Second Chance (23 page)

It took her hours to get back into her work. She was haunted by their lunch at Le Voltaire. And thinking of it kept distracting her. She kept hearing the things he had said. Walking along the Seine, and then later down the Faubourg St. Honoré, he was doing the same. He could see her face, hear her voice, and smell her perfume. She still dazzled him in just the way she once had, perhaps more so now that she seemed to have grown up. He liked who she had become, although at great price. But he felt less guilty now than he had before. He somehow felt as though they had both landed in a better place. And he loved the apartment where she lived.

He called her that night, but she didn't answer her phone. He suspected she was there, when he spoke to the machine. She was listening to him, and wondering why he had called. He thanked her for letting him come up to see her place. And the next day, wanting only to be polite, she called and thanked him for lunch.

“What about dinner tonight?” he suggested, as he had the day before, and she looked unhappy as she shook her head.

“I don't think it's a good idea.” She sounded stiff.

“Why not?” he asked sadly. He wanted to see her. He suddenly missed her more than he had in the past year, and he had the ghastly feeling that he had let a priceless diamond slip through his fingers. He had, and in her own way so had she. But she was willing to live with the loss. She had adjusted to it, and she had no desire to reopen old wounds. One thing she knew, and had always believed, no matter how many regrets you had, you could never go back. And she said as much to him. “I wasn't suggesting we go back. I was suggesting that we move forward. If nothing else, we can be friends.”

“I'm not sure I can. It makes me too sad. It's like looking at pictures of Sir Winston. I can't do that either. It hurts too much.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” he said regretfully. He had a business meeting to go to then, and couldn't linger on the phone with her. He promised to call her later, but before he did, an enormous bouquet arrived for her from Lachaume. It was the most spectacular thing she had ever seen, and it embarrassed and worried her. She didn't want to start something with him. She left him a voice message thanking him at the hotel, knowing he was out, so she didn't have to speak to him again. And when he called her, she didn't pick up the phone. She let him talk to her machine. He was asking about dinner again that night. He suggested Alain Ducasse, or something comparable, or something simpler if she preferred. She never called him back, and stayed at her desk until late that night. She was still at her desk, in blue jeans and an old sweater, when she heard the bell. She couldn't imagine who it was, and she answered the intercom from her studio.

“Qui est-ce?”
she asked in French.

“Moi,”
said a familiar voice. It was eleven o'clock.

“What are you doing here?” It was John.

“I brought you dinner. I figured you didn't eat. Can I bring it up?” She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Reluctantly, she buzzed him in and went to open her front door. He was standing there with some kind of box in a paper bag.

“You shouldn't be doing this,” she said, frowning at him, and trying to look stern. It was a look that had terrified junior editors for years, but he knew her better, and it didn't scare him. She took the bag into the kitchen, and when she opened it, she saw that it was profiteroles from Le Voltaire, and she turned to him with a smile. “This is like my drug dealer showing up at the door.”

“I figured you needed the energy, or the calories, or something.” It was nice of him, but she didn't want to be tempted by him again. Profiteroles. Flowers. Lunch. He was like a man on a mission, or a quest. And she didn't want to be his prize.

“Do you want some?” she asked, putting the profiteroles on a plate. In spite of her reservations, she couldn't resist what he'd brought, and handed him a spoon as she sat down at her kitchen table, and he sat down next to her. And he ate one of them too. “I don't want to get in a mess with you,” she said honestly. “You broke my heart once. That was enough.” It was a calm clear statement that struck him like a blow.

“I know. I go a little nuts every time I'm around you, Fiona.” It was a classic understatement. He had been more than nuts when he left.

“I've been trying to stay away from you. It's better for both of us.”

“I'm not sure it is,” he said, equally honest with her. They always had been with each other, and she liked that about them. Or she had. “Maybe we need to get this out of our system.”

She shook her head, with chocolate on her upper lip, which made him smile. He wished he could lick it off. “We already did. It's out of our system. Let's keep it that way. For both our sakes. We don't need to destroy each other's lives again. We did that once.”

“What if it worked this time?” he said hopefully, wanting to convince her, and at the same time scared to death himself.

“What if it didn't? We'd both get hurt. Way too much.” It was like her decision about dogs. She didn't want one anymore. She didn't want to care that much. And she didn't want him either. She did, of course, but she didn't want the pain that would inevitably go with it, or his kids, or his housekeeper, or his insanely aggressive dog. But she didn't say all that to him. “Besides, your kids would go nuts again.”

“They're a little older now. And I know better. Mrs. Westerman retired to North Dakota. She was a huge influence on them. And we could always put Fifi down. How's your ankle, by the way? No permanent damage, I hope.” Fiona laughed at the thought.

“She's one hell of a dog.”

“The dog from hell,” he corrected her, and she laughed again. “She's living with Hilary at Brown. They let them have dogs. Maybe Fifi will get an education and shape up.”

“Do you want a glass of wine or something?” she offered, and he hesitated, looking apologetic. He had intruded on her and he knew it, but he didn't want to miss this opportunity, as long as he was in Paris.

“Am I keeping you from your work?”

“Yes, but you've already done it. I'm too tired now anyway. And the profiteroles make me lazy. Do you want a glass of port?” She still remembered how much he liked it, but he decided this time on a glass of white wine, and she poured one for him, and another for herself.

They settled in her small living room, John lit a fire in the fireplace, and they talked again about her book, his work, the new apartment he wanted to buy in New York, they rolled from one subject to another, and the companionship they shared warmed both their hearts. He was still talking about a house he had seen and fallen in love with on Cape Cod, when she leaned over to pour him another glass of wine, and he gently reached out and touched her face.

“I love you, Fiona,” he whispered in the light from the fire. She was more beautiful than ever in her old sweater, with her hair in an unruly braid.

“I love you, too,” she whispered back, “but it doesn't matter anymore.” The moment had passed for them. But just as she thought it, he kissed her, and pulled her down next to him, and before she could object or even think about it, she was kissing him. It was just what she hadn't wanted to do, but she no longer remembered that, as a year's hunger for each other overtook them both, and it seemed like only moments later when they wound up in her bed. And they were both overwhelmed by such passion for each other that it was hours later when they stopped and caught their breath. She was half asleep by then.

“This was a terrible idea,” she whispered into his chest as she drifted off to sleep in his arms and he smiled down at her.

“No, it wasn't, it was the best idea we ever had,” he said, drifting off to sleep himself.

And when she awoke in the morning, wondering if it had been a dream, she stared at him in disbelief. “Oh my God,” she said, looking at him. He was already awake, lying there holding her, and looking very pleased with himself. “I can't believe we did that,” she said, looking mortified. “We must be insane.”

“I'm glad we did,” he said happily, rolling over to look at her, and he smiled when he saw her face. “Leaving you was the dumbest thing I ever did. And all I've wanted for the last year was a second chance. I never thought it was possible, or I'd have approached you sooner. I thought you hated me. You have every right to. I'm amazed you don't. I think I would have just let this go, no matter how much I still loved you. But when I saw you at La Goulue in New York, I just couldn't. I knew I had to at least see you and talk to you. I've been crazed over you since that night.”

“You wanted a second chance to do what?” She sat up and stared at him, looking angry finally. “Leave me again? I'm not coming back to you,” she said with a look of fierce determination, as she sprang out of bed, and he admired her long graceful limbs. She had an exquisite body that belied her age. “We don't even live in the same country anymore,” she said as though that were the only reason not to start their relationship again. “I don't believe in long-distance romances. And I'm not coming back to New York either. I'm happy here.”

“Well, now that we got all that out of the way, why don't I make us breakfast? And may I point out to you that if you don't come back to me, Fiona Monaghan, that makes you nothing more than a one-night stand, and you're not that kind of woman. Nor am I that kind of man.”

“Then I'll learn to be. I will never marry you again.”

“I don't recall asking you,” he said as he got out of bed, and stood next to her with his arms around her. “I love you, and I think you love me. What we decide to do about it remains a matter for some discussion.”

“I won't discuss it with you,” she said stubbornly, still standing naked next to him, but she didn't resist his embraces. She had enjoyed the night before as much as he did. “I thought you were leaving.”

“My plane isn't till four o'clock. I don't have to leave for the airport till one.” The clock on her bed table said it was nine o'clock. That gave them exactly four hours to solve the problem. “We can discuss it over breakfast.”

“There's nothing to discuss,” she said as she stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door, and he climbed into his trousers and went to make breakfast. She joined him ten minutes later after brushing her teeth and combing her hair, wearing a pink bathrobe.

“Did you steal that from the Ritz?” he asked with interest. He was scrambling eggs and frying bacon, and looked perfectly happy.

“No,” she growled at him, “I bought it. I can't believe I slept with you. That's the dumbest thing I've ever done. I don't do retreads.”

“That's a charming thing to call me.”

“I could call you a lot worse, and should have,” she said, sticking a baguette in the oven to heat it up, and putting on a pot of coffee. “This was just plain stupid.”

“Why? We love each other.” He looked calm as he glanced at her. He hadn't been this happy since he left her.

“Would it be tasteless to remind you that you divorced me? And for all I know, you were right. Our lives were just too different.”

“Everything's different now. You're a starving writer, living in a garret in Paris. You could marry me for my money.”

“I have my own money, I don't need yours.”

“That's a shame. If you were after me for my money, everything would be perfect.”

“You're not taking this seriously,” she scolded him, as she took the baguette out, and poured them both coffee. She put the correct amount of sugar in it, and handed him the cup.

“I'm taking it very seriously. You're the one who's not serious. It's totally immoral to sleep with a guy and tell him to get lost in the morning. Particularly if he says he loves you.”

“I don't want a relationship, I don't want a boyfriend, and I don't want a husband. I just want to be left alone to write my book. Look, we did a stupid thing. We went to bed, lots of ex-wives and ex-husbands do that. It's called a lapse of judgment. We did it. It's over. You go back to New York. I'll stay here. We forget we ever did it.”

“I refuse to forget it. I'm addicted to your body,” he said, teasing her as he put the scrambled eggs on plates, added the bacon, and sat down at the kitchen table.

“You've done fine without my body for the last year. Join a twelve-step program.”

“You're not funny,” he said seriously.

“Neither are you. Neither was what we did last night. It was just plain stupid.”

“Stop saying that. It's insulting. It was wonderful and you know it. And do you know why? Because we love each other.”

“We used to love each other. We don't even know each other now. We're practically strangers again.”

“Then get to know me.”

“I can't. You're geographically undesirable. And I know better. John,” she said seriously, holding a forkful of eggs, which were delicious, “be reasonable. I drove you crazy. You hated being married to me. You said so. You left me.”

“I was scared. I didn't know what I was doing. Your whole life and world were unfamiliar to me. Now I miss them. I miss you. I think about you all the time. I don't want some boring blonde from the Junior League. I want my crazy redhead.”

“I'm not crazy,” she said, looking miffed.

“No, but your life was, a little. Or eccentric at least.”

“Maybe you'd be bored now. I've become very reclusive.”

“At least you're not frigid,” he teased her.

“I could learn to be, if that would convince you to stay away from me. Just take last night as a memory, kind of a good-bye gift we gave each other. Leave it at that. We'll laugh at it twenty years from now.”

“Only if we're still together,” he said firmly.

“I can promise you we won't be. I'm not coming back to you. And you don't really want me, any more than you did before. You just think you do, because you can't have me.”

“Fiona, I love you,” he said, sounding desperate.

“I love you too. But I'm not going to see you again. Ever. If this is how we behave when we're together, it proves we can't be friends, which was what I thought anyway.”

“Then let's be lovers.”

“We live in different cities.”

“I'll fly here on weekends.”

“Don't be silly, that's crazy.”