Bound in Moonlight (25 page)

Two

A
DRIEN WAS STANDING in front of the window next to a desk piled with books and papers, including a leatherbound tome with illuminated parchment pages lying open in front of him. As soon as my gaze lit on it, he closed it and circled the desk, hand outstretched.

The last time I'd seen him, he'd been a lanky, soulful seventeen-year-old. He still had those big, heartbreaking eyes, that boisterous, seemingly uncombable brown hair, but he'd matured into a man. His face displayed a history that hadn't been there before; his shoulders were broader, thicker. He had on khakis and a crisp blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a far cry from his adolescent uniform of saggy sweaters and tattered jeans.

“Adrien.” I shook his hand, smiling into his eyes even though I was literally reeling with the effort it took to keep my expression and demeanor neutral,my hand steady. “It's been a long time.”

“It has, indeed. You speak English with an American accent now.”

“Except when I'm excited,” I said. “You know—angry, or . . . whatever.”

“Cut!” Larry yelled from below. “Emmeline, whip him harder. And, Fanny, this is where you enter. Come up behind Emmeline and rub against her as she's whipping Archie. First comes the line about how men are more trouble than they're worth, and then you unbutton her dress and take out her tits and feel them up. Make it real.”

With a sigh, Adrien said, “I'm pleased to see you again, although I daresay you should have heeded your father and come at a more appropriate time.”

I glanced down at the actors and camera crew with feigned indifference. “It's actually kind of interesting, seeing one of those movies made.”

“My apologies, in any event,” he said.

The men didn't sit until I did. That kind of chivalry lingered, so far as I knew, at only one place on the planet: Grotte Cachée. Adrien, despite his relative youth, was possibly even more tradition-bound than my father.

I asked about the porn film, and the old man told me he was actually executive producing the damned thing.

“It's based on this.” Adrien chose a book from one of the stacks on his desk and handed it to me.

It was a slender volume bound in a maroon cover worn at the edges, with E
MMELINE'S
E
MANCIPATION
stamped on it in gilt. I opened it to the title page. The author was “Anonymous.”

My father said, “The author, if she was who I suspect she was, spent a few days here in 1902. The book was published by Saturnalia Press a year later. It's set in a remote castle with a Roman bathhouse. There's mention of a cave, although none of the scenes takes place there. And some of the characters, especially Tobias, bear a striking resemblance to”—he shared a fleeting glance with Adrien—“people who lived here then.”

“That's a first edition,” Adrien told me as I thumbed through the book. “It was offered at auction by Sotheby's in New York on the hundredth anniversary of the book's publication. Darius put in a winning bid by telephone—he collects antiquarian books. It still had the dust jacket in surprisingly good condition, so he removed that and set it aside for safekeeping.”

I nodded without looking up, reluctant to make any more eye contact with him than absolutely necessary. My attraction to Adrien Morel was profound, a white-hot chemical reaction over which I had no control—and which Adrien evidently didn't share. It hadn't been one-sided in the beginning, or I hadn't thought it was. When we'd met nineteen years earlier, I'd felt as if I were connecting with the other half of me. Like me, Adrien was an only child coping with a world that had been turned upside down.

The previous winter, his parents and their
administrateur,
my grandfather, had died suddenly when the Morels' private jet crashed in the Swiss Alps. At sixteen, Adrien inherited the
seigneury
of Grotte Cachée, while my father, recently retired from the RAF as a flight lieutenant, found himself Adrien's
administrateur
years before he'd expected to assume that position. We lived in the Chelsea district of London, where my American mother, a self-styled “goddess-worshipping psychic” named Madeleine Lamb Archer, played new age fortune-teller to the likes of Princess Diana and her Sloane Ranger hangers-on. When my father informed her that we would be moving to an isolated valley in the most backwater district of France—and it would probably be best if I attended boarding school until college—she promptly filed for divorce. Within a month, we'd moved back to her native New York, where she took up with a former boyfriend, Douglas Tilney; they were married as soon as the divorce was finalized.

When I came to the château that Christmas and met Adrien, he struck me, despite his youth, as an old and somewhat melancholy soul. Because his parents had deemed it inappropriate to expose him to the goings-on at Grotte Cachée, they'd brought him up in a luxurious hunting lodge tucked away in the woods some distance from the castle. Having been educated by private tutors rather than in a school, he'd formed few friendships with other young people.

I was similarly lonely at the time, having found it difficult to make friends at the snooty, cliquish private school in which my mother had enrolled me. Adrien and I immediately recognized each other as kindred souls and spent all our time together, talking, hiking, cross-country skiing, and listening to music. I sketched his portrait and gave it to him, and he seemed genuinely moved by that. He told me it was the most personal and beautiful thing anyone had ever given him.

One night, while we were sitting in front of the fireplace in the great hall, he took my hand and held it. I sensed that he wanted to kiss me, but didn't have the nerve, so eventually I girded my loins and kissed him. There was a gray cat that used to come and go like a ghost, and just then it mewed really loudly and sat down in front of the fireplace, staring at us. Adrien seemed a little rattled by it, and told it to get lost, but it wasn't budging. The mood was broken, and he seemed ill at ease, so eventually I just went to bed.

The next morning, Adrien turned inexplicably cool toward me and stayed that way for the remaining three days of my visit. When I wanted to hang out, he was usually busy. When we did talk, he never sat next to me, but on a chair some distance away. He didn't want to walk in the woods or ski or do any of the other things we'd been doing together. Once, I caught him looking at me, and I thought I might have seen a shadow of something bleak in his expression before he turned away, but he remained as distant as before. I was mortified at having misinterpreted his interest in me as more than friendly, and furious with myself for having ruined what we'd had. The morning I left, as my father was loading my luggage into the car, I noticed the curtains part in the window of Adrien's study on the top floor of the gate tower. I looked up; they fell shut.

“Isabel?” Adrien said. “Would you?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Would you like to borrow the book? You seem quite absorbed by it.”

“Oh. Um, sure. Thanks.”

Dad said, “It was Inigo's idea to turn the book into a movie starring the Follets. Well, not Darius, of course. He would never have anything to do with something like this. But Elic and Lili thought it sounded like great fun. The fellow I hired to direct it, Larry Parent, has been trying to transition from adult films to mainstream. There's a quirky little movie he wants to make, but he can't get funding for it because of his X-rated background. I offered to finance his indie film if he would agree to direct
Emmeline's Emancipation
in and around the château, with Inigo, Elic, and Lili cast in their roles of choice. He didn't take me up on it right away, because he'd promised himself he would never make another hard-core film—he really hated the idea—but eventually he came around. He's almost done filming. It only took a couple of weeks.”

Adrien said, “Inigo has chosen to play the Tobias character who . . . tutors Emmeline in the arts of love. His friend Erik will be played by Elic, and the antagonist's mistress, Lucretia, by Lili.”

“I'm confused about something,” I said. “Dad, remember when I came here that Christmas, and I brought my camera, but you took it away from me till I left to make sure I wouldn't photograph the Follets? You said they hated having their pictures taken, and even when I promised I wouldn't shoot them, you said you couldn't risk it. Which I still don't get, but whatever. What I want to know is how come people who hate to be photographed are willing to be filmed
having sex,
especially since this movie will presumably be distributed on DVD, which means all kinds of people will see it?”

“It won't be a problem,” he said.

“But—”

“If you'll both excuse me,” said Adrien as he rose to leave, the illuminated book under his arm, “there are things I must attend to. So good to see you again, Isabel. I hope you'll stay with us for a while.”

“Thanks, Adrien, but I'm actually flying to London tomorrow night.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.
Adieu.
”

My father watched until Adrien had ducked into the stairwell, and then, as if he'd been waiting, he let out a series of hoarse coughs.

“Dad, are you all right?”

“You shouldn't call him Adrien.”

“Oh, please.”

“You should call him
mon seigneur,
as I do.”

“It's obsequious.”

“It's respectful. And when you're
administrateur
you'll be expected to address him that way, so you may as well begin now.”

“Dad, please don't start with that.”

He looked down and rubbed his jaw pensively. “Come,” he said as he pushed himself up from his chair. “Walk with me back to my rooms.”

It wasn't a very long walk, but by the time we got there, he was wheezing. The first thing he did when we entered his apartment, which had a clubby, leather-and-mahogany thing going on, was to open a closet and wheel out something that looked at first like a portable sewing machine in its case, only taller. He sat down and uncoiled from it some plastic tubing, at the end of which was a nasal cannula. This he inserted into his nostrils and wrapped around his ears before turning on the machine, which produced a low drone. He sat back with his eyes closed, breathing deeply.

I lowered myself onto his couch and sat with my head in my hands until he turned off the machine and removed the cannula.

Looking up, I said, “Talk to me, Dad.”

“It's called idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis,” he said matter-of-factly as he wound up the plastic tubing around his hand. “Idiopathic means they don't know what caused it. Essentially, my lungs have become extremely inflamed, with scarring that makes them stiff. I'm being treated on an outpatient basis at Clermont-Ferrand University Hospital, where they've dosed me with corticosteroids and immunosuppressants, which have had absolutely no effect. I'm too old for a lung transplant—the cutoff is sixty. They tell me mine is an exceptionally aggressive case, and that I shall turn up my toes within the year.”

“What?”

“According to my pulmonologist, my longevity will be in inverse proportion to the level of stress and strain in my life. He wants me to stay relaxed, keep my traveling to a minimum—”

“Oh, my God,” I said, my eyes stinging.

“If you begin to cry,” he said softly, calmly, “I shall have to ask you to leave. I can deal with my own emotions much more successfully than I can deal with yours.”

“Oh, fuck.” I dragged in a deep breath in an effort to get ahold of myself. I wanted to go throw myself into his arms, but I knew better.

“Isabel, my dear, must you swear like a cutter?”

“Dad, what the hell is a cutter?” I demanded, a slightly hysterical edge to my voice. “I mean, you've been saying that all your life, and I still have no idea what the fuck a cutter is.”

“One who cuts. Also one who swears in excess.”

“Adrien doesn't know, does he? Or anyone else.”

“God, no. One doesn't need that sort of drama. The only reason I'm telling you is that you need to prepare yourself for the responsibilities ahead of you.”

“Oh, my God,” I moaned, slumping over as it all became clear to me—why my father had called me here, what this visit was all about. “Dad . . . oh, my God, I love you so much, and I wish . . . I wish I could tell you what you want to hear, that I'm ready, willing, and able to take over as
administrateur,
but it's just . . . it's not in the stars, Dad. It's not going to happen. I'm sorry, I really am, but you're going to have to make other arrangements. I'll help you. I'll find someone—”

“Archers have served as
administrateurs
to the high druids of Grotte Cachée since—”

“The high what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“
Druid?
As in Celtic priest? Do you know Mom has started calling herself a druidess? So fucking embarrassing, I can't tell you.”

“Just think about it, please. I beg you.”

“Dad . . .” I shook my head. “I won't change my mind. I have a life in New York. I have friends, a successful freelance career, and I'm subletting the most awesome rent-stabilized apartment in Manhattan.”

“All I'm asking is that you think about it. Will you do that for me?”

I nodded and told him what he wanted to hear. “Okay. All right. I'll think about it.”

Three

I
SAT IN THE pool that night, basking in the calming water and the moonlight from the open roof of the bathhouse, wondering how to help my father, what to tell him about this whole
administrateur
business, what to do to make this all better. Despite the divorce and my mother getting custody, I had always felt closer to my father. We had a rapport that I didn't share with my mom. I understood him, and I always felt as if he understood me. He was the linchpin of my world.

My throat started to close up, my eyes to burn. Dad might accept his impending death in his typical blasé manner, but I couldn't imagine what I would do without him. The prospect of losing him created a kind of black abyss inside me. I already felt bereft.

In the darkness beyond the bathhouse, I saw a tiny orange dot getting closer and closer. Presently I heard the sound of feet clad in flip-flops, and a moment later,Adrien materialized in the doorway.

He paused, staring at me. “Isabel. Hi.”He was shirtless and wearing the same khakis he'd had on earlier, which rode low enough on his hips that I could see the top of a pair of gray briefs. His torso was solid and beautifully proportioned, his chest lightly furred. A black cigarette was burning in his hand. I wrapped my arms protectively around myself, even though I was wearing a tank suit,thank God,instead of bathing
au naturale,
as I'd considered doing.

“You—” My voice caught. I swallowed and said, “You smoke?”

He nodded and crossed to an ashtray on a wrought-iron table to stub it out. “Filthy habit, I know. I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I'll go back and let you—”

“That's ridiculous, Adrien. I'll go back. There's no reason you should have to—”

“Isabel?” He came to the edge of the pool, that quiet, penetrating gaze fixed on me. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, I just . . .” I scraped my wet hair back, striving for control. “I, um, I'm tired, I guess.”

Crouching down, he dipped a hand in the water. He looked up sharply.“He told you? About his lungs? It
is
his lungs, isn't it?”

“You . . . you know? How . . . ?”

“Let's just say it's hard to keep that kind of secret from me.Is it very serious?”

I nodded, my chin quivering. “He's . . . he's . . .” On a sob, I said,“He's dying.”

“Mon dieu.”
Adrien kicked off the flip-flops, jumped into the pool in his khakis, and gathered me in his arms, whispering, “Shh, shh. Don't cry. Oh, God, Isabel, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

He held me as I sobbed, stroking my arms and back, whispering soothing things.

As I quieted, I became aware of how intimate it was to be curled in his embrace like that in the balmy water beneath the moonlight, feeling his skin against mine, his warmth, his breath. The mournful void inside me transformed into something palpable, an emptiness not just of the soul, but of the body.

He rubbed his face against my hair, breathing my name. I felt a hot tickle on my scalp as he kissed my head. His prickly jaw grazed my temple, followed by the soft, electric brush of his lips. I kissed his throat.

He grew still, only his chest moving. I rested a hand over his heart and felt it thudding like a drum. I kissed his throat again, and then the edge of his jaw.

Banding an arm around me, he cupped the back of my head to tilt it up and closed his mouth over mine. The kiss was hard and hungry, tasting of salty tears and tobacco, grief and regret. I felt him grow hard, and sat astride him, pressing against his body as if to merge it with mine.

It all happened so quickly, with a kind of blind, anguished ferocity. He tugged at the straps of my bathing suit; I unbuttoned his pants, gasping as the smooth column of his erection sprang up between us. Impatient with the process of peeling my suit down, he yanked the crotch aside with one hand, grabbed my hip with the other, and pushed.

Tears pricked my eyes again as he entered me, banishing the emptiness. His thrusts were deep and vigorous, almost violent, and I found myself meeting them with equal fervor. Water sloshed from the pool onto the marble deck. He gripped my head and kissed me, groaning into my mouth with each lunge as they grew swifter and more urgent. My heart swelled painfully as the pleasure mounted, until I felt as if it might explode. When I realized he was about to come, I came, too. It was like being zapped with a thousand volts of electricity.

He held me, shaking and panting, as the tremors diminished and our hearts and lungs resumed their normal rhythm.

“I didn't use anything,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Protection.”

“I'm on the pill,” I murmured into the crook of his neck.

He nodded. “I, um, I'm healthy. You know.”

“Me, too.”

“Still . . .” He shook his head slightly.

I lifted my head to look at him.

Without meeting my gaze, he brushed the damp tendrils of hair off my forehead and cheeks, pulled the straps of my swimsuit back up. Reaching between us, he withdrew from me and buttoned up his khakis.

“You think this was a mistake,” I said.

He looked as if he were trying to compose a response.

I levered myself off him and got out of the pool, struggling against the urge to burst into tears again.What had I thought, that after nineteen years, he'd suddenly developed feelings for me?

Hastily donning my terry-cloth robe, I said, “Just please don't tell me this was a pity fuck, even if it was. I couldn't take that right now.”

“God, Isabel.” Wading to the edge of the pool nearest to me, he said,“How could you think that?”

“Why would I not?” I turned and left.