishes, tiny purple aubergines, and fat red peppers.

There was another truck with roasting pork, and the aroma tempted them into trying succulent slices on hunks of fresh bread.

In the medieval stone village of Bonnieux, they rented bicycles and helmets and peddled into the green foothills of the Luberon Mountains, puffing through tiny, windswept Ménerbes, passed periodically by yellow-and-black-Lycra-clad
cyclistes
like swarms of bees.

Lara's calves ached and the sun scorched down and she wished she had put on more sunscreen. Finally,
hot, exhausted, and sunburned, they dropped their bikes in the shade of a scrub oak and flung themselves panting to the ground.

She groaned, arms outflung, “Why did I ever suggest this? I haven't even been on the treadmill in over a year.”

Dan was flat on his back, arms pillowing his head. “Look at it this way: going back it's all downhill.” He massaged her aching calves, until she could bear it no longer, then he kissed her sun-pink knees and hauled her to her feet again.

The heady smell of wild thyme crushed beneath their feet followed them as they wandered deep into the forest. After a while, they stopped and stood, hand in hand, listening to the silence. The arcing branches filtered the greenish light, and it was like being in a great outdoor cathedral. Very gradually, they became aware of the sounds of life: the scuttle of a small animal through the underbrush; a flutter of unseen wings; the cooing of a bird; and somewhere far off in the distance, the barking of a dog. It was, they agreed, awed—magical.

But when they finally returned to the place where they had left their bicycles, they were brought back to reality with a thud. The bikes were gone.

“Stolen,” Dan said with a sigh.

“Now what do we do?” Lara tugged at her shorts, hot and sticky and, predictably, hungry once again.

“Guess,” Dan said. Then he took her hand and they began to hike down the steep hill. When they reached the road, they looked left and right. It was as empty as an out-of-season football field.

“Better start walking,” Dan said. “Soon as we see a car coming, stick out your thumb.”

“You mean we're going to
hitchhike?”
Lara was
dumbfounded; it was exactly what she had warned her own daughter never to do.

“What do you suggest? That I get on my cell phone and call a taxi? Come on, Lara, of course we're going to hitchhike. And you'd better start praying a car comes by soon because I seem to remember it was a long way back to Ménerbes.”

Lara stomped along the road, head down, furious with herself that she had been naive enough to leave the bikes unpadlocked and unattended. She would
never
have done that in California.

It was that magic hour between twelve and two when the whole of Provence locked up and went for lunch. She knew no sensible farmer or businessman would be on the road now. He would be in the local restaurant eating the menu of the day and washing it down with a bottle of red from the local cooperative near Bonnieux. The midday sun scorched down and she rammed her sun hat on her head, wishing she had worn a long-sleeved shirt instead of just a tank top.

“Which way?” Dan asked when they came to the fork in the road.

Lara had about as much sense of direction as a turned-around road sign. “Right,” she said positively, and they trudged down yet another empty, dusty white road.

“Come on, Lara.” She was flagging and Dan urged her on. “We'll never get there at this rate.”

Lara was thinking that the road had a familiar look about it, but, then, all the country roads looked alike to her. Still, it did look very much like the one she and Bill had driven down, searching for a tiny restaurant he had heard about, and, as usual, was determined to find at all cost. That was Bill, dogged as Dexter, never giving up on anything.

Especially on children's lives,
the voice reminded her suddenly.
He never gives up on those kids, either, you know. That's what makes him a great doctor.

True, she admitted silently. Though Bill was never such a good father to his own children. But then, they were never sick, at least not seriously, like his patients.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice that the road was getting narrower and that the soft verge was crumbling. Not until she tripped over it, that is.

“Ow! Now look what I've done,” she cried, surprised to find herself sitting in a rocky ditch.

Dan hurried to help her up. “Are you okay?”

She put her weight on her foot, testing it, then sat down again suddenly. It hurt like hell. “I think I must have sprained it.” She stared doubtfully at the foot that suddenly felt too big for the sneaker. “I'm sorry,” she added, looking back up at Dan.

“What d'you mean? I'm the one who's sorry. You're the one who's hurt. Look, you're obviously not going to be able to walk on that foot. I'll go on and get the car. You'll just have to stay here and wait for me.”

He helped her into the shade of a mangy scrub oak. “At least you're out of the sun,” he said, patting her hair as though she were a child. “Don't worry, honey, I'll be back before you know it.”

“Before I can count to ten?” she asked with a smile, remembering how she had promised the same thing to her kids when they were small and ten seemed an eternity away. Like now.

Dan stood, arms folded, looking down at her. “Before you know it,” he promised. Then he dropped a kiss on her upturned face and set off at a jog down the heat-shimmering road.

As he disappeared from sight, Lara recalled carousel 22 at Charles de Gaulle. Every time he disappeared like this she found herself hoping nervously it wasn't déjà vu all over again. Again.

S
he suddenly realized she was alone on a small, silent back road somewhere in Provence. The only sound was the everlasting wind whistling through the scrub oak. Even the birds were taking a siesta.

Lara thought worriedly about the bicycle thieves. What if they came back to rob her? Not that she had anything to steal except maybe her old watch. Oh, and the necklace. She ran her fingers over the diamonds; perhaps she should take it off, hide it in her pocket . . . but she had promised never to remove it until Bill came back. It was her talisman that would bring him back to her.

Well, so far, the talisman's not working too good,
the voice reminded her edgily.

Oh, God, was she back to that again? Admitting that she still wanted him?

She tugged off her sneaker and inspected her swollen foot. It was already turning purple, and she realized too late there was no chance she could get the shoe back on. “Oh,
shoot,”
she said crossly. “It'll be a repeat of the Tour d'Argent, only with me in my best black and bare feet instead of the lizard heels.” Gloomily, she contemplated the foot, wondering what her husband, the doctor, would have done in this situation.

She stared into the lush, green valley below.
Wasn't this the road you were on with Bill?
The voice surprised
her.
Remember the field of poppies?

And she was instantly catapulted back in time.

 

Bill and Lara were driving along a twisting sandy road, searching for a restaurant. Rocks loomed on the right. To the left lay a valley, soft and green. They might have been the only people in the world. There were no farmers working in the vineyards, no people walking their dogs, no cars passed them. Then, suddenly, below them in the valley was a field of scarlet poppies, a solid mass of red, a lavish Oriental carpet shimmering in the breeze.

Mesmerized, they took the winding road down into that valley. Taking off their shoes, they ran barefoot and hand in hand through the waist-high poppies, sank down into them.

Lying on her back Lara could see the scarlet petals, delicate as butterfly wings, wafting in the breeze; she could smell the crushed grass, feel the itch of pollen in her nose, hear the buzz of fat bumblebees, the whir of tiny wings, the scratching of field creatures. They were one with the earth as they made love, sheltered from view by the poppies, embraced by nature, clasped in each other's arms.

 

“Oh, Bill,” Lara whispered now. “It wasn't all bad, was it? There were times when I knew you loved me, when I really loved you. Don't let me believe it was all bad, and that the past years have been a sham, a waste; please don't let me. … I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to be left with nothing.”

Sure, there were good times.
Her alter ego had
turned nasty.
Count ‘em, baby, on the fingers of one hand.

Not true, she thought despairingly. There were lots of times. . . .

Yeah, when he still came home nights, before he got too big for his boots, too self-important to care anymore. Maybe he's making love to Melissa right now in some Chinese rice paddy. Maybe she's thinking like you did, Hey, there's another side to this man, a sensual side, a softer, more loving side. . . .

Lara was jolted out of her dream. A cold wind sent shivers down her spine and goose bumps popped up on her arms. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees. Solid black clouds were massing quickly over the tops of the mountains.

She stared anxiously down the empty road, praying Dan would hurry back.

She watched the clouds rolling down the mountains, saw the rain falling on the upslopes, then a dazzling neon stab of lightning followed seconds later by a giant roll of thunder. A lone cypress went up in flames with a great sizzle.

Oh, my God, she thought, this is dangerous. I have to get out of here. She looked around, saw a broken branch, pulled it toward her, yelping as a small scorpion rustled away into the underbrush. She managed to haul herself to her feet and put her swollen foot cautiously on the ground. Of course, it still hurt like hell.