Capturing Paris (22 page)

La Rentrée

“Dépoussierant meubles,” the can read. “Nettoie et fait briller.” This is exactly
what she wanted to accomplish: clean and shine. Annie had arrived home a few days before to stale air, dust, and the hush of an empty apartment, barely an echo of life. All that soon would change. Wesley and Sophie were arriving the next morning, and she wanted to restore some semblance of the way things used to be on the rue des Archives. While at God House, she'd become almost a different person: a woman with short hair, a woman who drank whiskey, a poet who couldn't stop thinking about her work. She'd also become involved in a complicated friendship, a friendship that had taken on unexpected dimensions. The thought still amazed her.

She pressed the top of the spray can. A cloying mix of floral fragrance and chemicals wafted up. She pushed the soft flannel cloth loaded with gray residue across the top of her desk. The sprigs of ivy that she kept by her mother's picture hung limply in the vase. The water had dried up completely during her absence, leaving the fine web of roots brittle and dry, impossible to save.

Feeling the need for air, she pushed open the tall windows and stood for a moment holding the railing on the narrow balcony. The ornate black wrought-iron grill sent a stream of cold from her hands to her elbows. Daphne, she thought. Would there be more surprises? Looking back on the days at God House, she realized that Daphne had the ability to yank her from one feeling to another; one moment Daphne bolstered her and gave her confidence, and the next she told her she had been a fool. Annie couldn't forget the way she had mysteriously turned on her the night Paul had come to dinner. Tim's warning had begun to haunt
her. Daphne offered so much. But what kind of strings were attached? Annie drew her arms across her chest and looked up.

The buff-colored sky was velvety and still, the air damp. François Naudin had captured this same light in one of the photographs. Was it the one of the booksellers along the Seine? She wanted to work on her poems this afternoon. One last quiet afternoon before her family came back. Taking in a final deep breath of winter air, she watched pedestrians hurry along the sidewalk below. Sophie's voice, her laughter, her youthful enthusiasm, would soon fill the apartment. Annie could hardly wait to see her, to hold her in her arms. She smiled, glad to be home in Paris, and stepped back inside, closing the doors tightly behind her.

Once every surface gleamed, she dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet and tackled the floors. She threw herself gladly into all her neglected chores, enjoying the simple physical work. The sturdy hum of the motor helped to drown the voices in her head. She didn't want to think about Daphne. How incredible it all seemed now.

When the apartment was clean, she made up the daybed in Wesley's study, changing it back to Sophie's bedroom. She pulled the pale blue sheet taut over the mattress, removed the duvet from the closet, shook it, and put on the freshly pressed cover. Next she found the pillows and slipped on the white ruffled shams. Last of all, she set Olly Ours, Sophie's childhood bear, in the center of the bed. Missing one button eye and having a limp ear, he looked like the adored childhood toy that he was. Annie kept him in her bottom dresser drawer and brought him out each time her daughter returned.

Despite Wesley's desk and computer table in the corner, the room began to look more like her daughter's old bedroom. She had polished Sophie's silver baby cup and filled it with pink roses that were already opening in the indoor warmth. She set it on top of the chest of drawers and picked up the framed picture of baby Sophie held securely in the crook of Aunt Kate's arm. Aunt Kate, with the wisps of white hair escaping the bun at the back of her head, stared down with such loving acceptance at the baby, a little girl she would never know as she was now, all grown up, an adult. Annie was struck by the importance of continuity in a family, one generation looking to the next.

Aunt Kate had always given Annie that kind of love, generous and unquestioning. She had provided the cozy warmth of childhood cuddles, attention to her school-age games and imaginary play, a patient ear during the fragmented moods of adolescence. Annie hoped that Sophie felt that way about her own upbringing. Right now she focused on making Sophie's homecoming just right. She would cook her favorite dinners and they would go out to the places she loved. Most of all she wanted to re-create the atmosphere they used to have, all three of them, tucked safely into their home on the rue des Archives. Indeed, maybe Sophie's visit would restore balance to their lives.

“À la famille.”
Wesley raised his glass and toasted his family in the clatter and smoke of the Bistro Miravile. Lunch at Miravile was an important part of the Reed family routine to conquer jet lag. After they stumbled off the plane from the United States, groggy and disoriented, Monsieur Vartin, the taxi driver they had used for years, would maneuver them home through the morning rush hour. First a hot shower and some time to unpack, then a visit to their favorite neighborhood bistro for lunch to get them on “tummy time,” and finally the reward of a big nap.

Today they'd walked together through a mild drizzle the few blocks to the restaurant and were seated at their regular table along the wall, Annie and Sophie on the banquette. “At last I get my two girls back,” Wesley said. He looked weary this afternoon, showing all of his fifty-one years, but there was something endearing and familiar in his dimpled smile. His hair was longer than he usually wore it. Annie found it attractive. She ran her tongue over her lips while reading the menu and thought back to the way he'd kissed her when he got home, awkward and uncertain. He'd looked at her almost as if he no longer recognized her.

“I know you don't like my hair,” she'd said.

“It's just a surprise. That's all. It doesn't seem like you. I'll get used to it.” And he stood back and studied her as if trying to decide.

“Moms, I think it's absolutely beautiful. Really hip, and it makes you look so young.” Sophie had flashed her sweet lopsided grin and
then hugged her mother again. Annie loved the feel of Sophie's arms around her. It made her feel like her old self.

Now, in the crowded bistro, they listened to Sophie chatter on about her time in California.

“It was so great to get out of New York for a bit. It's always sunny in L.A. I bought new sunglasses.” She reached into her bag and pulled them out. “What do you think?”

“Very glamorous. You look great.” Annie couldn't remember the last time she had worn sunglasses, could barely remember a time when it wasn't winter. The last time she saw Sophie it had been the beginning of summer, but also the onset of Wesley's troubles—what she thought of now as the big chill that had made its way into their marriage.

Sophie looked so fresh and pretty beside her. While jet-lagged and tired from too much work, she had the moist bloom of youth and the optimism of so much life ahead of her. Her hair was the same pale blond as Wesley's before his had grayed, but her features looked like Annie's, the wide eyes and narrow nose, the long slender neck, a face still free of lines.

“You certainly seem to love your job.” Annie leaned closer to her daughter and studied her face. “Did you have time for some fun too?”

“We had fun working, if you can believe that. Two of the guys in the office are very cute. I really like one.”

“Aha. I thought there might be someone special.”

“Mom.” Sophie grinned. “It's not that big a deal.”

“What's his name?” Annie asked.

“Daniel. But I'm not really seeing him.” She cocked her head. “Not yet anyway.”

“Any young man would be lucky to go out with you,” Wesley said. “I can imagine them lining up to try to get a date.”

“Daddy, you're sweet, but it doesn't work that way.” She grinned at her father. “Let's talk about your news. Have you told Mom yet?”

Before Wesley could speak, the waiter arrived with lunch: two steaming plates of
poulet frites
, and
steak au poivre
for Wesley.
“Eh, voilà,”
he announced.
“Bon appétit.”
He told them how pleased he was to see the whole family together and left them to enjoy their meal.

“Tell her, Dad.” Sophie cut into her chicken, her favorite dish at the Miravile, and Annie held her fork and knife poised above her own plate, waiting for Wesley's inevitable announcement.

“Well, it's official. I've been offered the job at Duncan Payne. They'll take me on as a full partner, and they want me to start right away.” He looked confident and relieved. It was settled.

“And you accepted?”

“Of course I did.”

“There's no way you could do the work for them and still live here?”

“Annie, the firm is there. You'll love Washington. Parts of it even feel kind of French. The Potomac River has wonderful big bridges leading to Virginia, and there are wide avenues planted with trees.” He began to eat his steak and became more animated. “I rented a little studio apartment near the office for now. I thought you could come back with me and help look for a house.”

“Well, I guess that's that,” Annie said. She noticed the red juices from his steak running across the plate.

“Mother, can't you be happy for Dad?” Sophie looked at Annie with an accusatory expression.

“Of course I'm pleased for him.” She regarded Wesley thoughtfully. “You deserve it, Wesley. That firm is lucky to have you.”

Wesley took this as encouragement and told them more about the partners and the work he'd be doing. Annie listened politely. His plans were evolving without her. He'd accepted the job, made arrangements for a place to live, and assumed she'd willingly follow along and help pick out a house. It was like watching a movie on fast-forward. The question was, did she want to be in it?

“Moms, New York is only three hours away on the train. Dad's right. If you find a house now, you could move in the spring when the cherry blossoms are in bloom.”

“It sounds very exciting.” Annie didn't want to argue with either of them. She didn't want to spoil their time with Sophie and hoped they could hang on to their old world a little bit longer. “There's lots to talk about.” She cut into her chicken, determined not to dwell on all that was ahead.

When they got home from the restaurant, Sophie went into her room for a nap. Wesley decided to have a look at the basket of mail that Annie had sorted for him.

“Don't you want to get a little rest too?” she asked.

“Maybe later. I've got a lot of catching up to do.” He carried the mail to the sofa in the living room. “Annie, we really need to talk about this.”

“What do we need to talk about? You seem to have planned everything.” She went into the living room with him but did not sit down. “What about my job here? What about my book?” She heard the rising pitch of her own voice. “You and Sophie are so caught up in your own important jobs that we haven't talked about that.”

“Of course we care about your book.” He got up from the sofa and came over to where she stood. He took her by the shoulders. “Annie, the winter is a quiet time for you at work. You can come back to the States with me. I know Mary can manage without you for a few weeks, and she can find a replacement for you later this spring. You can work on the book anywhere. Fax the poems back and forth.”

She pulled away from him. “It's not as simple as that,” she said.

“Annie, you're making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

She shook her head. “Look, I need to go out for a bit.” She went to her desk and got her notebook. “When I get back, we'll all have a nice dinner together. Sophie's only here for a week. Let's make our plans after she goes back to New York.”

“Annie, my flight to Washington is the day after hers. That doesn't leave us any time. I want to get you a seat on the same plane as mine.”

“I can't leave then.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Wesley, I want to have one nice week while Sophie is here. I don't want to have to think about moving, or any of this yet.” She clutched her notebook to her chest. “You're asking an awful lot. I just need a little time.”

He threw up his hands and turned away from her. “Whatever you say.”

Annie heard the chill in his voice. She had gained a little time. It was at best a small victory.

_____________

The Cimetière de Passy was on a raised embankment above the place du Trocadéro. Annie decided to take the bus. It had become colder when she went out again, but she was heartened by a few rays of winter sun that emerged after the earlier drizzle. She loved riding the bus, so much less crowded than the Métro, and it was nicer to be above ground to enjoy the passing sights. The bus took much longer than the Métro, but the passengers were more likely to be older people, housewives, and those not in a hurry, a more courteous crowd.

It was a relief to get out of the house. Wesley's arrival had added a new kind of pressure to her life. The imminent move weighed on her. He expected so much, and now that he was home she wondered if she would be able to write; she felt her creative energy starting to seep away.

Sophie would be asleep all afternoon, and she had a feeling that Wesley would succumb to a nap as well; so she had made her escape. She had never visited the Passy cemetery before. François's photograph of it was mysterious, otherworldly. Annie hoped that visiting the place itself would unlock the imagery that eluded her.

The bus passed the elegant shops along the Fauberg Saint-Honoré, where wealthy women in furs lined up at the counters of Hermès to buy silk scarves, leather goods, and perfume. Then onto the vast open place de la Concorde punctuated with the Egyptian obelisk in the center and the wide avenue of the Champs-élysées with the monumental Arc de Triomphe that spoke of the spirited conquering heroes, the glorious past. Eventually, the bus eased into the Sixteenth Arrondissement with its quieter residential neighborhoods of wide, tree-lined avenues. Hélène Rocher lived in the Sixteenth, and Annie thought wistfully for a moment of her peaceful, ordered life. She hoped they could meet again soon. For now, the poems would have to come first.