Capturing Paris (15 page)

“Now, there's a serious face.” Daphne stood in the doorway to the library. She was flushed, and damp strands of hair clung to her cheeks.

Annie hadn't heard her come in. “You're back,” she said, consciously trying to look more cheerful.

“Did you finish?”

“Finished for now, anyway. Where's Wesley?”

“I sent him to the kitchen to make tea. He's soaked too. It started raining about a mile from the house. We should have carried umbrellas, but it didn't matter.” She fingered her wet hair. “We'll warm up.”

“Did you have a nice lunch?” Annie asked.

“Not great. The inn was closed, so we ended up in a nasty little café down the road. We each had a beer and a poor excuse for a cheese sandwich. What about you?”

“I had some cheese and fruit. I'm saving room for dinner.”

“Berthe will be over at about six. Listen, I'm going to run a tub. When Wesley brings the tea in here, would you bring a cup up to me?”

“I'd be glad to. How do you like it?”

“No sugar, just a splat of milk. Shall I put on another log?” Daphne moved about the room turning on a few lights.

“That's okay,” Annie said. “I'll do it.” She got up and took the last log from the basket.

“I'll ask Wesley to bring in some more wood. I showed him where the firewood is kept.” Daphne stopped before leaving the room. “I thought you might like to look at this.” She pulled a leather-bound photo album from a low shelf. “These are photographs of my mother, Antoinette, and me when I was little. Also, the gardens in summer. Antoinette was an incredible gardener.” She handed Annie the maroon-covered book that was rimmed in a delicate border of fleur-de-lis tooled in gold leaf. “I hear the kettle whistling. See you in a bit.”

Annie sat down again close to the fire, the book in her lap. The log flamed heartily and crackled in the grate, sending out renewed warmth. She was glad that tea was on the way. She opened to the first page and studied the petite, dark-haired woman smiling into the camera.
Feminine
was the first word that came to mind. Her features were small and delicate, the eyes wide open as if she'd been suddenly caught unaware, her chin tilted up in a teasing pose. She wore a flowered print dress with a row of ruffles at the neck and a deeper ruffle at the hem. She stood on the front steps of God House, the shrubbery on either side in full bloom. It must be Antoinette.

This pretty woman looked almost fragile in the next photograph, where she stood next to Daphne's mother, who looked exactly like the portrait in the living room. “Nora et moi 1958” was printed neatly below in faded block letters. Nora looked strong and glamorous in a simple white shirt and wide pleated trousers. Her glistening fair hair reached her shoulders and fell seductively across one eye. Her arm draped across Antoinette's shoulder, and she looked very much at home. In fact, Nora looked more like the owner of the house than the young woman in her shadow. Annie turned the pages, watching them in the garden, on trips to the beach, and with a group of friends all in tennis whites at a fashionable club. Daphne appeared toward the end. First an enchanting robust baby and later a tomboyish schoolgirl with scuffed shoes and unruly hair escaping her barrettes. There were no photographs of Daphne's brother. Annie wondered if he ever came to this house.

“How's my poetess?” Wesley came in carrying a large tray. The cups and saucers clattered lightly as he set it down on the table behind the
love seat where Annie sat. It looked like he'd put on dry clothes, and his hair was damp and neatly combed.

“Did you get very wet?” she asked.

His eyes sparkled appealingly and his entire demeanor said the world was all right. She had been drawn to this very quality when they'd first met.

“Not bad. I've dried off and this fire feels great. I want to get an early start tomorrow.” He lifted the pot of tea. “Shall I pour you a cup?”

“Thanks. What's the rush?” Annie hated to think it was almost time to leave.

“Nothing really. I just want to get back. Where's Daphne?”

“She's gone up to have a bath. I'll take her a cup in a few minutes.”

He handed Annie her tea, plain, the way she liked it, and poured his own, adding sugar and a generous amount of milk. He came and sat beside her on the tufted leather love seat. “What are you looking at?” He slid closer and leaned in to kiss the nape of her neck. This proprietary gesture annoyed her. He acted as if last night's lovemaking was an immediate cure, as if sex could solve everything.

She opened the album onto his lap. “Who do you think this is?” She pointed to one of Nora seated on the bow of a boat, her legs hanging over, her toes skimming the water.

“Daphne looks so much like her,” he said. He turned the page and pointed to the petite woman at Nora's side. “Antoinette?” She nodded. “She looks very sweet,” he said. “Not the sort of person suited for the hard-bargaining world of antiques.”

“Daphne told me she was very good that way. Quietly talking people out of old treasures they thought of as dust-catching junk.”

Wesley leafed through more pages. “I don't feel like looking at these now.” He shut the book, stretched his legs, and leaned in close to Annie to rest his head on her shoulder. She could smell his skin, his clothes, his hair. There had been a time when just breathing in the scent of Wesley had made her feel safe, loved, as if all was well with the world. She felt the warmth of him against her while she sipped her tea. It all seemed more complicated now.

“I'd better take Daphne her tea,” she said. He withdrew his hand that rested on her thigh. “Don't forget to bring in more logs.” She stood up, leaving him to gaze at the dwindling embers.

“Come in.” Daphne's voice came from the bathroom off the bedroom. “Bring it in here, please. I'm having a wonderful soak.” Daphne's room, decorated in shades of pale blue, was the same shape and size as the one she and Wesley shared across the hall. Annie noticed a dear little fruit-wood desk with a drop front over by the window. The desk was open, and Annie could see letter paper with Daphne's emphatic bold script. Daphne had proudly told her that she always wrote everything by hand, even business correspondence.

Annie did as she was told and pushed open the bathroom door. Daphne sat in the enormous old tub filled almost to the brim with steaming water.

“Just put it here,” she said pointing to the rack that spanned both sides of the tub. “Please stay for a bit. We can have a little talk.”

Annie sat on the rush-seated stool at the foot of the tub. It felt strange to be in a bathroom with another woman, like being back in college again when the girls trooped in and out of the huge bathrooms in various degrees of undress, trying not to notice one another. Daphne smiled up at her through the steam. Her hair was piled on her head and fastened with the yellow clip.

“You look like one of those luscious bathers painted by Renoir,” Annie said. She looked at Daphne's firm pink flesh, the lovely breasts only hinted at in her clothes.

“I hope that's a compliment,” Daphne laughed loudly. “Ah yes, Renoir. He loved any excuse to paint naked ladies for rich old men to ogle in their leisure.”

How different this was from the austere old bathroom back in Vermont. Aunt Kate, ever frugal, allowed only three inches of water for a tub. Daphne sipped her tea and water dripped from her fingers.

Her expression became more serious when she spoke again. “Wesley wishes you were more enthusiastic about moving back to America.”

That was the one topic that Annie wished to avoid. She stood up to go back to Wesley downstairs by the fire.

“No, don't leave. Look, I don't blame you.” She picked up her washcloth and a fragrant bar of white soap. She rubbed the soap across the cloth, her hands pink from the hot water. “Would you be a dear?” She lifted the cloth toward Annie. “There's usually no one here to wash my back. One disadvantage of living alone.”

Annie took the soapy cloth and knelt down beside the tub. She moved the cloth up and down Daphne's long spine. She had a beautiful back, like the one in François's photograph. Annie had the odd sensation that she was about to discover something forbidden, something she was not supposed to see. Annie knew European woman were more relaxed about their bodies; she was accustomed to Frenchwomen going topless at the beach, and she was used to breasts and buttocks of all contours displayed in magazine ads and on subway posters. But seeing Daphne alone in the steaming bath seemed different, making her feel stifled and uneasy.

“Wesley talked to me about the law firm in Washington,” Daphne said. “You know, I think he's viewing this job as his last chance. Having his career cut short has been tough on him.”

“I don't want to talk about this,” Annie said. “It sounds like he's persuaded you and now I'm the selfish one who doesn't understand.” Annie dipped the cloth back into the water and rinsed the soap from Daphne's back. She pictured Daphne walking in the rain with Wesley, discussing this matter without her. She was furious with him, with both of them, for talking about something that was none of Daphne's business. Still on her knees, she wrung out the cloth and handed it back.

“Annie. Annie, I'm on your side. I'm your friend.” Daphne put a moist hand on Annie's arm.

“It sounds like you and Wesley see eye to eye.” She hated this stupid trite phrase as it flew from her mouth.

“He just needed to talk. I was there to listen. That's all. I think I know how you feel. I need to be here, I need God House, so your needing to stay in Paris is somewhat the same.”

“But it's different for you. You're on your own, and how you live affects only you.”

“That's not entirely true. I'm not always alone, and there's Berthe. I take care of her now. She's spent so much of her life taking care of me.”

Daphne spoke softly, with the tenderness of a dear friend. Annie looked into her eyes, the eyes that melted from gray to green and could darken with her mood, and thought she saw compassion.

“I know the job makes sense for him.” Annie's voice came out resolutely. “It's not easy for someone his age to find a job, much less one that would really utilize his experience, one that would challenge him. I also know it's less likely in Paris, but not impossible.” Annie lowered her head. She didn't care now what Daphne thought. “I guess I'm afraid of what would happen to us. I worry that we are who we are because of Paris.”

Daphne turned toward her, and with her other hand she stroked Annie's hair, gently drawing it away from her face.

“I know I love Wesley, but is it enough?” Annie said. “Things aren't the same as before. Do I want to give up everything and live where I don't know anyone? There's also my writing.” She closed her eyes. “It's odd. It's like I'm a piece in a puzzle whose shape has changed, a piece that no longer fits into the space it's always occupied.” She felt Daphne's fingers stroking her hair, the way Wesley used to when they first met. Annie opened her eyes, suddenly feeling disloyal. It was like she'd given Daphne a glance at something private, something she shouldn't have shared.

“You need to take your time,” Daphne said. “There is nothing to decide now. Let him go. Just wait and see what happens.” She withdrew her hand. “Now, will you be a love and hand me my robe? I think it's time for drinks by the fire.”

Later, at the kitchen table, eating the delicious fish stew, Annie faced Daphne and Wesley with a strange sense of calm. She felt like she was the photographer looking at them, at all of their lives, through a lens. This imagined distance provided an emotional calm.

“This is incredible,” Wesley said. “I've never had better.” He rested his spoon on the rim of the serving plate and reached for another
hunk of bread. Berthe had carried in the yellow pottery tureen filled with the steaming fish soup as if presenting a father with his firstborn son. She had spent the afternoon cooking in her little apartment above the garage, preferring not to disturb them in the big house. Sweet pieces of white fish, shiny black mussels, and succulent morsels of lobster floated in the fragrant tomato-based broth. Wesley asked Berthe, a tiny but strong woman who had to be in her eighties, what the magic ingredient was.

“Oh, monsieur, it's not just the ingredients, it's where you get them, the freshness of the fish, mussels from a certain bay. These things take many years to know. And”—her black eyes crinkled in amusement—“you must also put your heart into the preparation. That I think, is the magic.” She spoke with the accent of someone from the south of France, slowly, with robust rolling
r
's and a singsong fluidity. Daphne gave her a hug and walked her to the door with a protective arm around her. She looked so vibrant and young beside the bent older woman with steely gray hair.

When they finished the soup, Daphne brought the platter of cheeses to the table. “Try this one.” Daphne pointed to a small round cheese. “It's a
chevrot
. One of my favorites.” She passed the platter to Wesley and turned to Annie. “I'm glad you found it so easy to write here.”

“Yes, I really did. I think it helps to get away; it gives you a fresh perspective.”

“Well then, you must come back, and I mean soon.”

“We'd love that,” Annie said.

“No, I mean it.” Daphne caught Annie's eye. “Why don't you come visit when Wesley's in the States?”

“What, without me?” Wesley laughed and Annie thought he looked uneasy, even displeased.

“I'm sure I could find my way back without you, Wesley.”

Daphne nodded. “I'm certain of it,” she said.

Le Départ

The unusual bitter cold had returned. When they pulled out of the driveway
at God House the small puddles, left by yesterday's rain, had become miniature frozen lakes. Like a child, Annie had thrust her foot into one, shattering the mirrorlike surface into sparkling shards. Daphne had stood on the top of the steps waving them off. “Come back soon!” she called, her voice buffeted by the wind. Annie watched Daphne's face grow smaller in the rear window as they pulled away, leaving God House behind.