Capturing Paris (27 page)

“You found the coffee, I see.” Daphne spoke quietly.

Annie hadn't heard her come out from the kitchen. She kept her eyes fixed on the river.

“I gather you didn't sleep very well,” Daphne said.

“No. I did not.”

“We need to talk.” Daphne carried a mug of coffee and sat in one of the wicker chairs at the table. Annie remained at the window.

“Come on,” she coaxed. “Everything looks better in the morning.”

“My aunt Kate used to say that,” Annie said coldly. “Some mornings, things actually look worse.”

“Look, Annie dear, your husband came out here seeking my help.”

“I don't want to hear this again.”

“Okay.” She laughed lightly. “We had way too much to drink. Things got a little out of control.”

“Indeed. I'd say seducing your friend's husband is a bit out of control.”

“I didn't seduce him.”

“What would you call it? You had sex with him. I think that's the bottom line.” Annie didn't want to start crying again. Her anger was clear, understandable, whereas the loss of her marriage was more than she could bear. She hated being exposed, vulnerable like this, in front of Daphne.

“He was miserable. We were drunk.” Daphne threw Annie a petulant look, as if she were a fool to take the matter so seriously.

“Well, perhaps you might explain a few things.” Annie took a seat opposite Daphne and folded her hands across her chest. “I thought you were interested in me. I thought that was pretty clear the last time I was here. When did you decide to go after my husband? Or was that part of the plan all along?”

“I didn't plan anything.” Daphne laughed softly. “Wesley—well, he sort of fell in my lap—so to speak.”

“God. How can you be so cruel?” Annie thought she had cried every tear, but now her face was wet again. Laying her arms on the table, she lowered her head, no longer able to prevent herself from weeping. “You betrayed me.”

“Annie, Annie. It didn't matter. It had nothing to do with you.” Daphne spoke softly. “Look, you knew your marriage was finished. Wesley's more interested in his bloody job than anything else, and you—well, you've moved on too. I can see that in your poems.” Daphne stood and moved behind Annie's chair. She placed her hands on the back of her neck and massaged gently. She rubbed her shoulders and slowly drew one hand down her back. “Come on, love.” She whispered into Annie's ear, “You don't need him anymore. It's over.”

Annie felt the kiss on the back of her head. “Stop it.” She pulled away. “Stop it.” She stood and walked back to the windows. “Don't ever touch me again.” She couldn't believe what a fool she'd been. “You're right. It is probably over. But you're not the answer. Someone who would betray a friend like that is not worth anything.”

“I think you're making far too much of this,” Daphne said. “You led me to believe that you and Wesley were finished.” Her voice grew
gentler, more coddling. “It's you I care about. You know I'm not a big fan of marriage. Too much sacrifice. Anyway, I can't see how it's made you very happy.”

“No, not now. But there was a time when being with Wesley made me very happy, happier than I ever thought I could be.” She paused and rested her forehead against the cool pane of the window. “I wanted it to be that way again. I wanted to recapture what we had.” She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “Now it's too late.”

“Oh, come on—not all is lost.”

Annie looked directly at Daphne for the first time that morning. Her hair was pulled back smoothly in a clip; her face was freshly washed and free of makeup. She looked younger again, almost sweet. It was difficult to believe what had happened. Annie realized with sudden clarity that they were worlds apart. “You're right, all is not lost. I'm going back to Paris.” She would go see Sophie as soon as she could. In the meantime, there were the poems and her job.

“Oh, please stay at least another night.” There was pleading woven into Daphne's words. “Last night shouldn't have happened. I want to make it up to you.”

“No. That's impossible.”

“Please, Annie.” Now Daphne looked about to cry.

“I'm going home,” Annie said. She left Daphne alone in the glass room at God House. She couldn't get to Paris soon enough.

“Mom, we haven't heard from you in so long. Is everything all right?” Sophie's clear, youthful voice sounded distressed. It was almost the end of February, and in truth Annie couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken to her daughter. They'd left messages on each other's answering machines but hadn't managed to connect. Annie had been busy at the office and consumed with writing until late in the evening. The poems were going well, and she had just sent another envelope to Paul Valmont.

She'd returned from God House determined to forget that dreadful night. Some days a gnawing anger burned just below the surface, and on other days she managed to forget completely as she rushed from
home to work and then back again to write. It was ironic, really, how well the poems were going. Paul's comments were favorable and often enthusiastic. Wesley used to tease her, saying that the best poets were the most miserable poets and that only by truly suffering were they able to do their greatest work. He may have been right.

“Mom, are you there?”

“Sorry, sweetie.” Annie was chagrined. She held the receiver tightly. “We've just had a busy stretch at the office. I'm sorry I haven't called much lately. I was just heading out to meet Mary for a drink.”

“I didn't think you and Mary were such buddies.”

“I've seen more of her lately,” Annie said. “Tom's left her and she's lonely. It helps her to talk.”

“Well, speaking of lonely, you should at least call Dad more often. He sounds unhappy. We both wish you'd finish your work and come over here. Can't Mary find anyone to replace you?”

Annie wondered what Wesley had told her. “I've been distracted lately, and you know what a nuisance the time difference can be.”

“I think he's upset because you haven't decided when you're coming.”

“I'll talk to him, sweetie. I haven't had time to make any plans yet.”

“Look, Mother, Dad needs you.” Sophie's voice was accusing. “This is a big change for him.”

And what about me? Annie thought. There was so much to explain to Sophie, and she didn't want to do it over the phone. She looked at her watch. She was late to meet Mary. “How are you doing, Soph? Are you still seeing Daniel?”

“He's been busy. So have I. We haven't had much time together lately.”

Annie knew these were the kinds of things that would be so much easier to talk about in person. It was hard having her daughter so far away. “I see. Well, what's going on at work?”

“I've got a good client, right in New York. Not as complicated as our last one. It's funny, I'm not working as hard now, but I'm really tired.”

“You mustn't let yourself get run-down.”

“There you go. Nagging again.”

“Come on, sweetie. I just care about you. Your health is my concern.” Annie carried the phone to the kitchen table and sat down. She felt suddenly weary herself.

“All you care about is your stupid book,” she said, annoyed. “It's like you've forgotten us.”

“Sophie, that's not true.”

“And I'm supposed to believe that? Look, Mom. I've got to go.”

“Sophie, please.” Annie was shaken.

“Just promise me you'll call Dad. That's all I'm asking.” Sophie's voice became cold and aloof.

Annie sensed that Sophie knew that there was something wrong. She wasn't a fool. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. I'll call.”

“Promise?”

Annie nodded, unable to reply.

Later that night she thought of her promise to call Wesley. He'd called her repeatedly after leaving God House, and each time she'd dissolved into tears, unable to speak. He'd written several letters begging her forgiveness. Eventually she'd answered, telling him that she needed to be in Paris and that she assumed their marriage was over; she didn't see how it could change. After that they exchanged short e-mails, having to do with the apartment, bills, taxes, and the like. There was no point in calling him now. There was nothing more to say. Annie accepted her solitude, inevitable like winter—a price she had to pay.

Annie had become accustomed once again to the empty apartment. Her routine shifted. She read late into the night, skipping meals altogether or eating small take-out dinners from the local shops. She left manuscript pages spread out across the big table in the living room, took over Wesley's shelf in the medicine cabinet, and slept with the window opened wide when she finally went to bed. She shifted her work hours at Liberal Arts Abroad to afternoons. Mary didn't mind; it was the advantage of having a part-time position. Mornings were for her poems. Some days she set the alarm early, her notebooks and pens at the ready, next to her on the bed. After particularly late nights,
she'd sleep late and lie in bed thinking of the photograph she planned to work on next.

There were days when she was almost happy, when her independent life felt good, when she was productive and consumed with her writing. Then she'd see some reminder, like the biography of Benjamin Franklin on Wesley's bedside table, the bookmark at the place where he'd been reading the story of that other American in Paris from a much earlier time.

Once, while dusting, she discovered an old scratched pair of glasses he'd left near the computer. It was as if he'd come back to haunt her, except the memories were often sweet. One day she found a pale blue oxford shirt pushed back into the far reaches of the closet. She brought it to her face and breathed in the faint scent of him. Seeing these poignant reminders of Wesley made her feel a pinch in her heart, and she found it hard to swallow. On days like that, she couldn't bear to look at his side of the bed or at his favorite chair in the living room. Everything in the apartment would remind her of him, of their shared life, of what they once had.

Paris came to her rescue when sadness threatened to overcome her. She would wander the streets, letting the beguiling beauty of the city ease her pain. It was impossible to be lonely when engulfed in the powerful elixir of Paris. If the weather was bad, as it often was that winter, she'd make a table in a café her living room. There she'd read, write, and sit for hours watching the people until the bad patch eased and she felt brave enough to go home.

Before she knew it, February became March. The bitter weather that had gripped Paris since early December began to loosen its hold. On the milder days the Parisians piled into the sidewalk cafés to sit outside, sip drinks, and enjoy the passing crowds. They loosened their scarves and tilted their heads into the sun, like early spring bulbs coveting the fragile warmth. Everyone was out, it seemed. Everyone was hungry for this change in the weather. The city hummed with a new rhythm. Today on her way to the office, Annie had seen large flats of primroses being unloaded at the Luxembourg Gardens—pink, purple, and yellow blossoms ready to douse the winter parks with color.

Paris grew lighter with each successive day. At five in the evening the city was enveloped in a softer light, reflecting the shimmering pastel shades of sunsets on the elegant buildings, the wide avenues and squares. The evenings rolled in more slowly, gently, with no imminent weight of darkness. Dusk blurred quietly to night.

Now and then she'd remember her promise to Sophie and feel guilty. There was so much to explain, but she knew it had to be in person. She planned to visit her daughter during her spring vacation. Perhaps they could take a short trip together. By then, she hoped, the poems would be finished.

Daphne, after an initial flurry of phone calls, was silent. Looking back, Annie could hardly believe they'd ever been friends. In some ways, it was like having been caught in a spell, pulled into another life temporarily, like being a ship sailing off course. Maybe one day, after the pain had lessened, she'd think of it as her bohemian phase, the winter of God House, the winter when Wesley went away. However, now it was a mixture of anger and shame that overwhelmed her when she allowed Daphne back into her thoughts. Still, she couldn't forget that Daphne had taken her work seriously, seriously enough to introduce her to Paul.

Annie began to look forward to her weekly appointments with Paul Valmont. At first they had sent work back and forth. She enjoyed receiving his flat gray envelopes in the afternoon post. He made comments and queries in the margins. His handwriting was bold but legible. Eventually his schedule cleared and he suggested they discuss the poems at his office and choose the next photographs from which she would work. Each meeting, he seemed a little less sad, almost as if his grief was fading away like the winter weather.

Today Annie left her office early and decided to stop in Le Bon Marché department store to buy a lipstick. The store was close to his office, and she had plenty of time before her appointment. She hadn't been shopping since before Christmas, and she thought a brighter color for her lips would be a nice change for spring.

The
vendeuses
bustled behind the glimmering cosmetic counters, each representing a different brand. A young mother with two small girls trailing behind her stopped in front of the Chanel counter and pointed to a display of moisturizing creams. Attired in black, like all sales personnel in the store, she explained in detail the attributes of each product. The mother listened attentively, and the two daughters followed every word, their eyes riveted on this exchange. Frenchwomen took their grooming seriously, and the two little girls looked like young beauties in training, studying to take their turn when they reached the appropriate age.

“Et madame, vous désirez?”
the young woman in black asked. Her skin was as smooth and even as a porcelain doll's.