The First Time (42 page)

“So, let me get this straight,” Caroline was saying. “You’ve been staying at your grandmother’s while that nice big house of yours sits empty?”

“Seems a shame, doesn’t it?” Kim said.

“A real waste,” Caroline agreed.

“Are you thinking what we’re thinking?” Jodi Bates asked.

“That it’s a shame for a nice big house like that to be all by itself for the weekend?” Kim asked in return.

“Especially when there’s a party looking for a place to happen.”

“You supply the accommodations,” Caroline offered. “We’ll supply the guests. Everybody’ll bring their own refreshments. How does that sound to you?”

“Sounds great.”

“I can get the word out before the next class,” Annie said.

Kim took a deep breath. What would be the harm? Her grandmother wouldn’t question her going out for a few hours on Saturday night. Her parents were halfway around the world. No way they’d ever find out. She’d be careful. Insist everyone behaved. No drugs. No hard liquor. “No crashers,” she said out loud.

“No problem,” Jodi said.

“The A list only,” Caroline concurred.

“I don’t know.” Kim wavered. “Maybe it isn’t such a good idea.”

But Annie was already halfway down the hall, shouting to everyone who passed by, “Party at Kim Hart’s house. Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock.”

Party at Kim’s house
, the halls echoed.
Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock
.

Party at Kim’s. Party at Kim’s. Party at Kim’s
.

“What do you think are the chances I could persuade our waitress to exchange one of these rolls for another croissant?” Jake was asking, smiling at Mattie as he knocked the rock-hard roll against the side of the small table. They were sitting in the small window-lined, flower-filled breakfast area located behind the elevator shaft at the rear of their hotel. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Outside the rain was coming down with such ferocity, it all but obliterated the by-now-familiar row of small boutiques and cafés.

It had been raining for at least four hours, Mattie calculated, stifling a yawn. It was raining when she woke up at five o’clock this morning to go to the bathroom, raining as she tried maneuvering her way across the room without waking Jake, who was snoring with such obvious contentment she hadn’t had the heart to wake him, raining even harder when she collapsed onto the toilet seat some five minutes later, now fully awake. The rain pounded against the bathroom window behind her head, as if trying to get inside, as she wrestled with the toilet paper, trying to tear off the
necessary strip, to bring it to her body How soon before this most private of functions was no longer within her control, when something as basic as wiping herself would be, quite literally, taken out of her hands? The rain accompanied her back to bed. She crawled in beside her husband, spent the hours until Jake woke up listening to the rain as it slammed angrily against their hotel room window. It was easier not to think when it was raining, Mattie thought, strangely lulled by the storm’s growing fury.

“You know the laws of the land,” Mattie said now. “One soft croissant, one jaw-breaking roll.” She raised her cup of black coffee to her lips, hoping a jolt of caffeine would provide her with enough energy to kick-start her day. In truth, all she wanted to do was go back upstairs and climb into bed. Hadn’t she promised Jake that she wouldn’t overdo, that she’d tell him when she was tired? A few hours more sleep—that was all she needed. Maybe in a few more hours, the rain would have stopped.

“I’m really looking forward to this morning,” Jake was saying, a guidebook miraculously appearing in his hands. “Listen to this: ‘More than a mere landmark in the extensive facelift that Paris has undergone in the last twenty years,’ ” he read, “ ‘the high-tech Georges Pompidou Center is a hive of constantly changing cultural activity. Contemporary art, architecture, design, photography, theater, cinema, and dance are all represented, while the lofty structure itself offers exceptional views over central Paris.’ ”

Mattie’s shoulders slumped in anticipated exhaustion. Art, architecture, design, photography, theater, cinema,
dance—the words slapped against her skull with the careless precision of the outside rain on the windows.

“ ‘Take the transparent escalator tubes for a bird’s-eye view of the piazza below,’ ” Jake continued reading, “ ‘where musicians, street artists, and portraitists ply their trades for the teeming crowds.’ ”

Escalator tubes, bird’s-eye views, street artists, teeming crowds, Mattie repeated silently, growing dizzier with each fresh image.

“Since it’s raining,” Jake continued, “we might as well taxi over to the gallery, do the inside first. Maybe by the time we’re finished, the rain will have let up, and we can go outside and have our portrait painted.” He stopped, dark blue eyes widening in alarm. “Mattie, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Mattie felt the coffee cup about to slip through her fingers. She tried to hold on to its delicate porcelain handle, but her fingers refused to retain their grip. Mattie pictured the cup sliding through her fingers and crashing to the marble floor, waited helplessly for this image to become reality.

Suddenly Jake’s hands were on top of hers, catching the cup before it could fall, returning it to its saucer before a drop of the murky brown liquid could stain the thick white tablecloth, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. What’s happening, Mattie? What aren’t you telling me?”

Mattie shook her head stubbornly. “Honestly, Jake, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired,” she conceded reluctantly, realizing it was pointless to protest further.

“When you say you’re a little tired, it means you’re exhausted,” Jake translated. “The French aren’t the only ones who’ve mastered the art of euphemism.”

Mattie signaled her surrender with a smile. “I didn’t sleep very well last night. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for me to take the morning off.”

“Great idea. We’ll go back upstairs, lie down until this rain lets up. I didn’t get a lot of sleep myself.”

“You slept like a baby.”

“So, I’ll watch you sleep.”

Mattie pushed her hands across the table, caressed her husband’s cheek with increasingly useless fingers. How long before she could no longer touch him this way? How long before even the slightest acts of tenderness would be denied her? “I want you to go to the Pompidou Center,” she told him.

“Not without you,” came the immediate reply.

“Jake, it’s silly for both of us to miss it.”

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

“No. You’ll go this morning,” Mattie insisted. “If it’s any good, we’ll go together next year. With Kim,” she added, recalling his phone conversation with their daughter.

Jake brought Mattie’s fingers to his mouth, kissed each one in turn. “I think she’d really love it here,” he said.

“Then you’ll make sure to bring her.” Mattie’s voice was soft, pleading.

“I’ll make sure to bring her,” Jake agreed, his voice a whisper.

They sat for several minutes in silence. “You should get going,” Mattie said finally.

“I’ll take you upstairs first.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Mattie, I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re safely tucked in bed.”

“I’m not an invalid, Jake,” Mattie snapped, the sudden harshness in her voice surprising both of them. “Please don’t treat me like one,” she said, her voice returning to normal.

“God, Mattie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” she assured him quickly. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I had no right to snap at you like that.”

“You had every right.”

“It’s just not a good day, I guess.”

“What can I do?” he asked helplessly.

“You can go to the Georges Pompidou Center and have a good time, that’s what you can do.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“It’s what I really want.”

Jake nodded, rose to his feet. “I guess the faster I go, the faster I can get back.”

Mattie smiled up at him. “Don’t rush. I’m not going anywhere. Now go. Get out of here.”

He leaned over, kissed her, the feel of his lips lingering on hers long after he’d left the room. Mattie sat alone for several minutes watching the other diners: a young couple arguing quietly in Spanish in a corner table; two elderly women chatting excitedly in German; an American couple trying unsuccessfully to keep their two young sons in their seats. What had happened, she wondered, to the woman she’d met in the courtyard? Cynthia something. Broome. Cynthia Broome. Yes, that was it. She hadn’t seen her since that first day.

Mattie pushed herself to her feet, noting with a smile that while all the croissants had disappeared from the baskets in the center of the tables, most of the hard rolls remained. Who had the strength to chew those damn things anyway? she wondered, slowly making her way across the room. Certainly not her, she thought, as one of the American youngsters bolted out of his chair and crashed into her legs. Mattie felt her knees buckle. She stumbled, grabbed hold of a nearby chair, managed through sheer force of will to stay on her feet.

“Will you sit down!” the boy’s mother hissed, forcibly returning the towheaded child to his chair, pushing it in as close to the table as possible. “I’m so sorry,” the woman said as Mattie walked past her toward the lobby, the woman’s New England accent bouncing off the echo of the outside rain.

Chloe Dorleac, resplendent in a deep purple silk blouse and dark burgundy lipstick, nodded coolly in Mattie’s direction as Mattie headed for the tiny elevator. The dragon lady, Mattie thought with a chuckle. Abruptly, Mattie swiveled on her heel and approached the desk. “Can I help you?” Chloe Dorleac said without looking up.

“I wanted to inquire about one of the guests,” Mattie said, continuing when no further questions were forthcoming. “Cynthia Broome. She’s American.”

“Cynthia Broome,” the dragon lady repeated. “This name is not familiar.”

“She was here when we arrived. She told me she was staying several weeks.”

Chloe Dorleac made an elaborate show of looking
through her register. “No. No one by that name has ever been here.”

“Well, that can’t be,” Mattie persisted, eager to prove the dragon lady wrong, though she wasn’t sure why. She was exhausted, and her legs were beginning to ache. She needed to get upstairs and lie down before she collapsed. “Not too tall. Attractive. Red curly hair.”

“Oh, yes.” The dragon lady’s violet eyes flashed recognition. “I know who you mean. But her name is not Cynthia Broome.” The phone rang, and Chloe Dorleac excused herself to answer it. “One minute,” she said, holding up her index finger. “Une minute.”

Okay, Mattie thought, waiting as Mademoiselle Dorleac spoke animatedly in French to whomever was on the other end of the line. So she’d gotten the last name wrong. It wasn’t Broome. It was something else useful, although she was too tired to think what it might be. What difference did it make? Cynthia Not-Broome was obviously very busy seeing the sights of Paris and happy to be doing it all by her lonesome. Why was Mattie even thinking about her?

“Never mind,” Mattie said to Chloe Dorleac, with an ineffectual wave of her hand. The dragon lady ignored her, laughing into the receiver, although her mouth barely moved. The sound of her laughter followed Mattie into the tiny wrought-iron cage and up the open elevator shaft to the third floor. It pursued Mattie into her room and into her bed, competing with the rain, as Mattie closed her eyes and surrendered her weary body to sleep.

I
n her dream, Mattie was rushing to meet Jake at the top of the Arc de Triomphe. Jake had warned her not to be late. Checking her watch, Mattie climbed into the backseat of an idling cab in the middle of the traffic-choked place de la Concorde.

“Vite! Vite!” Mattie instructed the driver.

“Chop! Chop!” came the reply from the front seat. “Did you know that King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were guillotined in this square during the French Revolution? In fact, between 1793 and 1795, a total of 1,300 people lost their heads in this very spot.”

“My father lost his head when I was eight years old,” Mattie said. “My mother cut it off.”

Suddenly Mattie was out of the cab and running along the crowded sidewalk of the Champs Elysées. She checked her watch again, noting she had only two minutes
to make it to the top of the wide tree-lined avenue, whose name meant Elysian Fields, but which was now home to an unsightly number of fast-food outlets, car showrooms, and airline offices. “Excuse me,” she said, bumping into a woman in a floppy beige hat.

“What’s the big rush?” the woman asked as Mattie flew by.

“The Arc de Triomphe was commissioned by Napoleon in 1806, but not completed until thirty years later,” Mattie heard a tour guide shouting in English over the jostling crowd as she began her arduous climb to the top of the imposing structure. “Has anybody seen my husband?” she asked a group of tourists racing down the spiral stone staircase.

“You just missed him,” said a woman with curly red hair. “He went to the Georges Pompidou Center.”

A group of boisterous schoolboys hoisted Mattie over their shoulders and carried her back to the foot of the stairs, where they promptly disappeared, leaving Mattie alone in a small windowless room. “Somebody help me,” she shouted, banging her body futilely against a heavy metal door. But her voice grew weaker as her efforts increased, and soon all she heard was the echo of her body slapping against the cold stone walls.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Knock. Knock.

Qui est là?

Knock. Knock.

Mattie opened her eyes, her breathing labored, her forehead covered in tiny beads of sweat. God, she
hated dreams like that. She sat up and stared toward the window. Still raining, she thought, noting she’d slept barely an hour. Probably she should lie back down, try for another hour, make sure she was well rested for when Jake returned.

Knock. Knock.

Not her dream, Mattie realized. Someone was actually at the door. “Yes? Oui? Who is it? Qui est là?” Probably the cleaning lady, she thought, wondering why the woman didn’t just use her key. Or possibly Jake—maybe he’d forgotten his. Mattie swung her legs around the side of the bed.