The Last Time I Saw Paris (9 page)

Since it was only leftovers, they all helped themselves to the cake. “I just had to tell you,” Lara said, her mouth full of comforting calories.

“Of course you did,” Delia said. “And this is the most exciting news we've had in years. Besides, the hell with Bill. He's a two-timing jerk who deserves a bitch like Melissa Kenney. Tell us about the lover. Who is he?”

“His name is Dan Holland.” Lara eyes darkened and she sighed because of the tug of memory that went with just saying his name. “He's the guy who's fixing my deck out at the beach house.” She looked guiltily at them. “And he's thirty-two years old.”

Their jaws dropped. “Jeez,” Susie gasped, “is he housebroken?”

“And
he's beautiful.” Lara ignored her.
“And
the best lover I ever had.”

“And what's the count on that, Ms. Lara Lewis?” Delia snorted. “A grand total of two?”

But Vannie reached out and squeezed her hand. “I'm glad you met him, Lara. He's just what you need right now.”

They turned on her, astonished. “Vannie the Virgin” had been her nickname and now here she was condoning Lara's fling with the handyman.

“What do you know about it, anyhow?” Delia demanded.

“More than you think.” Vannie gave them a demure little smile as they stared at her, astonished. “My sex life is pretty good, thank you for asking. And I can see why Lara would need a man now. Bill has been neglecting her; she's a lovely, normal woman. And if Dan Holland is as good as she says, then my hat's off to her.”

“Well!” Susie sank back against the cushions, stunned. “Thanks for sharing that with us, Vannie. I'll think about it next time I have dinner with you and Lucas.”

“Okay, so Lara came to us for help and so far we haven't resolved anything,” Delia said impatiently. “The score is this. One: Bill has opted out and Lara isn't sure she would want him back even if he came crawling. Two: Lara has a lover with whom she had a wonderful time and who is going to be a great help getting her over this hurdle. I think we should take a vote. Does Lara keep her lover and have herself a ball? Or does she go off to France alone and have a miserable time remembering the way it used to be? Dan? Or France?”

“Dan.” Three hands shot up in the air, three smiling faces turned toward Lara.

“It's too late,” she said miserably. “I ruined it. He's gone.”

“You did
what
?”

Lara explained about the ringing phone, that she had known it was Bill, how confused and guilty she had felt, and how she had turned on Dan. “So he just picked up his shoes and left,” she said.

“Jeez, now you may never get your deck finished.” Practical Susie shrugged as the others glared at her.

“His final words were ‘This is your call, Lara, not mine.'” Gloomily, Lara helped herself to another slab of cake. “And that's the end of Dan Holland,” she said, licking chocolate off her fingers. “So now I'm going to Paris. Alone. And that's that.”

Vannie removed the plate of cake from in front of her. “You don't need that many calories for comfort. And did you ever think of those little words
I'm sorry?
An apology might be all it would take. After all, you were in the wrong.”

But Lara shook her head. “It's over,” she said with such a note of finality in her voice they knew it was true.

“Then the hell with it, there's no time to be wasted.” Delia slid her feet into her sandals and pushed back her chair. The others stared inquiringly at her. “Well, we can't let Lara go to Paris looking like this, can we?”

They turned to inspect Lara, blushing in her old Rolling Stones sweatshirt and ancient jeans, hair a mess and not even a touch of lip gloss.

Lara stared down at herself. She knew she was dowdy, shuffling into middle age. Then Delia hauled her to her feet. “You're up against a sex symbol in a doctor's white coat,” she told her firmly. “Think
ER.
You can't win. Not without some sexy new clothes. Get your skates on, girls, we're going shopping.”

T
he new clothes hung in Lara's closet, the shoes and sandals neatly stacked underneath. The expensive handbag was still wrapped in its own smart little cloth cover, and the new underwear, or rather “lingerie,” was quite different from the cotton kind she usually wore, all lace and thongs. The thongs had shocked the hell out of her but Delia had said, “This is a Second Honeymoon, and even if you are going on your own, you never know what might happen.” She had held up the miniscule bit of lace. “This thong may turn you around,” she added solemnly. Lara looked questioningly at her. “In the nicest sense of the word, of course,” Delia added with a giggle.

Personally, Lara thought her butt looked big in a thong and, besides, she doubted she would ever get used to the way it felt, but the Girlfriends had been so eager, so pleased to give her the makeover. Smartening her up. But for whom?

Bill had not called her back. And neither had Dan Holland. In a few days' time she would be leaving for Paris. She would be staying, all alone, in a lavish room at the Ritz—the same hotel she and Bill had stayed in on their honeymoon as a gift from her mother. She would dine in solitary state at a famous Michelin three-star restaurant. She would drive, alone, through the Loire, looking at châteaux, staying in the
same little inns, eating in the same cafes and bistros she and Bill had eaten in together.

She would picnic alone by the lake near Limoges, where she and Bill had fed the ducks. She would stay, alone, in that little hotel near Bergerac with the Dordogne River lapping at its walls, and from where you could watch the swans floating past your bathtub. She would drive across country to Avignon, gateway to Provence. She would explore the hill villages. Alone. Stay in an old farmhouse and dine, alone, on stuffed zucchini blossoms and Cavaillon melons awash in sweet Baumes de Venise wine.

Alone, she would plunge south to the coast, to the Riviera. She would stay in the same places, sunbathe on the same beaches, linger in cafes in the blue, blue evenings. Alone.

She didn't want to go.
She didn't want to go so bad that she was already reaching for the phone, prepared to cancel. Then she looked at the new clothes, remembered her own confident words to the Girlfriends.

She touched the little diamond necklace that she still wore at all times, the talisman that was supposed to bring Bill back to her. Bill was not coming back, but still, she did not take it off. Was she still hoping? Despite the way she felt about Dan Holland?

 

Dan had not been out of her thoughts for more than a few minutes ever since he had left her. He was in her head when she was standing in line at the supermarket. She was thinking about him when she was watching the show she had organized for seniors. And she was wondering where he was and what he
was doing while she helped serve them lunch afterward.

She was thinking about Dan's strong, hard hands on her rounded body when she soaped herself in the shower and as she inspected herself, naked, in the mirror, searching for flaws he might have noticed. And finding them.

And then in bed she dreamed of his hard young body on hers, waking hot and fluid with desire, wanting him.

The San Francisco house closed in on her claustrophobically. Her hand rested on the phone. She knew Dan's number by heart. With a cry of impatience, she turned away. She threw on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, and called to Dex. The dog grabbed his blankie and leapt happily into the passenger seat next to her.

It was already sunset when she drove up the narrow dirt lane that led to Dan Holland's home, a small weather-bleached wooden A-frame with a neat little garden in front and the roar of the ocean behind.

Lara stared at the picket fence and the fragrant star jasmine twining enthusiastically around the porch rails, at the iceberg roses and a little pathway edged in sea-shells. Dan was an old-fashioned man, all right.

She sat in the car, undecided.
Leave it, Lara. Walk away. Let him go, he's too young, his brother is your son's age. There's no future in it.

But she got out of the car and walked up the little seashell-studded path. An old ship's bell with a brass chain acted as a doorbell. She pulled it and heard it clang somewhere inside the house. Music drifted out onto the porch along with the scent of jasmine as she waited.

She tapped on the door, opened it a crack, peeked in, called, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

A large room soared to the rafters, overlooked by a gallery. There were squashed-looking sofas with dark blue slipcovers and plaid throws, a beat-up wooden coffee table and a large-screen TV, big enough, she guessed, for Dan to watch sports in comfort. A pine table with six chairs, a seagrass rug, a tall white jar with branches of curly willow. Everything was immaculate. As though a woman lived here, Lara thought.

She walked hesitantly through the French windows and onto a sheltered patio overlooking the ocean. The soft sound of bossa nova guitar music from the outside speakers flowed over her. And then she saw them, framed in an archway leading to the side yard, their backs to her.

The woman was blond and slender and Dan's arm was draped affectionately over her shoulders. Even as she looked, he dropped a kiss on her blond hair, and Lara heard him laugh as the woman said something.

She turned to flee. She shouldn't be here.… She should never have come.… Now she knew she had not meant anything to him, anyway.… Oh, God, she had to get out of there.

“Lara!”

She was caught. Mortified, she swung around to face them.

“Welcome.” Dan took her hands in his, smiling at her.

Over his shoulder, Lara's eyes met the woman's. She was strong and glowing with health, and looked as though she spent a lot of time outdoors. And she was about Lara's age.

“Let me introduce you to my aunt Jess,” Dan was saying. “My mother's youngest sister, and the woman who keeps this place in shape for me.”

Aunt Jess shook her hand, taking her in. “He could never manage on his own.”

“Lara's a friend.” Dan seemed relaxed, easy. “She has a house down the coast from Carmel.”

“That's nice.” Aunt Jess smiled. “It's a beautiful part of the country to live in.”

“Yes. Thank you. It is.” Lara was lost for words. Dan was still holding on to her hands and she knew his aunt was well aware of it.

“Well, I'll be on my way,” Aunt Jess said briskly. “I've got the kids to feed. And the horses and the dogs, to say nothing of the cats and hamsters.” She was laughing as she said it, as though it was all a part of some delightful routine that comprised her busy life. A life that she obviously loved, Lara thought enviously.

When she was gone Lara turned and looked at Dan. “You said it was my call. I've come to say I'm sorry. I was wrong. And besides, I don't know if I can live without you.”

She hadn ‘t meant to say that last bit
—
it just came out, the way truth does, tripping her up.

Dan's hands were on her shoulders; her face tilted up to his, long hair swinging free. “You haven't been out of my mind for a minute since I left you,” he said quietly.

“But nothing can come of this.” She needed him to know that, needed him to know she expected nothing from him. “I'm too old for you. Look at me; I'm the same age as your aunt Jess.
Look at me, Dan.
See the truth.”

“I've always seen the truth.” He sounded surprised that she even mentioned it.

She drank in every detail of his strong young face, the faint golden stubble on his chin, the firm, sensual
mouth, the straight nose and the strong neck, the broad sweep of his brow and the deep-set eyes, such a dark, intense blue they dazzled beneath the shock of sunbleached hair. He was so beautiful, she wanted to touch him, to make love to him, to be possessed by him.

“We have only three days,” she said, determined to make her position clear, “and then I'm going to Paris.”

Dan held her away from him, shocked. “You've come here to tell me you're going away with your husband? And you'll allow me—
us
—the three days in between?”

Oh, God, they were fighting again; it wasn't what she had meant at all. “No, no, I'm going alone. I planned this trip so long ago. I have to go.”

Then his arms were around her again. His body was warm against hers, his hair smelled fresh of the wind. She didn't know what made her say it, but suddenly she did.

“Come to Paris with me, Dan,” she whispered as he bent to kiss her.

 

They were wrapped so close their bodies felt like one. He picked her up, carried her up the shallow stairs. His bedroom overlooked the ocean. The windows were flung wide and she could smell salt air as he laid her down on the simple pine bed. The white sheets were cool against her flesh, his golden skin hot against hers.

“I've never missed anyone the way I missed you. It was like losing a part of me,” he murmured in between tiny soft bites on her mouth. “I told you that
night that I thought I had found out what love is. Do you believe me?”

Reality was very far away. It was just the two of them, their bodies, the cool, the heat. “I believe.”

He gripped her in a bear hug; the muscles in his arms crushed the sides of her breasts. She could feel the crisp golden hair on his body, the wonderful, wonderful weight of him.

“Oh, God, I'm so glad you came back to me,” he whispered. “I thought you still loved Bill. I thought he would come back to you and all would be forgiven.”

“And I thought you would marry beautiful Britt.…”

But then she forgot all about Britt. All she wanted was to feel his warm, sun-gold skin under her hands, to guide him into her, to feel the slow rhythm of their bodies making love together, and the gentle sea wind wafting in the windows, cooling their heat-scorched flesh.