A Tangled Web (65 page)

“
Madame Lacoste, voulez-vous un jus de fruit ou du champagne?
”

“
Jus
,” Stephanie said, looking directly at him, and when he had served her and left, she grinned at Sabrina and lowered her voice as she switched to English. “He didn't even look twice.”

“Because we don't look the same, not much, anyway. But we shouldn't push it in London. I don't think we should be seen together at all.”

“Until we feel safe. And then—” An amplified voice gave instructions in French and English as the plane moved away from the gate, and Sabrina leaned closer to hear her sister's faint voice. “And then I won't be Sabrina Lacoste anymore.”

Sabrina looked past her, out the window. They had made an unspoken agreement not to talk about the future. First they would do whatever they could in London and then they would confront themselves. They both knew it was cowardly, but they wanted these few days together, to rediscover what they had been to each other in the past.
Because whatever we do, it's going to change again. And we don't have any idea how much we can salvage.

She saw the vast sprawl of Paris tilt as the plane banked and turned north. The gold dome of the lnvalides gleamed in the morning sunlight, the Eiffel Tower's web of girders was silhouetted against a pale blue sky. She thought of Garth at The Hague, giving his talk, joining in seminars, part of a community of scientists. “Yes, it's a good conference, one of the best,” he had said on the telephone the night before. “But I'm having trouble concentrating. All I want to do is meet my wife at L'Hôtel on Sunday.”

Five days from now. I have five more days to be Stephanie
Andersen, Garth's wife, Penny and Cliff's mother, a homemaker and interior designer from Evanston, Illinois.

The silver ribbon of the Seine meandered out of Paris into the green countryside and suddenly Sabrina felt a rush of relief. They were free. The land and its entanglements lay thousands of feet below, they floated through sparkling sunlit space in a cocoon of leather and tapestry and shining metal, and they were together.

Stephanie turned from the window and met her eyes. “We're free. Isn't it amazing? And wonderful? I wish we could just keep flying for . . . oh, a long time.”

Their hands met, their fingers twined. “We'll have to figure out how to feel this way on the ground,” Sabrina said.

“Oh, if we could.”

The steward returned. “
Madame Lacoste, Madame Andersen, voulez-vous du vin? Du café? Nous avons une variété de pâtisseries . . .
”

“
Café et pâtisseries
,” Sabrina said, and Stephanie nodded. They held hands until he brought trays set with linen, crystal and china and offered them a choice of pastries in a woven basket. He filled their coffee cups.

“
Merci
,” Stephanie said and turned to Sabrina. “I do like being waited on. Part of the magic of London was Mrs. Thirkell. And even though I loved being alone with Léon in Vézelay, sometimes I missed Madame Besset.”

“They sound like two of a kind. Another thing we shared all year. I like your friend Robert.”

“Oh, yes. Wasn't it wonderful that he came to Vézelay before we left?”

“Yes, but that was no accident. He came to help. He was afraid he'd find chaos and disarray—”

“Léon furious or perhaps even gone—”

“And the two of us at swords' points, or something like that; anyway, having a lot of trouble loving each other.”

They laughed softly, remembering Robert as he had stood in the doorway, dressed in a bright red shirt and blue jeans, gazing solemnly from one of them to the other, then
smiling and holding out his hands. “Two amazing women. Beautiful, intelligent, energetic, and very, very foolish.”

“Yes,” Sabrina had said. “If you came to tell us that, we've already discussed it more than once.”

“I came to help. But you seem to be fine. I'm comforted by the way you look at each other; you haven't lost love or trust.” He looked around. “And Léon?”

“At his studio,” Stephanie said. “He'll be here soon for dinner. You'll stay with us, Robert, won't you? We have an extra room.”

“Gladly.” He looked closely at her. “No more nightmares about Mont Ventoux?”

“Yes, but Léon is wonderful, and getting away from Cavaillon helped. But I've missed you.”

“And I've missed you. Our little town is quite dull without our talks and our cooking lessons. And without Max. I loved him, you know. We talked often; he called almost every day, sometimes on business, but usually just to chat.”

“What kind of business?” Sabrina asked.

Robert hesitated only a moment. “He helped me smuggle young people into countries of great poverty and political repression, and, when necessary, out of them.”

Stephanie stared at him. “But he was smuggling counterfeit money; that was why I wouldn't go away with him.”

“Wait.” Robert closed his eyes briefly. “Money. In those large pieces of equipment. He always had huge crates coming and going: returns, he said. I thought the returns were high. And Frick . . . Frick made the money. Max once called him his Dürer. I thought he was joking, but I should have caught on: Dürer was a brilliant engraver. Oh, Max, Max, I made use of you, I loved you, and you were everything I didn't want to think you were. All the clues were there and I ignored them because I chose not to know.”

Sabrina thought of Garth in the beginning, ignoring clues so that he could believe Sabrina was his wife.
We
shape the world to our own needs and desires, and when we can't, sometimes we call it a disappointment and other times we call it tragedy.

“Smuggling young people?” Stephanie asked. “For what?”

“To help poor people resist despots. To help them organize and protest, sometimes to take the land that rightfully should be theirs, sometimes simply to manage their own villages without interference. All those activities are, of course, illegal in those countries, and so, when the governments begin to close in, we bring the young people home. Max helped me bring a young woman out shortly before he was killed. That was an adventure: we were like two boys.”

“A good deed,” Stephanie said suddenly.

“Yes, he did many.”

“No. I mean, I know he did, but I meant something else. He told me that he did a good deed and, because of it, that man found him and killed him. He said it was some kind of coincidence.”

Robert stood with clasped hands, his head bowed. “Jana,” he said at last.

“What?”

“The young woman we brought out. Jana Corley. I thought she and Max looked at each other in a way that seemed . . . well, it was just a passing thought, but it seemed to me that they knew each other.”

“Corley,” Sabrina said. “I know a Tabitha and Ramsay Corley. He owns factories in Manchester; they have a home in Kent.”

“Her mother's name is Tabitha,” Robert said slowly. “She told me that once. But Jana is discreet; she doesn't talk about our work. I can't believe she would talk to anyone about someone helping me, as Max was that night.”

“Well, we'll find out,” Sabrina said decisively. “We wondered where we'd start in London. Now we know.”

Robert held their hands. “Take care, my children. You
are so lovely and full of life, but you know that there is evil in the world. You did a foolhardy and dangerous thing when you traded places; now you must be exceedingly wise and cautious and thoughtful.” He kissed their foreheads and Sabrina felt it was a blessing. “I wish you well. You must write to me, or call. We must not lose each other.”

The plane flew over the flat fields of Normandy and then the English Channel, speckled with tiny whitecaps like flecks of snow. The coast of England was visible at the top of Sabrina's window. London, she thought. Home for so many years. Home, work, friends.

“Will we stay at Cadogan Square?” Stephanie asked.

“Yes, for the last time. I sold it to Alexandra's friends, but they won't take possession until—”

“
You sold it? You sold your house?
”

“I have another one.” The words whipped out before Sabrina could stop them. She set down her coffee cup with a shaking hand.
How are we going to keep from talking about who we are and what we're going to do?

The steward removed their trays; there was a bustle in the cabin as passengers slid their tables into the slots in the arms of the seats, put away computers and briefcases and prepared to land.

“Do you want to be the one to talk to Jana?” she asked. “You were living with Max; it makes sense for you to do it.”

“Oh. Yes, if you'd like.” And they both knew that by veering away from it they had decided, once again, that they could keep from talking about it as long as they both wanted to.

Stephanie's face was averted; she was watching the land come up to meet them, and thinking about touching down at Heathrow. It was so nice up there, she thought; now I have to face things. Except . . . not alone. Sabrina will help me. She'll get us through this. Somehow.

The house on Cadogan Square was dark and chilly, huddling against the rain that drummed from a leaden sky.
Sabrina made a fire in the sitting room while Stephanie ran to the market and brought back food for lunch and dinner. They both were at home in the neighborhood and in the house, moving easily through its rooms, and both felt the strangeness of that but did not comment on it.

“Shall I call her?” Stephanie asked. “I don't want to go all the way to Kent if she's out of town.”

“She might have a flat in town.” Sabrina paged through the telephone directory. “There's a J. Corley in London, near Berkeley Square. It's worth a try.”

“That's so close. I think I won't call; I'll just take a chance.”

“I'll have lunch ready when you get back.”

Stephanie called for a taxi and Sabrina watched her, marveling that she was so comfortable in London and Cadogan Square after such a brief time. But why not? she thought. How long did it take me, in Evanston?

Stephanie found a raincoat and hat and umbrella in the foyer closet and dashed from the front door to the taxi. As they crawled through the traffic, she looked at the streets and buildings and undulating lines of black umbrellas with bewilderment. London, ageless and familiar, felt like home. But she had felt the tug of belonging as she looked at the scenes of Evanston in Sabrina's photograph album. And Cavaillon had been home. And Vézelay was home now—or anywhere, with Léon.

What's wrong with me? Can't I even say where I belong?

Jana Corley's apartment was in a curved row of flats, gray and dripping in the rain. Stephanie rang the bell and when a young voice came over the intercom, she said, “I'm a friend of Robert Chalon.”

A buzzer sounded; she opened the door and climbed two flights of stairs. Jana was waiting, thin and blond, wearing a sweatsuit and heavy socks, her eyebrows still raised in surprise at Stephanie's announcement.

Stephanie held out her hand. “Sabrina Lacoste. And you're Jana Corley?” She kept her hand in Jana's and
walked her back into the flat. All the lamps were on, and a small gas fire burned in the grate. The bewilderment Stephanie had felt in the taxi was gone: she felt strong and purposeful because she was doing something she and Sabrina had planned together. “I'm a friend of Robert's; I lived in Cavaillon until a short while ago. I lived with a man named Max Lacoste. But I think you knew him as Max Stuyvesant.”

Jana's face became wary and she pulled away. “Max Stuyvesant is dead.”

“He was thought to be dead. He's been living in Cavaillon. You know that. You met him there, when you were with Robert.”

“But I didn't say anything. I mean, I didn't tell him I recognized him; it was obvious that he didn't want me to. I guess Robert didn't know. And I could understand it, you know; if I'd been mixed up in that Westbridge business I'd have wanted to duck out, too. And I figured maybe he was sort of doing penance for it.”

“Penance?” Stephanie asked.

“Well, you know, he was working with Robert; you do know they brought me out of Chile? They even did this routine, it was like a movie, when I was locked up in a warehouse in Marseilles: Robert got the guard drunk so Max could take his keys, and they broke open the crate I was hiding in . . . I was never so glad to see anybody in my life. So if Max was working with Robert, he was doing good, and I thought it might be to sort of balance Westbridge and whatever else he'd done. You know, after Westbridge everybody laid the most incredible exploits on him; it was mostly envy, I think. Like he'd lived out their fantasies. I'm sorry, I didn't offer you anything. Would you like tea? Or soup? I'm heating some for lunch; anything to keep warm. I hate October; all of a sudden it's winter. What do you take in your tea?”

“Nothing, I don't want anything, thanks. I have an engagement for lunch. I need to ask you something.”

“About Max? Did he send you here?”

“I'm trying to find out if you told anyone you'd seen him in Marseilles.”

“No, of course I—Oh. Well, I did, as a matter of fact. I shouldn't have, but Alan absolutely promised he wouldn't tell anyone. We hadn't seen each other in a long time and I was . . . well, you know, I was very relaxed and I sort of let it out. That didn't get back to Max, did it? I can't imagine how it would.”

“Who is Alan?”

“My fiancé. Alan Lethridge. Well, he's not exactly my fiancé, but I call him that sometimes, when I'm feeling fond of him. But, you know, he promised he wouldn't tell anyone and I'm sure he didn't. I'll ask him, if you like.”

“I'd like to ask him myself. If you'll tell me where to find him . . .”