B0092XNA2Q EBOK (20 page)

We wound through the trees and up the drive. When we reached the top, she waved her hand across the spiraled, four-story structure in front of me, the pool to our left, the gardens on the hill behind, and the four other buildings scattered throughout the property, each lit both from the ground up and from the trees down. Set on a hill, it was an enormous estate. I’d never seen anything like it. “Welcome to Châteaufort.” She turned around. Several acres of tightly manicured lawn rolled out before us. It looked like the Masters in April. Beyond that, Langeais spread in the valley below.

“This is yours?”

She eyed the expanse of the building, the acreage beyond. A nod. An honest admission. “It’s my home.”

Both eyebrows raised. “Your family owned this?”

A chuckle. “I didn’t say that. I said, ‘It’s my home.’ ” She pointed at the intersection of the driveway and the sidewalk. The remains of a tree trunk rose up through the mulch alongside the sidewalk. She pushed her sleeve above the elbow, exposing a small scar. “Fell out of that tree. I held it together until I saw the bone sticking through.”

“What were you doing?”

She glanced at the second-story window above us. “Climbing out of my bedroom window about this time of night.” She tugged on my arm. “Come on.”

She unlocked a side door and let me into a wood-paneled and carved foyer. A large fireplace to one side. Grand stairwell in the background. Painting of an older woman above the mantel. Green velvet dress. Diamond necklace. Probably in her late seventies when she sat for the portrait. She pointed at the mantel. “The countess. She owned Châteaufort when the Gestapo knocked down the front door, demanding that she leave. At the time, her husband’s portrait sat above the mantel. A German duke with a chest full of medals. She stood on the stairwell in her best dress and pointed at his portrait.
The German officer saluted the portrait, turned around, and Châteaufort was spared the ravages of World War II.”

“How do you know this?”

A longing look. Her tone of voice shifted. Gentler. “She told me.”

She grabbed two flashlights out of a drawer and glanced at her watch. “We have a few hours until the staff discovers I’m here. How about a tour?”

“Staff?”

More laughter. “Come on.”

T
he oldest portion of the château was over five hundred years old. Twelve-foot ceilings. Dark wooden floors, each plank a foot wide. Walls of stone upon ancient stone. Covered in wood panel or paper or velvet or some type of silk. A fireplace in every room. The music room had ebony walls with acoustic tiles centered around a Steinway. The circular staircase that wound up four floors had settled and leaned in toward the middle. She ran her hand along the railing and stared up. “I used to get dizzy riding this thing.” The dining room table would seat a dozen—on either side. The room sparkled with crystal and china. She pointed. “Those are faiences—china made here from the 1880s on into this century. The brown and red are the most desirable. The color comes from the soil.” She shook her head. “Nowhere else in the world.” We climbed to the second floor. “At its peak, it had sixty-four rooms.” She began opening doors. “I thought they were small, so I converted them into thirteen suites.”

“Why thirteen?”

“It’s just the way the layout and architecture worked.”

“You ever entertained? Had guests?”

She shook her head. “No. Just me, and the memories I keep.”

Each room had a different theme. One was blue, another red, another stripes with airplanes. She led me to the third floor and down to the corner room at the far end of the hall. She pushed open the door. “You may sleep in any of them, but I thought you might like this one.”

The room was enormous. A king-size bed. Two different sitting areas. The bathroom was connected via a hallway and larger than some bedrooms I’ve slept in. I walked to the windows. The view spanned from the garden on the hill behind to Château de Langeais and all of the town. She opened two opposing windows, allowing the air to circulate. “I thought the breeze might remind you of your boat.”

My boat seemed a world away. I tried to make light of it. “I own a boat?” She smiled. I said, “Thank you. This will do just fine.”

She walked to a painting on the wall, gently running her finger along the gold frame. “Sometimes I come up here, sit, and just stare.”

I looked closer at the painting. An older woman, no teeth, wrinkles, gnarled hands, a dirty apron, laughter in her eyes. She stood back, taking in the painting. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Is that really a Rembrandt?”

She waved her hand across the room. Eight paintings hung on the walls, subtly lit by overhead lights. “Several are.”

“You own a Rembrandt?”

A shrug. “And Gauguin.”

“Sorry. Don’t know him.”

“He’s the guy that Van Gogh was arguing with just before he cut off his own ear.”

“Sounds like a great friend.”

“Other than deep bouts of depression and the occasional tendency toward suicide, he was probably a great friend.”

“Why these?”

She walked by each. Hands behind her back. “Two reasons: In an era when artists edited reality, painting people as they wished they were, they painted them as they were. Warts and all. What the French call ‘
d’un beau affreux.
’ ”

“What’s it mean?”

“ ‘The beautiful-ugly.’ ” She returned to the toothless woman. “Somehow they found the beauty they were born with and made it rise off the canvas.” She traced the frame with her fingers. “They are my reminder.”

The two styles were different. One more detailed—it made more sense up close. The other more loose. It made more sense the farther away you stood. “Of?”

“Gauguin called it ‘
le laid peut être beau
.’ Or, ‘the ugly can be beautiful.’ It’s the idea that what we are is worth painting.” She nodded. “That we’re good enough before we try to be. Before we open our eyes.” A longing look. “I’ve never done a portrait. Been asked a lot. Been offered a lot of money, but never did it.” An assertive nod. “But I’d sit for either of those guys.”

“What’s the second reason?”

She paused. Glanced up. “Because no matter how screwed up the artist might be, there’s still the chance that they can produce art that people like us hang on our wall and talk about long after their death. That the sum is greater than one part. That maybe one incident does not a life make.” She rubbed her face with both hands. Tried to hide a yawn. “I’ve hit the wall. I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”

I glanced at the gardens. The other buildings. I was having fun. “What about the rest?”

“Some other time. See you at breakfast?”

“Sure.”

She walked to the landing at the top of the stairs, turned a knob that looked like it was part of the curtain, and a door I had not seen opened behind her. A door hidden behind a large painting of the
château, completely concealed. The door swung open and revealed a small, wooden spiral staircase to what would be the fourth floor. She put her foot on the stair, and spoke down behind her. “
Mi casa es su casa
.”

“Seems like I’ve heard that before.”

She waved her hand across the house. “Make yourself at home.” She smiled. “Good night.” And pulled the door closed behind her. The door completely disappeared.

I sat in my room, on the end of my bed, staring at all the eyes staring back at me. I thought about the château. Hard to imagine that something so beautiful was not lived in. Thirteen empty suites? Not shared, known, or enjoyed. The enormity of that struck me.

I got in bed, opened my journal, and followed her movements via the sound of creaking floorboards above me. An hour later, somewhere close to four a.m., I heard a door shut and she slowly descended the stairs. Below, a few doors opened, closed, and then rising out of the far end of the house, I heard the piano. Quiet. Soothing. Gentle. Longing. I sat at the top of the stairs, listening. A pencil in my hand. She played one song, then another, then climbed the stairs.

Unable to hold my eyes open any longer, I climbed back into bed, my journal spread across my chest, and slept.

A
n hour and a half later, she shook my shoulder. “I think I have something you’re going to want to do.” She wore no disguise. Just the framing.

I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

An empty mug was wrapped in her hands. “Not much. Come on.”

She led me to a room in the back of the house that I’d not yet seen. Four fly rods hung on the wall. I pulled one down. “I’m impressed. Thought you didn’t know how to fish.”

She shook her head. “I don’t, but I paid a consultant who told me that if I took up fishing, and if I got real good, that I’d appreciate these and the day I bought them. I keep promising myself I’ll learn—”

“Loomis.” I surveyed the rod. “You have good taste.” She grabbed a scarf and her bug-eyed glasses, and we walked out the back of the house and down a scarcely worn trail through the trees that led away from the house. Her flashlight showered the ground below her. She waved her hand across the hillside opposite the château. “I own a couple hundred acres that way. And that way.”
Another wave. “And I own the stream down there. If we bump into anybody, they’re trespassing and you get to handle it.”

We walked a half mile to a stream about the width of a road. We approached slowly. She whispered, “I have it stocked every spring.”

“But you don’t fish it?”

“Nope.”

I began stripping line.

I walked her to the stream’s edge, stood behind her, and placed the rod in her hands. The grass bank was open, and looked like it flooded occasionally, which explained why the trees were pushed back off the bank. Made for easy fly casting. Working together—her back pressed to my chest—I showed her how to begin throwing the line, making smaller loops, then larger. Finally, large figure eights.

She stood next to me. Bumping my shoulder. She had gotten playful with me. At ease. Comfortable. Which I didn’t mind.

The pretense, the walls, the measured self—all were coming down. Peeling away. Shedding. The best word I could think of was “sobering.” She had been sobered. Or, stripped. Unloaded. Absent baggage. Traveling lightly. The woman I’d first met in the fifteen-million-dollar penthouse condo had given way to someone I’d not anticipated. A person I found myself not disliking.

The fish were hungry, had never been “fished,” had never seen a fly, and jumped at anything she threw at them.

In less than twenty minutes, she’d caught nine fish. She’d catch, reel it in, I’d unhook it, release it, and she’d start fishing again. A half hour later, she was giddy. Over the next two hours, we walked the length of her stream, nearly a mile, and caught over eighty fish. Most were less than twelve inches but eighty fish is eighty fish. Toward nine a.m., she lay down on the bank, a snow angel in the grass. She was laughing. Smiling. Rubbing her sore arm. “That was the best day of fishing I’ve ever had.”

I studied the stream and the twelve fish on a stringer in my hand. “Yeah, it might be tough to beat that one.”

She picked a flower. Turning it. A berry encased in a cup or an orange-red lantern. An incredible creation of nature. It reminded me of a dogwood bloom. She said, “It’s called ‘
l’amour en cage.
’ ”

“What’s it mean?”

“ ‘Love in prison.’ ”

“Strange name for a flower.”

“Not when it’s the only name you’ve ever known.”

I didn’t answer. She didn’t hesitate. She caught me off guard, which was how she planned most of our interactions. “What do you miss?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there something in your life that you used to do that you don’t do anymore that you miss?”

That was easy and the answer didn’t reveal too much. “I miss making people smile and being the reason.”

She turned and started walking uphill toward the house.

“Bring the fish. You’re cooking breakfast.”

We returned to find the staff had stocked the kitchen with fresh produce in our absence. Katie slipped upstairs to change into Isabella, then cooked breakfast, which was an odd combination of the sautéed fish, and crêpes soaked in butter and Grand Marnier. I offered to help but was met by a stop-sign hand. “Out.” Evidently, the French are sensitive about their kitchens. Or, at the least, protective. When I noted to Katie that we were drinking at ten a.m., she shrugged. “Let your hair down a little. This is France.”

Which seemed to be her response to most everything since we’d arrived.

After breakfast, I sat down in a lounge chair next to the kitchen and the combination of no sleep mixed with pancake carbs mixed with butter mixed with Grand Marnier made for a deep and fantastic nap. Next thing I knew a noise woke me. I could hear the hum of
a vacuum cleaner somewhere down the hall, and a woman outside talking with a man. I checked my watch. 11:45. I rubbed my eyes. It still said 11:45. I walked to the window. The woman was older. Maybe fifties. Silver hair in a clip. A crumpled straw hat. Overalls. Dirty hands. Slight curve to her back. A limp. Fresh flowers in pots next to her. Several had already been planted. The woman was kneeling, digging in the dirt, not afraid to get her hands dirty.