Double Happiness (11 page)

Stolen.

And Jorge beaming, if you could call it that. Remember?

Of course. And that was precious when Brad peed into Jorge's Thanksgiving dinner. Remember? said Patty, as she leaned over to spoon jam on a toast point.

Really?

You had to calm Jorge down, he wanted to sue!

Oh, come on.

You come on, Patty smiled. Try this toast.

I'm not so hungry.

Patty sighed, You will be. Let me take charge of you this first day.

May I have some more coffee?

Patty peeled out of her teak armchair, scraped it across the stone.

Wait! Don't bother. I thought there was more right here.

No bother.

Coren sighed, looked out at the long meadow. To the right, walnut trees shivered in a breeze, the slender trunks wrapped in a gauzy fog. It was autumn. Ocher underwrote every other
color. There must have been flowers in the pergola; their empty pods still reached toward a shrouded sun. Coren snuggled closer into her blanket. Everywhere at this house, it seemed, the high din of flies twisted nearby. A sour manure smell came and went, then Patty was back with a French press glass coffeepot on another enameled tray. I made a ton! But really you shouldn't be drinking it. Anyway, let's table Brad.

But I'm all for a raise! smiled Coren.

Of course you are. Look at those ugly things. In the middle of the meadow, birds too big for the landscape gathered at the top of an old dead tree and cawed. Patty poured the new coffee to the very brim of Coren's cup. Careful! she said, it's boiling.

In many ways the first week was an enormous success. Guy Theirry the retired Swiss pilot flirted with concentration and poise. Patty swore she saw a flicker of interest after the long walk to the nearest village where an atelier boasted a potter of some talent. Guy explained the firing of a certain local clay that required no glaze. The color bursts from within, and no one can predict its beauty. Coren smiled and didn't catch Patty's eye once. Well done, thought Patty. And then watched Guy's large head bob closer to view the squat sphere balanced so carefully in Coren's hand. See the rings, and here, the tiny jabs of flame? he said, All natural.

On Friday, Guy took Coren to dinner. Patty complained of a small headache and used the time to gather her thoughts
and make private phone calls. First to Brad Jr.: She was very sorry but completely strapped. She told him, it was funny, his father had made his first million when he was even younger than Brad was now. Amazing, right? What would they do without him? Brad said he loved her and that he had a terrible cold.

Then she called Preston Boll, a funny man who'd always carried a torch for her. She insisted he visit the Dordogne! What in the world was he waiting for! And then they agreed that Brad's trust was best conserved. Unless, of course—Preston Boll reminded her of the terms—Brad wanted to buy a house. There were some nice bargains right outside Vancouver.

Oh, she said.

I know, said Preston, I know. And she could hear the smile in his voice as he said, Just like his old man, head in the clouds.

The stars! And you listen to me, old man, not another peep until you're calling to say you're on your way.

Lonely?

Yes, she said. And she put down the phone. She made a toddy and snuggled under the covers and dropped off before she could even find her book. Again, Patty was awakened in the dark by the bang of the kettle, but this time laughter floated up the curved walnut staircase. The wood was slick from decades of bees wax rubbed into the planks and if she went down in bare feet she might slip. She hunted around for her slippers with the grippy soles and then realized she'd look like someone's
grandmother tottering down to scold about the rules. And what rules? A woman deserted by a useless husband making tea for a man puffed with vanity about an ordinary career. Though handsome, Guy Theirry was a complete miss as far as Patty was concerned. No fire. Where the hell were her slippers anyway? Could Coren have borrowed them without asking?

She got down on her hands and knees and lifted the dust ruffle. Here, through the floorboards, directly beneath her, it would seem, she thought she heard the first awkward gasping cry, deep and stupid, as if sounded right in her own ear. Not a bit of humor or grace, a response to what must have been a quick sure grasp on the part of the great pilot. She would certainly not listen to this. Her efforts to rise silently only gave her back a wrenching pull. She would laugh, if it were funny. Here she was, injured by someone else's foolish clutch in the dark.

When Coren finally made her appearance the next day, Patty was out clipping the more artless tendrils of the autumn roses, ignoring the twinge in her back. Patty braced herself for gloating. Dropped the clippers and did her duty: Good Morning, princess!

Oh! said Coren, I didn't see you. Her hand flapped around her heart and she seemed to be panting.

What's wrong?

Nothing, nothing. I was startled. I thought I saw a ghost.

Well, there is one, said Patty, with a smile. She'd landed on the day's activity just like that. We'll have a bite, then walk to the ruins so I can introduce you.

They'd give the great pilot a breather, Patty thought. He was probably home this minute nursing a hangover trying to piece together clues of last night. By the time he called Patty for a hint, they'd be all the way to Combarelles. She'd never liked him, she realized in the moment. Guy Theirry was arrogant. Based on almost nothing as far as Patty could tell. He was tall—true—and had an elegant nose. The rest? His wife died on the operating table and he took early retirement and bought a half-collapsed château for nothing. Every once in a while he gave a course to new pilots.

Patty's first year in the Dordogne, he used to settle beside her at parties and tell amusing stories about young bucks lost in tiny clouds, all very funny. But then no follow up. He was as superficial as the bone button on his fancy bombardier jacket. Oh, she could laugh just to think of him. But why think of him? They'd only been flung together because they'd each lost a spouse in an instant. The macabre things that some people think quicken a pulse. And she could just imagine last night's table talk. Coren would have unfurled some impenetrable tale. And Guy could bore with almost no effort. She wouldn't ask. But Coren was trailing her into the kitchen as though lost. She wore the afghan from the guest room reading chair wrapped around her shoulders and sure enough, Patty's green fluffy slippers. Cold? asked Patty.

Umm, said Coren, settling her back against the wall. She closed her eyes.

He's nice, that Guy, tried Patty, against her better judgement; anything to open Coren's eyes!

Did you know he's found some art under his house? And now there are all sorts of problems with the government. He was clearing the rubble and he actually found one of the women.

The women?

The stone carvings. They're everywhere around here I guess. With the huge bellies? They're pregnant!

Who said?

Well, Guy, of course, and now she blushed. He insists I see them for obvious reasons.

It's obvious you like him! Patty twisted the timer on the convection oven and unwrapped the croissants. I'm just going to give these a little boost. I spoke with Brad last night.

What did he say? I miss him!

So do I. He sounded happy. Loves,
loves
his work. Who ever would have imagined?! I thought he'd be a gangster.

No, you didn't.

Patty smiled, said, Put some clothes on. We'll eat these and then I want to show you something.

But Coren didn't answer.

Patty turned and raised her eyebrows. This was an old cue for them. So many times on Coren's tiny terrace Coren would
be choked to silence and Patty would raise her eyebrows. Coren always spilled whatever troubled her. Though what could be so troubling, really, Patty had thought back then. Phil made plenty of money. It was true Coren had wanted children, but it hadn't worked out. Patty assured her it was a blessing. Though the years of trying had been a strain on their friendship. Meanwhile, Phil kept traveling to South America and Coren's terrace plantings became more elaborate.

It was the night of the brownout that Patty heard the baby work was finally over. Coren's uterus was like a clamshell that couldn't be opened and it was all because of her mother. Oh, said Patty, and if only they'd thought to light a candle or two, Coren would have seen the counter cues to the raised eyebrow: the down-turned mouth, the glazed eye. But in the dark, with the stench of burning in the air, Coren said her mother was standing in a phone booth in Amsterdam, probably looking in her purse for another coin. She'd forgotten what kind of cake she'd promised to bring home for dinner. She called the house and asked, then was disconnected.

The police said her change purse was still in her hand but her pocketbook was gone, the light in the booth smashed out. The grocer recognized her, though she'd been shot in the face. She always wore the same sweater, with ducks. The same one she'd worn when pregnant the first time. There was no attempt to save that baby, though there might have been. And Coren told Patty how common it was. Patty didn't reply. She remembers
that. And still thinks it was best to keep quiet. But what was so common? She couldn't imagine.

This is Peruvian, said Patty, pressing down on the coffee plunger. Smell.

Guy drew me a little map. Do you mind if I just go?

Mind? No, of course not. Why would I mind?

Okay, said Coren and slumped out of the kitchen. Patty noticed she had an odd smell as she went by. Like leaf litter, wet and acidic; what was it? A mild wafting scent and then it was gone. Patty smiled until Coren rounded the stair, then put the coffee on a tray. Pried the croissants off the oven rack and wrapped them in a paisley napkin. She'd sit herself on the veranda and take a break from her roses. If Coren wanted to join her, fine. If not, fine. She'd forgotten that Coren was a four-year-old. She'd completely forgotten the moods. The dramas. All unspoken, all in pantomime, and the larger for it. Patty lifted the tray, expertly balanced, and opened the side door. Aid and comfort, she reminded herself, aid and comfort.

Her neighbor's sons were drying the walnuts on the stone floor of the veranda, every day the carpet of nuts expanded. She'd kill herself if she wasn't careful. She nudged a group aside and set the tray down on the stone wall. She was dusting new fallen leaves off her chair when the front-gate bell chimed and Guy Theirry appeared in the courtyard with a motley bouquet.

Look at you, how thoughtful! she said and put out her hand. And smiled to see the pilot adjust his strategy and offer it up,
the ragweed and juniper, an oily ribbon plucked from some old uniform. Artful, she thought, very good. Have some coffee, just made this very second, she said.

I think, he started, then, yes, of course.

She dusted the other seat. Sit, please, then she moved to sit herself. A little swivel between the chairs. She concentrated on the pouring. Her hands always spoke for themselves. Long fingered, sensuous. She didn't caress the croissants, just plucked one and dropped it on one of her pretty plates. She felt the ease of doing what she was good at, pulled her cup to her mouth and waited, and the pause before the sip brought his eyes there. He grabbed for his own cup and looked out to the old tree in the distance.

You should take that down, he said.

What for?

It's dead.

She looked at him now, at his profile, which was not his best angle. The steep flat forehead matched by a steep flat nose. Black brows, tufted, hectic, above gray eyes. He was squinting, which was his habit, and she started to speak but was reminded, for no reason, of the smell, the leaf litter smell, and an odd conversation she'd once had with Coren's husband Phil on the cluttered New York terrace. Something had died and Phil was trying to wedge it out of a pot. Coren will do it, she told him, puzzled.

She won't, he said. That's just the thing, she lets stuff just sit here. Patty had never noticed. Really?

Then you have no sense of smell, said Phil, whose own handsome nose looked pinched. And that pinch told the whole story. Patty tried to warn Coren. She thought of that period as a kind of negotiation. When Coren remained committed to acting oblivious that period ended. Phil was not a good lover. He was hasty and awkward and paid too much attention to Patty's toes. Things ended quickly and dispersed into the atmosphere like dew.

Outside the gate, the rough engine of an ATV sounded on the gravel. Patty's housekeeper arriving. Grand Central Station, laughed Patty. But the great pilot only frowned. The crows set up a racket, a heavy flapping of wings in the dead tree before lifting off.

It's Marie-Noelle, they're afraid of her! I think when I'm not here she throws poisoned mice under the tree.

And you let her?

Patty gave him a smile. I'll let you forbid her.

Marie-Noelle held open the gate for her mother who carried a new mop. Madame! she cried, pardon.

Please, Marie-Noelle, come, she nodded. They unlatched the front-end door and slipped inside.

Constant companions, said Patty to Guy, watching him, his flat gray eyes; and he watched her, not a flair of interest. He was very disciplined! She'd forgotten.

What should I do with that tree?

Whatever you like, Guy squinted through the kitchen window now, Coren was a vague shifting shape behind the mullions.

Guy pushed out his chair.

Oh, good, yes, you give her a hand. And then Patty caught the scent on his clothes, that leafy smell. Maybe they'd had a romp in the walnut grove, mulch and manure for bedding. They deserved each other. Lifeless rot, both of them. And she astonished herself with the thought.

She was finishing her coffee, taking her time, trying to skirt a rising jitteriness when Marie-Noelle appeared on the veranda holding Patty's green grippy slippers, sopping wet. Madame. In the toilet.