Bridal Chair (48 page)

“All to the good,” he responded. “It was time.”

Time
for
what?
she wondered, but she knew that she would have to puzzle out that answer on her own.

“
À bientôt, ma chérie
,” Franz said very softly.

“
À bientôt, mon cher
,” she repeated.

Her sleep that night was deep and dreamless.

Her children swarmed about her, Meret and Bella clutching her knees, Piet burying his bright and shining face in her lap. Her arrival meant a cacophony of joy, a chorus of gladness.

“
Maman
,
Maman
, you’re home,” the little girls shouted in unison.

“I missed you the most of all,” Piet proclaimed.

“No, no, we missed you the most,” the little girls protested. She laughed, kissed them one by one, their skin, smelling sweetly of soap, soft upon her lips.

“And I missed you all equally,” she said. “But maybe your father most of all.”

Franz smiled, and together they carried the brightly wrapped packages from Harrods and Selfridges into her dressing room. The three children scampered after them and watched impatiently as the boxes were piled onto the floor.

“Oh, you didn’t forget our presents. You are the best mother in the world,” Piet shouted.

Ida sat beside Franz on the couch, beneath the painting of
The
Bridal
Chair
. She smiled.

“Of course I am,” she said contentedly.

She watched as the gay paper was pulled off box after box and the shouts of excitement grew louder and louder. Every hour of her evening belonged to her children. There was no need to rush to her desk to deal with correspondence, with bills of lading, to answer calls from galleries and collectors. There was no need to place conciliatory calls to Vence, to soothe Marc, to reassure him, to advise him. That chapter of her life was over. She would always be her father’s daughter, she would always love him, but now, at last, she had only her own children to mother. How oddly ironic, she thought, that it was Vava who had released her into this new and precious peace.

She flicked off the light in Piet’s room, stood for a moment and listened to the rhythmic hum of his sleep-bound breath.

She returned to her dressing room and removed the painting of
The
Bridal
Chair
from the wall. Piet’s feverish fears had not been unfounded. A ghost hovered over that empty chair, shrouded in white and flanked by roses of a cold alabaster. It was the ghost of the girl she had been, the reluctant bride, the submissive daughter, a ghost now banished by the daughter become a mother, the girl become a woman, a happy and fortunate wife. She would find a place for her father’s bitter gift in another room, perhaps in another house. She placed it in a corner as Franz came up behind her, touched her shoulder lightly.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. She could not tell him that she felt a quiet happiness, a new and unfamiliar freedom, a certainty that her desperate nocturnal flights through flower-strewn heavens to an elusive safety had ended. Instead she took his hand and together they walked into their garden where a cherry tree had suddenly burst into new and brilliant blossom.

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Gloria Goldreich is the critically acclaimed author of several novels, including the bestselling
Leah’s Journey
. Her stories have appeared in numerous magazines, such as
McCalls
,
Redbook
,
Ms. Magazine
, and
Ladies’ Home Journal
. She lives in Tuckahoe, New York.