A Tangled Web (18 page)

She drove one more smooth circuit, then came to a gentle stop at the driveway of the Auberge de la Colline. “Well done, madame,” said Madame Besset. “A good, smooth stop. But we are not home yet.”

“We're not ready to go home,” Stephanie replied firmly. She contemplated the driveway, gauging its width between two stone pillars, then took a deep breath and drove between the pillars into the parking area. There were only a few cars at this time of day, but Stephanie had not considered maneuvering into a parking place, and while she tried to consider it now, the car kept moving forward.

“Madame!” Madame Besset said, alarmed, and Stephanie turned to ask her a question, but there was no time: the car reached a row of bushes at the far end of the lot and came to an abrupt stop with its headlights in the branches.

“Oh, no! Oh, how could I—” Stephanie's shoulders slumped as she looked at the bushes embracing the front end of the car. “I'm so sorry, Madame Besset; look what I've done to your car. I'm so sorry—”

“Please, madame, do not be upset. You did so well—”

“But look what I've done. Why didn't I step on the brake? I just forgot about it.” Her voice rose. “Forgot, forgot, can't remember . . . that's what's wrong with me!”

“Madame, please!”

“We'll buy you a new car, I'm so sorry, I should have known I couldn't drive—”

“Madame.”

Stephanie turned and Madame Besset put a hand on her arm.

“You drove very well. You did excellently for one who has never driven. I am sure you have not destroyed my car; it perhaps will need some new paint. It does not worry me, and it must not worry you, either. It is a small matter and all will be well.”

In a minute, Stephanie gave a small smile. “Thank you. I think I'd better back out of here.”

“Ah, no, madame; do not attempt any more right now. We have not practiced driving in reverse. I will get us out of here and then perhaps I should drive home.”

Stephanie shook her head. I did do well, she thought, I did excellently, and I'm not going to give up. “I'll get us out of here and I'll drive home. But not right away. First we're going to have a glass of wine. We've earned it. Poor Madame Besset; were you afraid for your life?”

Madame Besset opened her mouth to object, then closed it. They were in her car and it certainly was not proper for her to drink wine with madame in a café—or anywhere!—but she worked for madame and madame had become very stubborn suddenly, and more sure of herself, and it seemed unlikely that madame would change her mind about the wine, or perhaps about anything, just because Madame Besset objected.

The café was almost empty, the tables neatly set with pink patterned tablecloths and napkins, the ladder-back chairs pushed in, the stone floor swept clean, poised for the dinner crowd. Stephanie and Madame Besset sat near the fireplace, the flames rising inside a tepee of logs, plates warming on the brick hearth. “Red wine,” Stephanie said and looked at Madame Besset, who, after a moment, nodded. They were silent, gazing at the fire, Madame Besset with her mouth in a thin line of resignation, Stephanie smiling to herself, once again feeling wonderful.

The owner of the café brought the wine and two slices of pear tatin—“to fortify two lovely ladies on a very wet day, with my compliments.”

Stephanie watched him walk away. “What a nice thing to do.”

“He most likely remembers madame from her dinner here with monsieur and is looking for more visits,” said Madame Besset, knowing that there was only one lovely lady at the table.

“Oh, how hard you are. I think he was just feeling generous and wanted to brighten a rainy day.” Stephanie tasted the wine. “This is very good. Well, we will come back. I like this room and I like the owner and this wine is excellent.” She took a bite of the pear tatin. “Everything is excellent. I think we'll come here often for dinner, certainly on your days off, Madame Besset.”

The room was quiet. Two men sat at a table in the back, reading Provencal newspapers; two men nearby were playing chess while a third watched; in a corner a man sat alone with a carafe of wine and a small dish of walnuts. The clatter of dishes and pots and pans could be heard from the kitchen. Stephanie saw herself and Madame Besset sitting at their small table, two women sharing a glass of wine on a winter afternoon, the warmth of the fire curling around them, their rain slickers and hats dripping from a nearby coat tree, and she felt a rush of affection for Madame Besset. This is how women become friends, she thought, and asked, “Madame Besset, are you married?”

“Yes, madame.”

“And? Do you have children?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Are they young? Do they still live at home?”

“No, madame.”

“Oh, I will not have this!” Stephanie exclaimed. “I want a conversation, not questions and answers as if you're a student taking a test. Surely we can talk to each other as two women; what would be wrong with that? I promise to ignore you when we're at home, if that's what you would like. I could even order you around quite haughtily, if that is what you were taught to think of as correct.”

A smile flickered on Madame Besset's lips and the muscles in her face began to relax. She was aware of the warmth of the fire and the excellent red wine and pear tatin, and she liked—more today than before—this very beautiful and kind lady who was so strangely childlike one moment, seeming lost and bewildered, and so much a woman the next. And always lonely, Madame Besset thought, and found herself leaning forward. Two women having a conversation; there could be nothing wrong in that. In fact, it could be very pleasant. “Well, madame, I have seven children, three boys and four girls, born between the time I was sixteen and twenty-eight. Of course they are grown now, and four of them have families of their own, but still one thinks always of one's children as children.”

“And your husband? He owns the farm where you live?”

“He and my father and uncle. It is large enough to support two families—my uncle's and ours—”

“Your mother is dead?”

“For thirty years. Some tumor . . . no one knew what it was and she did not trust doctors. And then it was too late.”

“So she was not with you to help with the children.”

“No one helped me with the children. I am fortunate in that I have a large lap, madame, and much good humor. And I know what is correct, so I could teach my little ones and then they knew how to behave and they were no trouble.”

Stephanie smiled. “It sounds so simple.”

“It is simple, madame, if one is firm and has a loving heart.”

“And do you—”

“Pardon, madame, do you wish more wine?” The café owner had materialized beside their table, his balding head shining beneath the ceiling lights, his curved black brows raised in inquiry.

“Not for me,” Stephanie said. “But Madame Besset . . . ?”

“No, no, I am content, madame.”

“You are, aren't you?” Stephanie asked. “I mean, with your life and your family and your farm.”

“Of course, madame; I am greatly blessed. I was born on my farm; I have traveled a little—”

“Where?”

“What, madame?”

“How far have you traveled?”

“Oh, I went once to the sea, to Nice and to Marseilles, but they were far too crowded; I like fields and hills and the sky without interruption. I have been to Orange and Vence, but nowhere was any better than right here; in fact, nowhere was as good. You see, madame, we all have a place that is right for us, with people who are right for us, and when we find it, and recognize it, it is foolish to waste time searching for something else. I know there may be many excitements in other places that I have never even dreamed of, and perhaps riches and perhaps sorrows, but I think I would lose myself if I were not in my own place, and then what would I be?”

Tears stung Stephanie's eyes and she looked away, staring at the fire.

“Madame?” Madame Besset was leaning forward. “I have said something wrong?”

“No, of course not.” Stephanie turned back, and met Madame Besset's worried frown. “I was just thinking that I envy you. Your life is so clear, to you and to your family; you all know yourselves: where you come from and where you're going, where you belong and . . . who you are.”

Madame Besset gave a slight shrug. “It is of no great difficulty; we are ourselves and we do not try to behave like others. We are comfortable together. As for me, I have a good husband and good children, a good position with you and monsieur, and good health. That is enough to make anyone content.”

“But why do you work for us? Didn't you say the farm takes care of your uncle's family and yours?”

“Indeed it does, but our sons and their families will want it soon for themselves; always the younger generation itches to pull free of the old. My uncle has no children, so our three boys will take the farm and we will retire to a house we have bought, with a large garden, in Saint-Saturnin-lès-Apt, perhaps thirty kilometers from here. So I put away the money monsieur pays me, for that future time. And you know, madame, I enjoy my work. It gives me pleasure to make a home—it is what I do best—and you and monsieur need me. So there you are.”

“Why do we need you?” Stephanie asked curiously.

“Because I think you have not found your place yet. Monsieur, perhaps, but you are still searching. So it seems that you do not know what to expect of each other, almost as if you are strangers, getting acquainted. And of course you do not—But forgive me; that is not to be spoken of.”

“We do not sleep together. Is that what you were about to say?”

“It is not for me to speak of that, madame.”

“But surely there have been times in your married life when you did not sleep with your husband.”

“Madame!”

“Oh, I didn't mean . . . I didn't mean you were sleeping with someone else. I meant, you might have been ill, or your husband was, and one of you went to a different room, so the other could sleep.”

“Well. Perhaps, now and then . . .”

“And that is how it is with monsieur and me. I was injured, and I was sleeping badly, and so we thought it would be better for me to have a separate room.”

“Forever, madame?” asked Madame Besset boldly.

Stephanie shrank from the question. “Everything changes. Perhaps not for you and your family, but for most of us. I can't predict next week or next month, as you can.” She looked at her watch, the gold watch Max had given her when they arrived in Cavaillon, saying that now
she would want to know the time, to make her own schedule instead of following the one the hospital made for her. “We should go home. Monsieur will be calling, and he will worry if I am not home.”

“Yes, madame.” Her lips pressed tightly together again, Madame Besset withdrew into her earlier stiffness. “If madame wishes me to drive—”

“No, I want to drive home. And I have to learn to back out, don't I? I can't drive forward all my life.”

Madame Besset smiled slightly. “That is true, madame.”

“Then you'll teach me. Madame Besset, I have many things to thank you for.” Stephanie took her hand, clasping it against Madame Besset's instinctive withdrawal. “But mostly for this afternoon. I've had a wonderful time. And I think we're friends. Perhaps sometime you'll take me to your farm. I'd like to see it. And meet your family.”

“If madame wishes . . .”

“I just said I did,” said Stephanie impatiently, and went to get her rain slicker. The mood of the afternoon had been lost: they were simply two women in a café with a fire that was dying and the sound of dishes in the kitchen, and it was time to go home.

Outside, darkness had fallen and they scurried across the parking area beneath tall light poles that illuminated the rain still splashing in puddles and bouncing off leaves. Stephanie sat behind the wheel, thinking of driving in the dark, of driving in the rain, of driving backwards, and she turned to Madame Besset, to suggest that perhaps, after all . . .

No, she thought. This woman has never been more than fifty kilometers from her home. If she can drive, so can I.

And so, with Madame Besset giving instructions, Stephanie put the car in reverse, pressed cautiously on the accelerator and very slowly released the clutch. Looking over her shoulder, she backed the car in a half circle until she faced the stucco pillars at the entrance. She looked at
Madame Besset, who nodded solemnly and repeated her instructions about first and second and third gear. And Stephanie drove through the gates and turned right onto the main street.

Her headlights pierced the darkness and streaming rain only a few yards ahead, and there were no streetlights, but she drove steadily, guided by the stone walls on her right that led her to her own wall, her own gate, and she drove through it and stopped just short of the garage door. She turned the key in the ignition, and a long sigh broke from her.
I did it. Without crashing into anything. Maybe a few scratches, but I didn't destroy this wonderful, wonderful car.

They ran the few steps from the car into the garage. Madame Besset went on into the kitchen, but Stephanie stayed in the garage, standing beside Max's sports car. I'll drive this one, too, she thought. And his Renault. Or . . . why shouldn't I have my own? I can't ask his permission every time I want to go to the market. I'll ask him as soon as he gets back.

She laid her hand on the shiny car and stroked it gently, as if it were alive.
I'll go everywhere, I'll meet people, I'll go into shops, I'll buy things for myself. I'll talk to everyone. And after a while I'll find out where my place is, the place that is right for me. And then I won't be lost anymore.