Remember (15 page)

“Coffee on the terrace sounds great,” Nicky answered, and followed him out.

They sat at the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to brew, and as Clee peeled an apple and offered pieces to her he said, “I’m coming to New York around the middle of July. I have to go to Washington to photograph the president and Mrs. Bush for Life.

After that I’ll be in New York for them until early August. Is there any chance of working on the book together then, do you think?”

“Yes, of course, I’d love to, and I know I’ll be there, providing a war doesn’t break out somewhere—” “In which case,” Clee interjected, “we’ll be covering it together.”

Nicky nodded, “I guess so. Anyway, Arch and I will be working on another special during July and August, so I’ll probably be writing the script and doing the preparation. But that doesn’t prevent me from starting on the book. Do you have a title yet?”

“No, I don’t, and any and all suggestions will be gratefully accepted.

That coffee smells great, let’s get some and go outside.”

They sat on the terrace together, not talking, enjoying the peace and beauty of their surroundings. It was well past midnight. The

great arch of the sky was like inky black velvet scattered with tiny crystal beads, and there was a full moon. The breeze ruffled the trees and wafted the scent of honeysuckle toward them.

Clee and Nicky had long understood that conversation was not always necessary, and the silence between them tonight was as companionable as it usually was. Though their relationship had changed radically—and irrevocably—in the space of only a few hours they were completely at ease with each other. Perhaps more than ever, in fact.

Taking her hand at one moment, Clee said in the quietest voice, “We’re good together, Nicky, and good for each other. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” she responded and leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling comfortable, protected with him.

Clee put his arm around her, held her close, and he could not help wondering what would happen to them, where tonight would lead. He had no idea. All he knew for certain was that he had saved her life in Beijing and in so doing had fallen in love with her. Or perhaps he had loved her for a long time before that but had only realized it when he had almost lost her. But no matter-tonight he had become her lover and that was good enough for him right now.

For her part, Nicky was marveling at the way they had come together so naturally—and marveling at herself as well. She had not made love to a man since Charles Devereaux had ended their relationship. During the past two years she had built up so many barriers, Clee had made them all come tumbling down. She was glad she had been with Clee. He had made everything seem so easy and simple, and he had aroused such passion in her she had amazed herself. She smiled in the darkness.

Clee had made her feel like a woman again.

Much later, when they were in the kitchen stacking the dishwasher, Clee said, “How long are you staying here with me, Nicky?”

She shrugged lightly, and said, “As long as you’ll have me.”

“All this week, then,” he replied, looking pleased.

“Oh, Clee, I forgot for a minute—I’ve got to be back in Manhattan a week from tonight, in order to go to work at the network on Monday morning.”

“Oh.” He looked crushed, but instantly brightened and said, “Tell you what, we’ll fly to Paris on Thursday night. You can stay with me at my apartment, and I’ll put you on the Concorde on Sunday morning. Does that idea appeal to you?”

“Yes, it does.”

“And you certainly appeal to me.” Putting down the plate he was holding and walking over to her, he took her in his arms. “I don’t know whether it’s occurred to you yet, but you and I have wasted a lot of time.”

“Two years, if you want to be exact.”

“I aim to make up for it.”

“You do?”

“You bet.” Clee covered her mouth with his for a long voluptuous kiss, and then he took her hand in his and led her upstairs to his bedroom.

I Holding hands, theywalked slowly down the cours Mirabeau, the main avenue in the ancient university town of Air-enProvence.

Nicky glanced around, and she could not help thinking that this was one of the most beautiful boulevards she had ever seen. Long and wide, it had four rows of tall, stately plane trees running down the middle of it, the branches of which intertwined overhead to form an immense, elongated arch. Nicky felt as though she and Clee were walking down a pale green tunnel made entirely of leaves. It seemed endless, since it stretched a good five hundred yards or so, and placed at intervals down the center between the trees were three nineteenth-century fountains that sprayed arcs of crystal-clear water up into the diffused morning sunlight. The sunny side of the cours was lined with sprawling cafes, standing in the shade on the other side were handsome and ancient buildings, many of them private residences.

“Clee, it’s extraordinary, and so lovely,” Nicky exclaimed, turning to him, her face a picture of delight.

“Isn’t it just. I knew you’d be impressed, everyone is. And in my opinion this is the most beautiful main street in any city anywhere in the world. There’s a certain elegance about it—the interplay of the architecture, the trees, the fountains, and the way the space has been so brilliantly arranged, and it’s always at its best in the spring and summer.” He paused, gave her a smile and said, “Now, let’s pick a cafe and have coffee, before we plunge into the old town behind the cours so that you can visit some of the local ateliers.”

“You don’t really have to come shopping with me,” she said quickly.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to browse around a bookstore while I pick up a few gifts.”

“Nope, I’m coming with you.” He tightened his grip on her hand and glanced down at her, the boyish smile playing around his mouth. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for the next three days. I’ve got to make the most of you, honeybunch.”

Nicky laughed. “I haven’t heard that term of endearment for years. My mother used to call me honeybunch when I was little.”

“Isn’t that odd, so did mine,” Clee said, and led her toward a lively-looking cafe close to the Fontaine de la Rotonde, the huge fountain that dominated the western entrance to the boulevard.

Although the cafe terrace was full of attractive young people, pretty girls and handsome young men who were obviously university students, there were several empty tables. A couple of these were close to the windows in the shade of an awning and slightly removed from the busy sidewalk.

Scanning the area, Clee chose one of the tables near the cafe’s windows, and as they sat down he said, “We can cool offhere and

watch the world go by at the same time. I love French cafes, they’re so convivial, yet they can also be quite private in a certain way.”

Taking off his sunglasses, he drew close to her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “See what I mean?”

“Yes.” She smiled, looking into his eyes.

A waiter was with them almost immediately and Clee ordered cafe’ all lait for them both, and once they were alone again he relaxed in his chair and turned to face her. I like most of the titles you wrote down for me last night, but my favorite is Children of the Beijing Spring.”

I’d love to use that for our book, Nick.”

“I’m flattered!” Her pleasure was evident, and she added, “It happens to be my favorite, too.”

He leaned across the table and kissed her on the lips again. “Now that we have a title, we’re in business, babe.”

“With those superb photographs you took, you were always in business, Clee. No question about that, and my text is of secondary importance.

After all, it is a picture book.”

“True. On the other hand, the introduction is pretty damned important—not only to underscore my pictures but to explain China, the politics, the events leading up to the Tiananmen demonstrations, and the massacre. Few people understand how it all came about.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that, and on the plane on Sunday I’ll make some notes. I think I’ll have a bit of reading to do before I start writing the introduction. Incidentally, I’ve been thinking—” She broke off as the waiter arrived with the coffee.

“Merci, ” she and Clee said almost in unison, and then she went on, “What I started to say is that I’ve been thinking about our working arrangements, and it occurred to me that you might like to spend a couple of weekends in New Milford, at my parents’ place, when you’re in New York later this month. A few years ago my father built a studio across the lawn from the main house, and I think it’s a terrific place to work. We could really spread out there—you know, arrange the pictures consecutively, and in an orderly fashion, even do a pagination. We could leave everything laid out there on card tables, no one would touch it during the week.”

“It sounds great, but what about your parents? Don’t they use the studio to write in?”

Nicky shook her head and began to laugh. “When Dad built the studio it was actually for my mother, his gift to her. He thought she would enjoy working there. It’s airy, spacious, quiet and very peaceful.”

“And didn’t she?”

“No. I think perhaps it was too peaceful, if you want to know the truth. She loved it for only about a month. Then she moved back into the house, into the small room that opens off their bedroom.

She told Dad she felt more comfortable writing in a room she’d been using for years. That’s true I’m sure, but knowing my mother, she also likes being in the house, in the center of all of that swirling activity. I suppose it is lonely enough writing long, complicated books without being isolated across the garden, away from my father, the housekeeper, the telephones and a busy household.”

“Doesn’t your father use the studio?”

“Not very often. I suspect he likes being close to my mother, and also in the middle of all that activity just as much as she does.

So he pushes his pen, or rather his word processor, in the library, which is where he has always written his column—that way, he’s close to the kitchen, can pop in for a cup of tea or coffee and chat with Annie, the housekeeper, or Bert, the gardener. Anyway, the point is we could easily set up shop there, if you want to.”

“Will your parents mind?”

“Of course not! Anyway, since meeting you in Paris last year they’ve been rather taken with you.”

“Is their daughter?”

Nicky took offher sunglasses and gave him a long penetrating look. She asked, somewhat coyly, “Is their daughter what?”

“Taken with me?”

“Oh, yes.”

“She’d better be.”

“She is—definitely—absolutely—taken with Cleeland Donovan .” Clee bent closer to her across the zinc-topped table and took her hand in his. “These last few days have been so wonderful, Nick.

It’s never been quite like this before, for me. There’s something I want to say—about you and me—the way I feel about you, darling, and—” “Please don’t say anything, Clee,” she interrupted, her voice as low as his had been. “Please, not now, not yet.” She gently extricated her hand and sat back in her chair, looking solemn.

“But why not?” he asked, perplexed.

Nicky was silent for a moment, then said, “I want this, want us, to go slowly…. I don’t want you—No, I don’t want either of us to say anything now that we might regret—that we might change our minds about later. I want you to be really sure before you say anything at all to me. And I want to be sure, too. Sure about what I really feel for you.”

“But I am sure,” he began and stopped, understanding that she was afraid of commitments because of the fiasco of her engagement. “I see what you mean, Nicky, and you’re right, of course you are. I know how much Charles Devereaux hurt you.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. He could have bitten off his tongue, and he stared at her in confusion, appalled at himself.

ReM K She gaped at him, her face drained of its vivacity. Instantly it became terribly still, and closed. She did not say a word, merely glanced away.

Clee reached for her hand again, held her fingers tightly in his, wondering how to make amends. He was a clumsy fool and he had obviously upset her. She did not have to utter one word for him to recognize that. He had read it on her face the very second he had spoken.

“Look at me, Nick.”

Gradually she turned her head, brought her gaze to meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “really sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned his name.”

“It’s all right,” Nicky replied after a few seconds and forced herself to smile. “Honestly, it is. I just don’t like to talk about him.

Whenever I do, unpleasant memories inevitably get stirred up. Anyway, talking about him serves no purpose. He was the past. I prefer to think of the future.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He took a deep breath, wanting this awkward moment to pass as quickly as possible.

“Clee, you look upset. Please don’t be. It was only natural for you to mention Charles. After all, we were engaged.”

“I’m pretty dumb though, at times.”

“I don’t think you are.” The dark expression that had been clouding her lovely eyes disappeared, and she smiled at him, then picked up her cup and took a sip. “The coffee’s gone cold,” she remarked evenly.

“Shall we order two more hot ones?”

Clee nodded, motioned to the waiter and gave the order. Then he said to her, “You told me you wanted to get your mother some Provencal fabric. I know just the right shop in the old town.

They’ll even send it back to the States for you.”

“Wonderful.” Nicky began to tell him about the gifts she wanted to buy and—

for whom, and much to his relief her voice sounded normal again, and he relaxed.

A short while later they left the cafe, wandered offinto the old town situated behind the cours Mirabeau. They walked through the tiny, narrow streets, stopping to look in the windows of the smart new boutiques as well as the much older establishments selling liqueurs, cheeses, local produce, crafts and fanciful Provencal creations.

Clee took her into the atelier Fouque, where santons were made.

These little figures of local peasants, created from clay or dough and beautifully painted in bright colors, were amazingly lifelike, and Nicky purchased a whole collection of them for her father. After Clee had introduced her to Paul Fouque, one of the great masters of santon making, they stood and watched him at work for fifteen minutes before heading to the confectionery to buy calissons. This locally made almond-paste sweet was Amelie’s favorite, according to Clee, and Nicky wanted to give her a box of it, along with the silk scarf she had bought for her the day before, when Clee had taken her to Saint-Remy.