Possessions (45 page)

When Ross first saw it, a few
hôtels
had been bought and were beginning to be restored. When he returned fifteen years later as Jacques Duvain's consultant in restoring one of the
hôtels,
the Place had become a lively blend of new and old. Some of the buildings were still in disrepair, but many had been renovated, hiding, behind identical exteriors, private homes, apartments, schools, restaurants, a synagogue, and a number of fine, small shops.

The second floor of Number 9 Place des Vosges was owned by the Architecture Society, and through Jacques, who was a
member, Ross had been given his own quiet corner with a desk, drawing table, and two armchairs for as long as he was in Paris. On the day after his dinner with Victoria and Katherine, he sat at the desk, trying to work.
In my day,
he had heard Victoria scoff as he left them,
a gentleman would have invited us to breakfast.
He had considered it, then decided against it, but still, throughout the day, he thought about Katherine, heard Victoria casually say she had broken with Derek, pictured her as she had looked at the Tour d'Argent—poised, yet eager and curious, making no attempt to seem worldly. She was without pretense, willing to admit there was much she did not know, yet firmly determined to be independent. And in that contradiction, she was both strong and vulnerable. In the past year, Ross thought, she had been different each time he saw her, changing from Craig's protected wife to the elusive woman he had dined with last night. And he realized he knew nothing about her.

But competing with those thoughts was a busy day. He and Jacques worked on various plans for putting an elevator in the four-story
hôtel;
they spent an hour with specialists in matching segments of broken moldings on the fifteen-foot-high ceilings and restoring the parquet floors to their original luster; they met for another hour with the contractor, discussing ways to install modern plumbing and wiring in plaster walls that had withstood wars and revolutions but often crumbled at the bite of an electric drill. Since he had arrived, Ross had studied, read, learned, from early morning until late each night; he had inspected other buildings marked for restoration; he had given advice. He was having a wonderful time. And even when distracted by Katherine's sudden appearance, he was absorbed by the special fascination of bringing into the twentieth century a building constructed in 1605.

“Yes, yes,” Jacques admitted when they met for lunch at La Chope des Vosges, at one corner of the Place. “Certainly it is fascinating. And yet—” He paused as they heaped their plates from the hors d'oeuvres buffet near the entrance and found a table. “This elevator—weeks I have spent on this elevator! And now I am trying your idea of hiding it behind the staircase, but of course we must not disturb the sweep of its curve—impossible!”

“I'm working on that.”

“I delight to hear it. I also am working on your other suggestion—that we put it at the front of the entrance hall. But you say I may not use the cloakroom. A perfect space! A perfect size!”

“Well, we may have to use it. But it means moving a wall on the third floor.”

“Precisely the problem! Why all this effort and cost? It is cheaper to tear down and begin fresh!”

“Not always.”

“I concede that. But consider: buildings are made for specific times and people, with specific customs and idiosyncrasies. No one builds for people who will not be born for four hundred years.”

“Jacques, working on this
hôtel,
you'd still erase it if you could?”

“Whoosh it out. Begin fresh. An odd debate, is it not? The Americans are the best at tearing down, even buildings only thirty or forty years old. Occasionally they are wrong, but most often I agree. Begin fresh. No clutter of old ideas, no rubble from other generations, no messy traditions, no—”

“Variety,” Ross finished helpfully. “Or contrast or history or excitement.”

“Well—” Jacques shrugged. “So you say. But what we lose we replace with what is truly ours. Look at us, you and me. Did we not start all fresh? Of course people are not the same as buildings, but what do you think? Was it not better that you and I left wives who were not congenial so we could begin again and improve our situations? Should we not seek perfection? We change; we require new marriages and new buildings. The old no longer satisfies. Who would pay ten million francs for a
hôtel
of four floors with no elevator? Who will tolerate a marriage that is all uphill?” He grinned. “That is not bad.”

“Not bad,” Ross agreed, then said, “I have two children who are part of my old marriage. Would you have me throw them out . . . give them up?”

“No, no; that is different. You would regret it; so would they. Allow me to speak from experience. My wife and I own an art gallery together. We are good partners, yes?—but ferociously bad at living together. So we kept what was good: we are together often, we dine, we laugh, we shake hands and go to someone else for love. One must leap to new adventures;
one does not look back, even if occasionally one regrets losing something along the way. You comprehend? Here is the check; is it my turn to pay?”

“No, mine.” Ross pulled out his wallet and smiled. “You're the real consultant, Jacques. We disagree, but without you I'd have no ancient building to study, and you also offer me the bonus of your curious philosophy. I don't give you half as much.”

“Not so. You bring me friendship and American technology. As for ancient buildings, it is not your fault America has nothing from the sixteenth century on which you can practice.”

“Only wigwams,” Ross said and they were chuckling as they walked through the shadowed arcade into the sunlight. Shading his eyes, Ross turned toward the
hôtel
and for the second time in two days found himself face to face with Katherine.

He stopped short. His grandmother's idea—or hers? Then he saw her eyes, self-conscious, determined, a little wary, as if she had steeled herself to be here and feared he might turn his back on her. Ross took her hand. “Welcome back.” He looked around. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.” She glanced inquiringly at Jacques, who hovered at Ross's shoulder.

“Jacques Duvain,” said Ross, piqued by the intense admiration that lit Jacques' face. “Katherine Fraser.”

Jacques lifted Katherine's hand and brushed it with his lips. “How pleased I am to greet you.” He smiled broadly and, through him, Ross saw Katherine as if for the first time, separated from the familiar background of San Francisco, with no husband shadowing her, no grandmother as chaperone, no Derek. In a low-necked sleeveless blue dress with a white jacket over her shoulders, she stood alone, tentatively, as if on a threshold: a young woman of unusual beauty, hesitating before opening a door to the unknown. Ross understood why Jacques was intrigued. “I have heard you are visiting,” Jacques went on innocently, with barely a sidelong glance at Ross. “I do not wish to intrude, but if at some time you desire a guide who has lived here always . . .” A movement from Ross caught his eye. “Of course my friend Ross knows Paris almost as well as I. So I leave you”—again, he touched Katherine's hand with his lips—“but I hope to see you again . . .” He looked
at Ross and grinned. “I spoke of starting fresh. I did not realize my admirable friend was far ahead of me. Perhaps dinner one night, the three of us, if it becomes possible—?”

He drifted off. Silence filled the space left by his chatter. “Why don't we walk?” Ross suggested. “You didn't get to see the whole square yesterday.” Katherine nodded. She was nervous and he wondered again about his grandmother as they strolled through sunlight and shadow. On one side was the green park with its fountains and benches, on the other the stately old
hôtels.
They paused to look through a shop window at a craftsman restoring a clavichord. “What time are you meeting Victoria?” Ross asked.

“I'm not.” Katherine watched the man's quick fingers. “She went back to Menton this morning.”

He turned sharply. “Was she ill?”

“No.” Katherine met his eyes and smiled. “She thought she was being cool and crafty.”

Ross chuckled and then Katherine laughed with him. “Well,” he said as they walked on. “Maybe she was. Here you are.”

Katherine stopped, her face deeply flushed. “I act on my own,” she said. Her nervousness gave way to anger; her large eyes were clear and unwavering. “I'm not a puppet to be manipulated; I make my own decisions.”

Ross cursed himself. “I'm sorry; I didn't mean that. I thought you didn't want me to share your time in Paris, and it was so clear that Victoria wanted—”

“Of course it was; she even admitted it. But she left without making any suggestions, without even a hint. She knows I wouldn't have come to you just because it was something she would have liked, especially after yesterday.”

Ross looked at her averted eyes. “Why did you come?” he asked quietly.

“Because I wanted to.” For the first time, her voice wavered. “Because I wanted to see you.”

The words struck him with their simplicity. Just as simply, he responded, “I'm glad to see you.” In a moment they walked on. “How did Victoria explain her sudden departure?” he asked.

They were passing a sculpture gallery and Katherine paused to look through the window. “She said she'd give me a chance to explore on my own.” She smiled, almost to herself. “In a way, she was telling the truth, because yesterday she knew she
was holding me back. But whatever her reasons, she gave me our hotel suite and two days in Paris, and that was wonderful.
She's
wonderful, and I'm grateful, and I love her.”

“Yes,” Ross said. “That's something we share.” His eyes had the same tenderness Katherine had seen in Vancouver, the first time she heard him speak of Victoria. “When did she leave?” he asked.

“After breakfast.”

“And left you
no
instructions for touring Paris? That doesn't sound like my grandmother.”

Katherine laughed. “She left me names of her favorite restaurants and the finest buildings, the places to go for the finest views, small boutiques for the finest of—”

“Everything,” he finished and they laughed together. Ross put his hand on Katherine's arm and led her into a restaurant filled with flowers. “Have you followed all her instructions?”

“I'm afraid I forgot most of them. I bought a map; I walked; I took the
Métro . . .”
She hesitated. “And I took a bus tour.”

“A bus—!” He caught himself. “And what did you see?”

“A great many buildings and statues that all looked alike after ten minutes.”

He smiled. “That happens on most bus tours. And then?”

“I came to find you.”

How natural she made it sound. “Why?” he asked.

“I was thinking about you. I never really knew whether you liked me or not, and it bothered me, and this seemed a good place to find out, but I knew you'd never call me; I knew I had to come to you.”

A strange lightness was spreading through Ross. “Why is this a good place?”

“Because it isn't San Francisco. I couldn't have done it there.” The waiter brought a carafe of wine and filled their glasses and Katherine raised hers, looking through it at the colorful flowers surrounding them. Seen through the pale gold wine, the petals were elongated and curved, oddly changed. “I feel as if I've broken away from everything I knew, everything I've ever done. Whatever I look at is new. Even ordinary things like groceries and street signs and price tags are exotic and mysterious. So it seems all right to behave differently. In fact, I feel that I ought to, since everything around me is different.” She gave a small laugh. “It sounds so foolish.”

“No.” Ross sat back, stretching his long legs. “When I work with Jacques on the building he's renovating—it's around the corner, I'll show it to you later—we stand in front of fireplaces more than three and a half centuries old, large enough for three men to stand comfortably, and we walk on parquet floors that were laid long before the Pilgrims came to America. It's not easy for me to hold on to twentieth-century thoughts when I stand there; nothing seems quite real.”

Katherine's eyes were bright. “Yes. That's exactly it.”

“But you didn't think I'd understand. Since I might not like you.”

She flushed, then challenged him. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said easily. The waiter reappeared, dividing the remaining wine evenly between their glasses. “We can talk about it, if you'd like. At dinner. Will you have dinner with me? And tomorrow, if you'll let me, I'd like to show you my Paris. It's quite different from Victoria's, but I think you'll enjoy it. If you have no other plans, of course. And if it would please you . . .”

For the first time, Katherine's smile was relaxed. “It would please me very much,” she said.

*  *  *

Dinner was at Chez Philippe, small, casual, crowded, with vociferous conversations bouncing off the stone walls, beamed ceiling and red tile floor. Ross had reserved a table in a quiet corner. “It's not always so noisy,” he said as they were brought a bottle of country wine. “But it's a neighborhood place and when it's crowded it's like one big family gathering. Are you disappointed?”

“No,” Katherine said, surprised. “Why would I be?”

“It's a long way from Tour d'Argent or Taillevent or L'Archestrate. I should have told you I'm not fond of spectacular restaurants. It doesn't matter how special the food, I can't enjoy it when it takes second place to mirrors and silks and black-tie waiters who whip silver covers off the plates like penguin magicians.”

Katherine was smiling, but, uncomfortably, she remembered how impressed she had been when Derek took her to San Francisco's most glittering restaurants. And it was true that she had expected one of the places Victoria or Derek would
have chosen, and had dressed for it. And pale yellow silk seemed excessive in the simple room.