The Last Time I Saw Paris (7 page)

Walking down the street, Dan noticed the dog first, tied to the tree outside the bar. “Dexter?” he said inquiringly.

Dex gave a delighted woof and Dan bent to pat him and then he saw Lara Lewis sitting alone at the bar. She looked pale but pretty in a blue sweater with her dark hair curling softly around her face. His first instinct was to go in and say hello, but there was something in the droop of her shoulders, her unseeing gaze into the mirror that made him hold back. She looked like a woman who wanted to be left alone. Giving Dex a final pat, he went on his way.

Back home later, with music soaring to the rafters, Dan prowled the deck wondering about Ms. Lewis. She wasn't the kind of woman he'd expected to see drinking alone in a bar, but, then, she was a mass of contradictions. Shy enough to blush, yet opinionated too. She had told him almost nothing about herself. It was as though she had something to hide, yet she was transparently honest. He thought she was a very interesting woman. And he couldn't get the image of her in that red bathing suit out of his head.

 

“You look different,” Dan said to her the next afternoon.

Lara knew it. She had looked in the mirror earlier, seen the truth: the shadows under her eyes, the puffiness, the little lines. She wore no makeup, her face was naked, and her feelings were there in her eyes for him to see. She had nothing to hide from this stranger.

“I didn't sleep,” she said curtly.

He nodded. “Seems to me you don't ever get much
sleep. Perhaps you should see someone about that.”

Lara gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. “A doctor, you mean. Thanks, but I have my own diagnosis. And I don't need any help.”

Turning away, he went quietly about his work. Lara sighed. She hadn't meant to be rude, but rejection made a woman bitchy. She lay back in the chaise, not even pretending to read, watching him.

An hour passed in silence. He never even looked at her. When she could bear it no longer, she called softly, “I'm sorry I was rude.”

He was sawing through a plank of wood. He finished what he was doing then glanced up at her. “That's okay, Ms. Lewis.”

Her sigh was big and genuine. “When are you going to call me Lara? After all, I call you Dan.”

“Okay. Lara.”

He went back to his work and she sighed again. Another hour passed and the sun began its slow descent. She offered him a glass of wine but he said he would prefer a beer and not to get up, he would get it from the kitchen himself.

He came back with the opened beer and walked across the deck to where she was sitting.

Lara thought how unhurried and easy he was. There was none of the urgency about him that Bill had. None of the tension, the pacing, the furrowed brow, the ringing phone that Bill always jumped to answer. It was as though this man had all the time in the world for her.

He sat back in his chair, one leg hitched comfortably over the other, completely at home, completely relaxed. A smile lurked behind his eyes.

She folded her arms across her chest, uncomfortable under his gaze. “What are you looking at?”

He lifted a shoulder. “You.”

“Not much to look at, really.” She flipped back her long hair like a self-conscious teenager.

“Really?”

Now he was laughing at her. She got up, put on a Bob Dylan CD, a voice from her youth.

“My favorite,” he said, turning up the volume.

Dylan's gravelly voice sighed out into the dusk and Lara was amazed how powerful the music sounded outdoors, lifting over the ocean. “I've never listened to it like this,” she said.

“It's the only way. And you have the advantage of no near neighbors to complain.”

“I like my solitude.”

“Is that why you were alone in the bar last night?” He heard her sharp intake of breath and he laughed. “Lady, if you want to go to a bar alone, don't leave your dog outside. It's a dead giveaway.”

Despite herself, Lara laughed. “I'd had some bad news,” she explained.

“The doc's not coming back for a while, huh?”

She glared haughtily at him. “What are you, clairvoyant? I told you he was in Beijing. Now he has to go on to Delhi. He's an important man in his field.”

He nodded. “Sure. I understand. My brother's planning on being a neurosurgeon. It's all he thinks about.”

“Pity his poor wife.” Lara's face was a mask, but he caught the tone of bitterness. He took a sip of the beer. “Troy's not planning marriage just yet.”

“Are you going to marry Britt?”

“No.”

“Why not?” She was standing with her back to him, gazing at the incoming tide.

“Because I don't love her.”

“Oh?” She swung around. “And how do you know what love is?”

“Lara, I don't know. I'm just hoping one day I'll be lucky enough to find out.”

The sun had set and a mist was rolling in. She was wearing only old gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, and she rubbed her arms, chilled.

“Time to go,” he said, not looking at his watch.

“Yes. Of course. You must have things to do. … It's late.”

“I hadn't noticed.”

He was still sitting, still smiling that knowing little smile. There was something in his eyes, an expression she couldn't fathom.

“Did anyone ever tell you you're a beautiful woman, Ms. Lewis?”

Lara stared at him. Confused, she took a step back, ran her hands nervously over the baggy sweatpants. “I. . . no . . . well. . .” She felt the heat of the blush sting her cheeks.

He looked at her for a long minute, then he turned and made his way into her kitchen. He put the empty beer bottle on the counter.

“Then they should,” he called over his shoulder. She heard him whistle for his dog, and they were gone.

Stunned, she dropped into a chair.
Fool,
she told herself angrily.
A man pays you a compliment and you go into shock. That's how pathetic you've become.

“Fuck you, Bill.” She pounded a fist on the arm of the chair. “I'll go to Paris without you. I'll spend all your money on expensive French clothes and champagne. I'll have myself a ball.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. For once she had made a decision about her own life. She was not just
the mother, not just the good friend. Not just Melissa Kenney's rival for her husband's affections.

She was Lara Lewis, forty-five years old, a woman in her own right and on her way to Paris.

Her heart sank at the thought.

V
annie called an hour later and when Lara told her of her decision, she said worriedly, “I'll have to discuss this with the other girls. I mean, Lara—you . . . alone . . . in Paris. Somehow it just doesn't seem right.”

“It's better than me alone in Carmel,” Lara retorted, sounding more confident than she felt. “And it's also better than sitting and waiting to see if Dr. Melissa Kenney is going to allow me to have my husband back. Which, anyhow, I somehow doubt.”

“Wouldn't you want him back?”

Vannie sounded wistful, as though she were already contemplating the loss of the first of the Girlfriends' husbands. Lara knew exactly how she felt. They had always been a gang, a team, and now it was beginning to break up, threatening their security. She said, “I don't know, Vannie. Right now, I'm just so”—she sought for the right word—“so
wounded.
Bill lied to me. He sacrificed us, our plans, our life, for Melissa. What can I say?” She shrugged her shoulders wearily.

The next call was from Susie. “If you insist on doing this darn trip, then at least let one of us come with you,” she said firmly, but Lara was stubborn.

“What does Delia think?” she asked.

“Delia thinks you should go, but as you can see, she's in the minority.”

Lara laughed. “My count makes it even. Two against two.”

“So who gets the deciding vote? Your kids?”

Lara thought if her heart could have gotten any heavier, it would have sunk. She was so selfish, only thinking of herself and her own pain, she hadn't given any thought to how a breakup might affect Josh and Minnie.

Delia was the next to call. “So, okay, when do we leave?”

“We?”

“Nous. Les deux femmes seules.
Out on the town together in Paris. I hope you speak better French than I do, though.”

Lara laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you,
madame,
but I'm making this trip on my own.”

“Wouldn't it be more fun with the two of us?”

“It's
not fun
I'm looking for, Delia.” Lara suddenly realized what it was she needed. “It's myself.” She thought about it for a moment. “I don't quite know how to explain this, but this will be a. . . voyage of self-discovery. And I need to do it alone.”

Delia understood immediately. She said, “When do you leave?”

“In a couple of weeks. Not long now.”

“Of course I'll see you before you go. And I hope it works out for you, Lar,” she added softly.

D
an Holland had never met a woman quite like Lara Lewis. She was so self-contained, giving nothing away—except what was revealed in her expressive face and her huge, sad eyes. There was an air of innocence about her that was missing in the young women he knew, a tenderness, a vulnerability, as though she had never grown that diamond-hard outer layer women these days thought necessary. The young women he met had a fuck-you attitude, as though life owed them and they were going to take it. He was drawn by Lara's gentleness, and he liked her self-consciousness, and he admired her intelligence.

Each evening after he had finished work on her deck, he would linger over a beer, talking about nothing in particular. About Carmel, his life, her kids. And sometimes there were long silences that said more than words.

Another week passed. Dan was working at the opposite end of the deck from where Lara was sitting reading a book, and even though he was concentrating on what he was doing, his peripheral vision kept her in view. He liked the way she looked in that red bathing suit with her breasts spilling over the top, and he liked her long legs and rounded hips. She lay back, eyes closed, the book resting on her stomach. Her skin had a faint sheen of sweat, and the coconut scent of
Hawaiian Tropic drifted his way. He wanted to touch her. …

He worked until the sun went down and then, as usual, Lara asked him to stay for a beer. They sat opposite each other in the twilight, watching the sliver of moon begin its climb. She had changed into a flowing white skirt and shirt, thrown a soft blue cardigan around her shoulders, slipped her long, narrow feet into gold thong sandals. Gold hoops gleamed in her ears and he could smell her perfume, gentle and faintly spicy.

“A couple more days and I'll be through,” he said quietly.

Lara nodded, telling herself it was better that way. She would miss him, though. Oh, yes, she would miss him. There was something real about Dan that she wanted desperately to cling to.

“Would you like to stay for supper?” She tried to sound casual, as though it were a spur-of-the-moment thing, but the truth was that morning she had driven into Carmel and bought food especially, knowing she would ask him. “It's just some stuff I bought in town: turkey, coleslaw, mashed potatoes, gravy …”

“Good home cooking.”

He was laughing at her and she said huffily, “You don't have to stay.”

“No. But I want to. And thank you for the invitation. I like turkey and mashed potatoes. And I like the company.”

She smiled shyly. “It gets lonesome out here.”

“It beats going to a bar alone too, I guess,” he said, laughing as she glared at him.

Back in the house, Lara lit perfumed votive candles, which gave off the scent of rosemary and thyme, reminding her of Provence all those years ago, thanking
God that Dan would never know how long she had agonized about this night. About what to wear and whether they should eat in the dining room or the kitchen, finally deciding on the kitchen because it would look less like a setup; about the bottle of wine she thought he would like and food he might enjoy.

Why am I doing this? she'd asked herself with a little illicit thrill. What am I thinking of? It's dangerous. . . .

She put on a CD,
Bill Evans with Symphony Orchestra,
soft, rippling piano and strings that sounded like the sea. When she turned Dan was standing in the doorway looking at her.

Tension zigzagged between them and the air seemed to tremble in the long silence.

“This is beautiful,” Dan said quietly.

Nervous, she invited him to take a seat, served him some food, asked him to pour the wine. They talked about their “children”; about books and art and music; about anything but what was happening between them. And then he surprised her by telling her that once he had been a man with a dream.

He laughed at himself as he said, “I thought I could be a sculptor. You know, a modern-day Michelangelo, traveling to Carrara to choose my precious piece of marble from the great quarry, hacking away at it in my freezing garret studio.”