A Tangled Web (38 page)

Léon took from his backpack cheeses, saucisson, a container of wrinkled black olives in herbs, and a round loaf of roughly shaped bread. “Wine,” he murmured, finding a flat place for the bottle, “glasses, knives, napkins. And grapes. Whenever we're ready. Now?”

“Not yet. It's so cool and quiet; I'd just like to sit for a while.”

“Well, then.” He pulled from his pocket his sketch pad and a crayon and with swift, easy strokes began drawing her. She sat a few feet away, her back against a tree, her legs stretched out, her head turned to watch him.

“As you will see when you visit my studio,” he said, his eyes on his paper, “I have painted little else but you since our bicycle trip. If that displeases you, you must tell me.”

“It pleases me.”

He looked up quickly. “Why?”

“Because people in paintings have a life of their own. I know they're frozen in time, but they reflect what they were and hint at what they will be. If you paint me, I think it will be me and . . . not me. It might be the person I was. I'd like to see what she looks like.”

He nodded, as if to himself. “An interesting idea. But is that the only reason you are pleased?”

“No. I like knowing that you think about me.”

He laughed. “Most of the time, it seems. And do you think of me?”

“Yes. I shouldn't. I have a husband, a home . . . I shouldn't be . . . I have responsibilities and obligations—”

“But you see I have not asked you about them—nothing about your marriage or your home—nor have I told you about my own involvements. And you have not asked me. None of that has any place here.”

“Why not?”

“Because there is too much we don't know yet.”

“You mean I'm hurrying things along.”

“I mean you are not joining me in holding them back. Come,” he said, seeing the confusion on her face, “we'll have our lunch. And I want to talk to you about memory.”

“What about it?”

He filled their wineglasses, then broke off a piece of bread and spread it with cheese and handed it to her. “Often, when I'm in the middle of a painting, I stand back from the canvas and look at what I've done and see something very good—an arrangement of shapes or colors, an altered landscape, a portrait—and I have no idea where that good thing came from. I didn't think about it before I painted it; I hadn't done it before. It just appeared.”

Stephanie nodded. “From all your experiences for—how many years? How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

“All your experiences for thirty-six years, stored in your memory, waiting for you. Because you remember everything, back to the time you were four years old.”

“I don't remember everything; no one does. You're right that the experiences are waiting for me, but that's what I'm saying: they're waiting for all of us. Yours are waiting for you. And you'll find them. They'll come unbidden, as mine do when I paint, or you'll make connections with things you see and hear and read. In fact, some already have come to you, when you called the little girl Penny and mentioned Mrs. Thirkell. And you said you told Max that you'd moved around a lot, and you told me my painting reminded you of van Gogh. It's all there, Sabrina, everything you've ever done, your thoughts, your loves, your hates and fears and the wonders of your—how many years? How old are you?”

“I don't know.”

“Ah. Of course. Well, we will declare your age. What do you think? I think thirty-one, perhaps thirty-two. Would one of those suit you?”

She was smiling. “And when is my birthday?”

“Oh, today. Why not? What better way to celebrate than this? Today, June thirtieth, you are thirty-one years old and this is a celebration.” He refilled their wineglasses. “So you have thirty-one years of loves and hates and fears and wonders and maybe a few things you'd like to forget permanently, all inside you, waiting for you, like an attic in an old house, dusty and whispering of secrets. Everything from the past is piled up, stacked away, pushed back to make room for more. But a wind comes, a hurricane, an earthquake, and things in the attic shift: some reach the top and come to us with no rhyme or reason, or we reach in and pluck something out—”

“
I can't do that!
Don't you understand? I can't reach in—

“I know that. I'm sorry; I do understand that. But I believe that you will.”

“Why?”

“Because you are young and strong. Because you try very hard and don't accept what has happened with tears or resignation. Because you have already remembered some things.”

“And because you believe in gnomes and elves.”

“And magic.”

They shared a smile. The grove where they sat was hushed and still. The leaves drooped; the birds slept in the afternoon heat. No voice, no sounds from farm or city broke the silence. Stephanie bit into the earthy crust of the bread; the cool, smooth cheese melted on her tongue; the cold Chablis flowed to the back of her throat, and it all had the slow grace of a dream. She watched Léon begin drawing again, his crayon making a faint swish on the heavy paper. She liked the way he looked: his short blond hair almost white against his deep tan; his lean, muscular body a little tensed as he drew, as if every nerve was concentrating, as if all his energy nourished the fingers that moved so swiftly and surely over the paper. His blue shirt was streaked with perspiration, his mouth was faintly smiling, his green eyes were looking down—

He looked up and met her gaze and their eyes held. And that was like a dream, too, Stephanie thought, because it did not need logic to be natural and right that he was all she saw, or wanted to see.

He did not move, but it was as if he reached out to her. “I would like to help you find your past if you will let me.”

“Yes.” She stretched out her hand, and he took it.
This is where I belong; here and nowhere else.

They sat that way for a long time, their hands clasped. Léon's sketchbook lay at his side. The hot, still air held them suspended, the grass and leaves felt moist beneath Stephanie's bare legs, a trickle of perspiration ran down the side of her face. Within her, the turmoil of the past months stilled. Her thoughts drifted, her breathing was light, a small pulse beat in her palm where Léon held it clasped to his.

After a time he stirred. “I was wrong. I do need to know about your marriage.”

Stephanie's heart took a small lurch, as if she had been walking on level ground but had fallen suddenly down a step she had not seen.
My life is full of beginnings, and this is one of them.

But she did not know how to begin, and the silence stretched out.

“You don't remember anything about marrying him,” Léon said finally. “Or talking about a future with him. Or being in a motorboat after the explosion. But you do remember some of the things the doctors told you in the hospital. Did you talk to them about Max? Or your marriage?”

“I don't remember. Max bought all my clothes, I remember that; and they were always perfect, the right colors, the right size. And he stayed with me until he knew I would recover; then he went back to his company, and came and went. Then Robert found the house in Cavaillon and Max furnished it with pieces he'd had in storage somewhere, and his art collection. He'd owned your painting of
the Alpilles for ten years, he said; he'd bought it at Galeries de Rohan in Paris.”

“That was when I painted it. It was in my first show at the gallery. I've shown there ever since.”

“In Paris? But we have your paintings at Jacqueline en Provence.”

“I do that for Jacqueline. A few only. Most go to Rohan. But you are only giving me information that anyone can see. I want to know about what is unseen.”

“I know.” And then it came, more easily than she would have thought. “I don't love him. I've tried, but there is such a gulf between us of
not knowing
 . . . I mean, I think he knows more about my past than he tells me, but I have no way of proving that, or even testing him. It's a feeling, no more, but so strong that I can't trust him. I believe him when he says he loves me and he's very good to me: he's let me do things he'd rather I didn't do, like work in the shop with Jacqueline and cook with Robert—”

“Why should you not do those things?”

“I don't know. He certainly doesn't want a helpless woman who lolls on a chaise all day eating bonbons and humming French love songs—”

Léon was laughing. “A charming picture. Did he tell you that was what he didn't want?”

“No, I asked him one day if that was what he was waiting for. He found it amusing, too, but he didn't tell me what was wrong with working with Jacqueline and cooking with Robert. He does like it, though, that I'm redecorating the house and adding on a studio for myself.”

“Because you are at home when you do it.”

“Yes. And because . . . it fixes me more permanently there.”

“Have you given him reason to doubt your permanence?”

“I haven't given him any reasons to be sure of me.”

Léon's hand tightened on hers, and she shook her head.
“I'm not proud of that. I owe him everything: my life, a home, a chance to make a real person of myself, Robert's friendship . . . I'd have nothing if it weren't for Max.”

“But you think he is lying to you.”

“Oh . . . such a harsh word. I don't know. I just can't be sure of anything with Max. I like him, you know; he's a good companion and he's a bulwark when I'm frightened or feeling lost, but there's something about him that makes me think of danger, or of dangerous people . . . maybe both. I know that sounds foolish; I know he'd be astonished if I told him that, but I feel it and it won't go away, even when I'm relying on him the most.”

She paused. “I can't imagine myself changing the way I feel about him. Ever.”

Léon's breath came out in a long sigh. “And what will you do?”

“I don't know. I've thought of leaving him, but there are so many reasons not to . . . I don't want to hurt him; he's done nothing to deserve that. And I'm afraid. I know so little about anything, I don't know where I'd even begin if I were on my own. Now that I have a job, soon perhaps I can think more seriously about leaving. But not yet. And there is one more thing . . .”

She looked at their clasped hands. Her voice was very low. “I will not move from being dependent on Max to being dependent on someone else. I will not exchange one protector for another.”

“No, that would not be good. And there is no reason for you to do it. But what of us?”

She looked up at him and gave a slow, impish smile. “You're not offering to be my protector?”

“No. Though I would protect you if the need arose.”

Oh, I like that, Stephanie thought. That he knows there is a difference. And then she took a long breath and plunged into the future. “I want to be with you.”

“Then we'll be together. We'll discover all that we do not know and create our own memories.” It was as solemn
as a ceremony, Stephanie thought, with their clasped hands to mark it.

After a moment Léon said, “I've been with someone for a few months. I'll end it as soon as I can.”

“I'm not asking you to do that. And I'm not—”

“You're not leaving Max. But it would not be fair to my friend to continue; we don't love each other, but we're good friends and I've always been honest with her.”

“Jacqueline said the same thing about the man she sees. It sounds so simple.”

He looked at her curiously. “Did she tell you the name of the man?”

“No, just that they have a good—” Stephanie stared at him and caught her breath. “No. It can't be. Léon, it can't be!”

“Why not?” His voice was gentle. “I told you my paintings were at her shop because of her; we've helped each other for a long time. And about a year ago we were both at a place in our lives when we needed companionship. We didn't want love; we wanted warmth and solace, and that was what we gave each other. She's a remarkable woman, you know; a very dear friend.”

“She's been a friend to
me.
She gave me a job, she teaches me every day, we talk . . . about everything. I can't hurt her; I can't do anything that might hurt her.”

“Sabrina, this is not between you and Jacqueline; it is between Jacqueline and me.”

“No, no, don't you understand? I talk to her about Max and she told me about you; we were two women, talking, trusting each other. She's the only woman friend I have—well, there's Madame Besset, but that isn't at all the same—and I won't take and take from her and then steal someone away, someone she cares about . . .”

“You cannot steal me; what are you thinking? That I am like one of those silver spoons in your shop that you can tuck inside your coat and carry away on tiptoe?”

A small laugh broke from Stephanie. “I'm sorry; that wasn't a good word, but—”

“And as for Jacqueline caring about me, she does so as a friend, not as a serious lover. I told you that. Evidently, so did she.”

“She told me you need each other.”

His eyebrows rose. “She said that?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“She said that you have a good time and need each other and if you parted tomorrow she would miss you very much.”

Léon contemplated her. “Sabrina, I know Jacqueline well. I do not believe that was all she said.”

Stephanie looked away from him. What did she owe Jacqueline? Loyalty, gratitude, love . . . but not a lie. “She said she would miss you very much for a while, but she would wish you well for the pleasure you had together. And you would do the same for her.”

“She was right. Now please listen to me. Jacqueline and I have not looked for love from each other, and so we have not expected permanence. Each of us knew that what we had could change at any time, and then we would be friends of a different kind. That's what she told you: we would wish each other well. How many people are lucky enough to find that when they need it? A loving friend who brightens a dark corner of our life, who chases shadows away, who strives to make us feel better about who we are and what we are doing. Jacqueline and I did that for each other. But we never touched the mystery in each other, or even tried—” He saw Stephanie's eyes widen. “So she told you that, too. It seems she told you everything that was important about us. Now I will tell you what is important about you and me.”