The Last Time I Saw Paris (30 page)

Later, they wandered up the dusty lane by the ramparts, pausing to take in the breathtaking view of the sweetly named Bay of Angels and the miles of pineshaded
sandy coves sloping into the blue-green sea, and the coral-tiled roofs of the pastel-hued houses shimmering under the sun.

The tiny castle that had once belonged to the royal Grimaldi family was now a museum devoted to Picasso, and walking into its cool halls was like stepping into another, more serene world. The walls were high and white and the tiny windows let in pale shafts of light. It was empty and they were able to stroll around at their leisure, enjoying the coolness and the Picassos.

Then Lara insisted they drive into Nice, because she said Dan had to see the view Matisse had painted from his windows.

The daily market in the Cours Saleya was just finishing, and they lunched at the crowded Safari cafe on French-style pizza with goat cheese and basil and sweet juicy tomatoes, watching the vendors packing up great bunches of the flowers for which the city was famous: stocks and carnations and roses, whose heady scent they breathed along with the aroma of
socca,
the hot, thin chickpea pancakes sold from the market stalls, and the sweetness of
fraises des bois,
the tiny wild strawberries. Unable to resist they bought a box of the strawberries and devoured them walking along the street. Lara thought eating those
fraise de bois
was like inhaling a musky perfume. It permeated the palate, rose through the nostrils, penetrated that portion of the brain directly between the eyes, and stopped at the top of the head. It was lift-off time for berries. Her eyes were round with pleasure.

The seafront Promenade des Anglaises, named for the English, who were the first foreigners to come to the then-tiny fishing port to escape the cold, foggy northern winter, was studded with palm trees and ornate
hotels. Below, tiny waves crashed onto a harsh, shingle beach. The Matisse exhibit was housed in a villa on the hill of Cimiez beside the Roman arena, and they climbed up there only to find it closed. So, bored with urban pleasures, they drove back to their pastoral refuge and the beach.

Lara thought, satisfied, it was another wonderful day. Dan was happy, she was happy. They were in love and it was all that mattered.

The calm before the storm,
the little voice interrupted nastily.

And though she did not know it yet, this time, it was right.

T
he next day at the Plage de la Garoupe, Lara stretched out on a pink towel spread over a cushioned lounger beneath a green umbrella.

There was a fashion show at the cafe and pretty models paraded down the beach, stopping in front of them to tell them the name of the designer and that the suits were all from a local boutique, while cute young French girls, topless and tanned to an even golden glow, ran up to ask questions. One pretty girl stumbled over Dan's feet, then apologized charmingly. Lara's eyes swung Dan's way. There was an amused look on his face.

A pang of jealousy hit Lara like a fist in the stomach. Wrapped in her pink towel, she lay back and closed her eyes again, shutting herself off from the little scene going on around her.

Only one more day left,
the voice reminded her.
Only one more day for the rest of your life. . . .

 

Through her half-closed lids, Lara could see the young French girls smiling at the handsome young American, flirting with him under their lashes. Their bare brown breasts were firm as fist-sized Cavaillon melons, their pert bronze rumps taut as beach balls, and they wore sinuous gold chains threaded around their narrow waists. They tossed long sun-blond hair,
exclaimed in high, pretty French voices about the fashions, begged the American m'sieur to excuse them for stepping on his toes. And Dan laughed, flirting back.

Lara suddenly felt her age. She was plump, out of synch, a being from another world. Wrapping the pink towel around her pale-green bathing suit that she had thought made her look more slender and more French, she stalked onto the cafe terrace. She turned to look back. Dan hadn't even noticed she was gone. A couple of pretty young things crouched at his feet, running their hands through their long hair, laughing flirtatiously. Even from here Lara could tell they were coming on to him.

God had surely given all the good flirt genes to French women, she thought despairingly as she sank into a chair. She had never known how to do that.

Hey, wait a minute,
the voice reminded her,
you never had a chance to play that game. You were with Bill from the age of seventeen, the age of those girls now. You were serious, committed; you lost out on all those fun times, flirting with boys, experimenting, learning. You ‘ve been a novice all your life because of it.

She was sipping iced Coke through a straw, and the fashion show was over when Dan finally came to find her. He ran his hand along her arm, dusting off the fine layer of sand that clung to it. “You okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said coldly.

“Come on, Lar, what's wrong?”

She shrugged, her nose held aloofly in the air. “Nothing's wrong. I just felt like a cold drink.”

“So why didn't you ask me to come with you?”

“You were busy.”

He caught her aloof profile, the icy edge to her
voice as she stared past him out to sea. A smile curled the corners of his mouth. “You were jealous,” he said, unbelieving.

“Jealous. Hah—of what?”

You're hanging yourself, Girlfriend,
the voice warned her.
Give him a break this time, why don't you? You're looking for trouble. …

“The beautiful young things on the beach?” He was laughing at her.

“The ones half my age?”

Dan sat back in his chair. “So that's it.” He wasn't smiling anymore. “You've got to get over this thing, Lara.”

“Oh? And how do you propose I do that? Turn back the clock?”

He put his head in his hands, sighing. “Believe me, it means nothing to me,
they
meant nothing to me.”

Dan recognized a pout when he saw one. Heaven knows he had seen it often enough in Britt, and in his own sister. It was just something women did, something they were born with. Just when you thought things were going to be okay, they threw you a curve.

“Sun's setting.” He tried changing the subject.

Lara's eyes flickered toward the sea but he could tell she was not seeing the pink-tinted water and the ocher shadows creeping along the beach.

She stared up at him from under the thick fringe of dark lashes, suspicious, angry. The sun had disappeared and she shivered. “I'm going back to the hotel,” she said coldly and she stalked back to the beach to get her things.

“Don't wait for me,” Dan called angrily after her. “I'll get a ride back.”

Fool,
the voice told her as she packed her things into the beach
fool, fool, fool, fool. Pride is no comfort in an empty bed.

L
ara was in the shower when she heard the phone ring. She knew it would be Minnie, because she had called earlier and left her number. She wrapped a towel around her and ran to answer it but Dan was back and he'd already picked up the phone.

“Hi, Mom,” Minnie's voice said chirpily. “How's the Second Honeymoon going without Dad? Hope it was as good as you remembered it the first time around.”

Dan stared for a long moment at Lara standing by the door clutching the towel. “Just a minute, I'll put your mother on the line,” he said quietly. There was ice in his eyes as he handed her the phone.

“Hi, Minnie,” Lara said softly.

“Hey, Mom, who was the man on the phone? I thought you were there alone.”

“No, I'm not alone.” She looked worriedly at Dan, staring out the window, hands thrust in his pockets. “How are you, Minnie? I just needed to hear your voice.”

“Well, you're hearing it, Mom. I got your message, and thanks in advance for all the treats. Hope you get through Customs okay, though.” She was laughing, untroubled, young . . . like the girls on the beach.

She would tell Minnie about Dan later, Lara thought as she said good-bye and “love you” and “see you soon.”

“Dan?” she said.

He turned and looked at her. Lara put a hand to her heart, shocked by his grim face. He stood, arms folded across his chest, legs apart. “What about that ‘Second Honeymoon'?”

Oh, God, she thought, Minnie had let the cat out of the bag. But she hadn't meant to deceive him, she just thought it was better if he didn't know.

“It's true, of course,” he said coldly.

“Yes, it's true.” Her wet hair swung over her face as she nodded and she put up a hand to push it back.

“All the places we've been, the hotels where we stayed, the cafes, the sightseeing. You did all this with Bill the first time around.”

“It wasn't the way you think.”

“And when Bill told you he wasn't going on his ‘Second Honeymoon,' you thought you might as well take me instead. Well, you fooled me, Lara. You really fooled me. I thought this was
our
journey of discovery, not a trip to revive your memory bank of your husband. Now I understand all the mood swings, the searching—”

“It wasn't … I didn't do that.… I mean, it
was
our discovery, Dan, really it was.…”

How could she admit that he was right, and every step of the way she had remembered Bill and their time together as honeymooners? But that every step of the way, Bill's memory had failed the test.

Except for that field of poppies,
the voice reminded her.

“What did you take me for?” Dan said. “Was I just a change for you? The rough, uneducated guy? The stereotype in the hard hat in the Village People, just there to amuse you?” Lara would have laughed if he
were not so deadly serious. “Why couldn't you tell me? At least give me the choice?”

“But it was so wonderful, it all worked out so well.…”

Dan stared at her, unbelieving. “I'm going out,” he said icily. “I don't know when I'll be back.”

He closed the door quietly behind him and Lara heard his footsteps receding down the hall.

She sank down onto the bed, staring into space. For once the little voice offered no comment and no advice. Her conscience was on strike, ashamed of her, and her alter ego had disappeared—like Dan.

S
he must be crazy. What was she doing just sitting there? She leapt to her feet; she had to go after him, find him, tell him how sorry she was, beg him to forgive her. Flinging on some clothes, she ran out into the hall. She flew down the stairs, passing other guests on their way up, shouting,
“Je m'excuse, madame, monsieur,”
as they flattened themselves against the wall to allow her to pass.
“Je m'excuse. …
I'msorry.…”

She scanned the terrace, wild-eyed. Her wet hair trailed over her shoulders, leaving damp patches on her T-shirt. A dozen or so guests sat at the tables, coolly dressed for the evening, sipping aperitifs before heading out for dinner. Dan was not among them.

She darted back through the front hall, skidding on the tiles, apologizing to people again as she ran out the door and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Dan. The baby-blue Renault was in its usual place. She felt in her pocket for the keys but of course they were in the room.

She fled back upstairs, grabbed the keys, dashed back down again. The Renault coughed as she slammed her foot onto the accelerator, flooding the engine. She smacked a hand to her forehead in frustration, waiting precious seconds before trying again. The engine spluttered, then caught.

“Dammit, why can't the French have automatic,”
she muttered, shifting too rapidly through the gearbox and bouncing down the street in a series of kangaroo jumps that rattled her teeth. Was she driving on the proper side of the road? She hoped so, but she couldn't remember … she was so scared,
terrified
she had lost him.

At the cafes on the beach, candles were lit and dinner was being served. It was a peaceful, romantic scene, one that she might have been a part of if she were not such a selfish fool. She got out, searched among the tables. She looked in every cafe. Of course, he was not there.

She prowled the back streets in the little Renault. It was dark now and she drove slowly, inspecting every person walking in the shadows, everyone in the sidewalk cafes, in every store.

He must have gone back to the auberge. He would think she had gone away, left him, didn't care. The tires shrieked as she rounded the corner, and, with a final jolt, threw the car into park. She was out and running. There was a thud and the sound of breaking glass. She turned, stared back at the Renault. It had slipped out of park and into the rough stone wall, smashing the headlights.
Oh, shit.
She took off again. What did it matter now …?

She raced back through the garden, through the deserted hall, cast a desperate eye over the now almost empty terrace. Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran down the hallway, flung open the door.

The room was empty.

She slumped onto the bed. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “where is he? I was wrong not to tell him, and I was wrong this afternoon, I admit it. Just tell me where he is so I can apologize.”

The phone rang, that high, penetrating French
shrill. For a second, she couldn't take it in. Then,
“It's him, oh, thank you, God, it's him.
…” She snatched it up.

“Lara?”

Her knees buckled and she sank onto the bed.

“Lara? Are you there?” he said again, sounding impatient.

“I'm here, Bill.” Disappointment stuck in her throat.

“How are you, Lara?” He was, as usual, calm and collected, knowing exactly what he wanted to say and why he had called. “Minnie gave me your number.”