Honor Thyself (30 page)

“Thanks,” Carole said calmly, finishing her breakfast, as Stevie helped herself to a croissant.

“Are you worried about the press figuring it out?” Stevie asked with a look of concern.

“There's nothing to figure out. We really are just friends. We kiss once in a while, but that's about it.” She wouldn't have said that to anyone but Stevie, especially her kids.

“What happens next?” Stevie asked with a look of concern.

“Nothing. We go home,” Carole said, meeting her assistant's eyes. Stevie could see that Carole believed that, but she herself wasn't as convinced. She could see the love in Carole's eyes. Matthieu had brought something magical in her back to life.

“And then what?”

“The book is closed. It's just a gentler epilogue to a story that ended badly a long time ago.” She sounded firm, and as though she were trying to convince herself.

“No sequel to the book?” Stevie asked, and Carole shook her head.

“Okay, if you say so. It doesn't look like that to me though, for what it's worth. He still looks madly in love with you.” And Carole didn't seem indifferent to him by any means, despite what she said to Stevie, and herself.

“Maybe so,” Carole said with a sigh, “but
madly
is the operative word. We were both crazy then. I think we've grown up and gotten sane. We never had a chance.”

“It's different now,” Stevie pointed out. She had slowly changed her opinion of Matthieu and she saw how much Carole cared for him. He obviously felt just as strongly about her. Stevie liked the way he protected Carole. “Maybe it wasn't the right time.”

“That's for sure. I don't live here anymore. I have a life in L.A. It's too late,” Carole said, looking determined. She knew she loved him but didn't want to step backward in time.

“Maybe he'd be willing to move,” Stevie said hopefully, and Carole laughed.

“Stop it. I'm not going there again. He was the love of my life. That was then. This is now. You can't carry that forward fifteen years.”

“Maybe you can. I don't know. I just hate to see you alone. You deserve to be happy again.” Stevie had felt sorry for her since Sean had died. She had practically been a recluse. And whatever had happened between them before, the time she spent with Matthieu was bringing her back to life.

“I am happy. I'm alive. That's enough. I have my kids and my work. That's all I want.”

“You need more than that,” Stevie said wistfully.

“No, I don't,” Carole said firmly.

“You're too young to fold up the show.”

Carole looked her squarely in the eye. “I've had two husbands and a great love. What more do you want?”

“I want you to have a happy life. You know, ‘Happily ever after’ and all that shit. Maybe the happily ever after took a long time to come in this case.”

“You can say that again. Fifteen years. A
very
long time. Believe me, it would make a mess. I loved it here then. I don't now. I live in L.A. We have totally different lives.”

“Really? You two never stop talking when you're together. You look more alive than you've been in years. I haven't seen you like this since Sean.” She didn't want to convince her, but she had to admit she liked the guy, even if he was a little austere, and very French. It was obvious that he still loved her. And his wife was gone now. At least he was eligible this time, and single. So was Carole.

“He's an intelligent, interesting man. Brilliant even. But he's French,” Carole insisted. “He'd be miserable anywhere else, and I don't want to live here anymore. I'm happy in L.A. What about Alan, by the way? What's new with him?” It was obvious that she wanted to change the subject, and as soon as she asked, Stevie looked like she had swallowed the proverbial canary along with the croissant.

“Alan? Why?” She looked guilty and vague.

“What do you mean ‘why’? I just was asking how he was.” And then she smiled at Stevie. “Okay. Cough it up. What's going on?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She was blushing. “He's fine. Great actually. He said to say hi.”

“You are so full of shit you're turning brown,” Carole said, laughing at her. “Something is going on.” There was a pregnant silence in the room. Stevie could never keep a secret of her own. Only Carole's.

“Okay, okay. I didn't want to tell you till I got home. And I haven't made up my mind. I have to talk to him, and see what the conditions are.”

“What conditions?” Carole looked mystified, as Stevie collapsed into a chair like a deflated balloon, with a sigh.

“He asked me to marry him last night,” Stevie confessed with an embarrassed smile.

“On the phone?”

“He couldn't wait. He even bought a ring. But I haven't said yes.”

“Take a look at the ring first,” Carole teased, and Stevie groaned. “Make sure you like the ring.”

“I don't know if I want to get married. He swears he won't screw up my job. He said it will be just like it is now, only better, with papers and a ring. If I do it, would you be my best man, or whatever you call it?”

“I think it's called a matron of honor, if I remember correctly. I'd be honored. I think you should say yes,” Carole volunteered.

“Why?”

“I think you love him,” Carole said simply.

“So? Why do we have to get married?”

“You don't. But it's a nice commitment to make. I felt the same way you do when I married Sean. Jason had dumped me for a younger woman. Matthieu lied to me and himself, and wouldn't leave his wife or his job, and broke my heart. The last thing I wanted was to get married again, or even fall in love. Sean talked me into it, and I never regretted it for a minute. It was the best thing I ever did. Just make sure Alan is the right guy.”

“I think he is,” Stevie sounded glum as she said it.

“Then see how you feel when you go back. You can have a long engagement.”

“He wants to get married on New Year's Eve in Vegas. How tacky is that?”

“Very. But it might be fun. The kids will be in St. Bart's with Jason. I could fly up,” Carole volunteered, and Stevie came over to hug her.

“Thank you. I'll let you know. I'm scared I'm going to say yes.”

“Maybe you're ready,” Carole said, looking at her with affection, trying to reassure her. “I think you are. You've been talking about it a lot lately.”

“That's because he has. He's obsessed with it.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Carole said warmly.

“You'd better be there to hold my hand if I do it,” Stevie said ominously, but she was smiling and looked happy.

“You bet,” Carole promised. “I wouldn't miss it.”

* * *

Carole had dinner with Matthieu again that night. For the first time, they went out. They went to L'Orangerie on the Ile Saint Louis, in the Seine, and she wore the only skirt she'd brought. Matthieu wore a dark suit and had had a haircut. He looked very proper, and extremely handsome, although he was still furious about the comments in the
Herald Tribune.
He was righteous indignation itself.

“For heaven's sake,” Carole said, laughing at him. “They're right. It's true. How can you be so outraged?” He was like a whore pretending to be a virgin, although she didn't say that to him.

“But no one knew!” He had been so proud of that, and it always irked her. She had hated being hidden and not sharing his life.

“We were lucky.”

“And careful.” He was right, they had been. They both knew they could have turned into a full-blown scandal at any moment. It was a miracle that they hadn't.

They talked about other things over dinner, and the food was delicious. He waited until dessert to open a delicate subject with her. Their future. He had been awake the night before, thinking about it. And the insinuation in the paper did it for him. It was time. They had been clandestine for too long in the past, and deserved respectability at least now, at their age. He said as much to her as they shared a
tarte tatin
with caramel ice cream that melted in her mouth.

“We are respectable,” Carole pointed out. “Extremely respectable. At least I am. I don't know what you've been up to lately. But I am a very proper widow.”

“So am I,” he said primly. “I haven't been involved with anyone since you left,” he added, and looking at him, she believed him. He had always claimed that she was the only woman he'd been involved with, other than his wife. “The piece in the
Tribune
makes us look dishonest and sly,” he complained.

“No, it doesn't. You are one of the most respected men in France, and I'm a movie star. What do you expect them to say? Has-been actress and washed-up politician seen going for a walk like two old farts? That's what we are.”

“Carole!” He laughed at what she said, looking shocked.

“They have to sell newspapers, so they tried to make us look more interesting than we are. And they made a lucky guess, or raised a lucky question. Unless you or I tell them, they'll never know for sure.”

“We know. That's enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to build the life we should have had years ago, and didn't, because I couldn't get out of my own way, and do what I promised.” He admitted it readily now, but hadn't then.

“What are you saying?” She looked worried.

He went right to the point. “Will you marry me, Carole?” He took her hand as he asked the question and looked deep into her eyes. She sat in silence for a long moment, and then shook her head. It took a superhuman effort to do it.

“No, Matthieu, I won't.” She sounded certain, and his face fell. He had been afraid that she would say that, and that it was too late.

“Why not?” He looked sad, but hoped he could change her mind.

“Because I don't want to be married,” she said, sounding tired. “I like my life the way it is. I was married twice. That's enough. I loved my late husband. He was a wonderful man. And I had ten good years with Jason. Maybe that's all you get. And I loved you with all my heart, and lost you.” It had nearly killed her, but she didn't say it. He knew it anyway, and had regretted it for fifteen years. She had gotten over it eventually. He never had.

“You didn't lose me. You left,” he reminded her, and she nodded.

“I never had you,” she corrected. “Your wife did. France did.”

“Now I'm widowed, and retired,” he pointed out.

“Yes, you are. I'm not. Widowed. But not retired. I want to make some more movies, if I get decent parts.” She was excited about that again. “I could be traveling all over the place, just like I did when I was married to Jason, and even when I was with you. I don't want someone at home complaining about it, or maybe even following me around. I want my own life. And even if I don't go back to making movies, I want to be free to do what I want. For me, the UN, the causes I believe in. I want to spend time with my children, and write this book, if I can ever get my computer turned on again. I wouldn't be a good wife.”

“I love you just the way you are.”

“And so do I, love you, I mean. But I don't want to be tied down, or make that kind of commitment. And more than anything, I don't want my heart broken again.” That was the essence of it for her, more than her career and her causes. She was too afraid. She already knew she was in love with him again. It was dangerous for her. She didn't want to abandon herself to him now. It had been too painful last time, although he was no longer married.

“I wouldn't break your heart this time,” he said, looking guilty.

“You might. People do that to each other. That's what love is all about. Being willing to risk a broken heart. I'm not. I've had one. I didn't like it. I don't want another one, particularly delivered by the same man who gave me the first one. I don't want to hurt that much again, or love that much again. I'm fifty years old, I'm too old to start that.” She didn't look it, but she felt it, particularly since the bombing.

“That's ridiculous. You're a young woman. People older than we are get married all the time.” He was desperate to convince her, but he could see he wasn't succeeding.

“They're braver than I am. I lived through you, Sean, and Jason. That's enough. I don't want to do it again.” She was adamant about what she was saying, and he knew she meant it. And he was equally determined to change her mind. They were still arguing about it when they left the restaurant, and he had gotten nowhere with her. This wasn't the way he wanted it to turn out. “And I like my life in L.A. I don't want to live in France again.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not French. You are. I'm American. I don't want to live in someone else's country.”

“You did before. You loved it here,” he insisted, trying to remind her, but she remembered it only too well. That's why he scared her. She was more afraid of herself than him this time. She didn't want to make a bad decision.

“Yes, I did. But I was happy when I got home. I realized then that I didn't belong here. That was part of the trouble with us. Cultural differences, you used to call them. That made it okay for you to live with me and be married to her, and even have our baby out of wedlock. I don't want to live somewhere where they think that differently than I do. In the end, you get hurt trying to be something you're not in a place you don't belong.” He could see now that the pain he had caused her had wounded her so deeply that even fifteen years later, the scars were still raw, even more so than the one on her cheek. The ones he had inflicted had gone too deep. It had even affected how she felt about France and the French. All she wanted was to go home, and live out the rest of her years alone in peace. He wondered how Sean had convinced her to marry him. And then she was abandoned again when he died. Now she had closed the doors to her heart.

They talked about it all the way back to the hotel, and said goodnight in his car. She didn't want him to come upstairs this time. She kissed him lightly on the lips, thanked him for dinner, and slipped out of the car quickly.

“Will you think about it?” he begged her.

“No, I won't. I thought about it fifteen years ago. You didn't. You lied to me, Matthieu, and to yourself. You stalled for almost three years. What do you want from me now?” Her eyes were wide and sad, and he could see that it was hopeless, but didn't want to believe it.