The First Time (43 page)

“Mattie?” the voice asked, as Mattie’s hand froze on the doorknob.

Mattie opened the door to a vision of wet red curls.

“Miserable morning,” the woman said, dusting some rain from the shoulders of her navy jacket and staring at Mattie through gold-flecked brown eyes. “I tried going out, but I had to come back. It’s unbelievable out there. It’s Cynthia,” she said, almost as if she were asking a question. “Cynthia Broome? The dragon lady said you were looking for me.”

Mattie stood back, motioned the other woman inside the small room, nodded toward an unsteady wooden chair by the window. “I was asking about you, yes.” Mattie lowered herself carefully to the edge of the bed as Cynthia plopped her ample backside into the narrow seat and slipped out of her wet jacket. “Madame Dorleac said there was no one here by the name of Cynthia Broome.”

The other woman looked momentarily caught off guard. She gathered a fistful of red curls into the palm
of her right hand and shook them, several drops of water staining the thighs of her denim jeans. “Oh, of course. My passport,” she said. “It’s still in my married name. I should change it, I guess. I’ve been divorced almost four years.” Cynthia looked warily around the room. “Did you want to see me about anything in particular?”

Mattie shook her head. “No, not really. I was just curious what happened to you. I hadn’t seen you since that morning in the courtyard.”

“When you were looking for your husband.”

“I found him.”

Cynthia looked toward the washroom. “Where’d you put him?”

Mattie laughed. “He went to the Georges Pompidou Center. I was a little tired, so I came back upstairs to lie down.”

“And I woke you up?” Concern fell across Cynthia’s face like a heavy blanket.

“It’s all right,” Mattie assured her. “Really. I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I was having a bad dream anyway. You rescued me.”

Cynthia smiled, although the concern never left her round face. “What was the dream about?”

“Just one of those stupid dreams where you’re trying to get somewhere and you can’t.”

“Oh, I hate those,” Cynthia concurred. “They’re so frustrating.”

“Can I offer you anything? Some biscuits, Evian water, chocolates?”

“No, nothing. What kind of chocolates?” she asked, almost in the same breath.

“Cream-filled, sticky, gooey things. Absolutely sinful.” Mattie stretched toward the open box of truffles sitting on the tiny table beside her pillow. But the box felt like a lead weight, and it tumbled from her hand, spilling its contents to the floor. “Oh, no.”

“It’s okay. I’ll get them,” Cynthia offered quickly, on her knees and scooping up the chocolates with eager fingers. In seconds the truffles were safely ensconced in their brown paper wrappers. “There. No harm done.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Cynthia reached back into the box, selected the biggest of the truffles and popped it into her mouth. “Um, yummy. Champagne filling. My favorite.”

“Even covered in dust?”

“Yes, but it’s French dust, don’t forget. Makes a big difference.”

Again, Mattie laughed, deciding she liked Cynthia Broome, wondering what man had been fool enough to let her get away.

“Where’d you get these?”

“I don’t know. Jake picked them up at some little shop on the Right Bank.”

“How long have you two been married?” Cynthia asked, eyes scanning the remaining chocolates in the box.

“Sixteen years.”

“Wow. You must have been a child bride.”

“Actually, the bride was
with
child,” Mattie qualified, surprised to hear herself volunteer such personal information to a virtual stranger.

“But you’re still together sixteen years later,”
Cynthia said, a touch of muted envy in her voice. “You may have had to get married, but you didn’t have to stay together.”

Mattie nodded. “I guess that’s true.” She laughed. But the laugh stuck in her throat, attaching itself to her larynx like a gooey piece of chocolate, preventing the outside air from reaching her lungs. Mattie jumped from the bed, the box of candies dropping from her lap to the floor as she waved her arms frantically in front of her face.

“My God, what can I do?” Cynthia asked, immediately on her feet, her own arms flapping helplessly into the space between them.

Mattie shook her head. There was nothing anyone could do, she realized, trying to calm herself down. She wasn’t actually suffocating, she told herself, beginning the familiar litany. It was just that her chest muscles were getting weaker, resulting in breathing that was shallower, which just made it feel as if she couldn’t breathe, but she was breathing fine. Stay calm. Stay calm.

How could she stay calm when she was choking on what little air she could force into her lungs? She was going to die right here and now unless she got out of this room immediately. She had to get outside, get outside where there was fresh air. And raindrops the size of grapefruits to drown her fears. Better to drown than to suffocate, Mattie decided, propelling herself toward the door, tripping over her feet, losing her balance, tumbling toward the floor, her hands unable to break her fall, her cheek hitting the dark wood floor, her lip splitting open, blood sneaking into her open mouth as
she lay there, staring at the wisps of dust beneath her bed and gasping for air. Like a fish flopping helplessly at the bottom of a fisherman’s boat, Mattie thought, feeling Cynthia Broome’s hands on her shoulders as the other woman gathered her into her arms and pressed her against the white silk of her blouse, rocking her gently, like a baby, until Mattie’s breathing returned to normal.

“It’s okay,” Cynthia kept repeating. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Don’t get blood on your nice blouse,” Mattie warned the other woman a few minutes later, wiping the tears from her eyes, the blood from her lip.

“No big deal.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Not really,” Cynthia replied cryptically. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Mattie said. Then, softly, “I’m dying.”

Cynthia Broome said nothing, although Mattie felt her body stiffen, her breathing grow still beneath her large breasts.

“Something called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Mattie added, almost by rote.

“I’m so sorry,” Cynthia said.

“There’s some morphine in my purse.” Mattie indicated the brown canvas bag on the floor beside the armoire. “If you wouldn’t mind getting me one pill and a glass of Evian.”

Cynthia was instantly on her feet, stepping gingerly around the scattered chocolates on the floor, rifling through Mattie’s purse, locating the small bottle of pills. “Just one?”

Mattie smiled sadly. “For now,” she said. In the next second, Mattie felt the pill on the tip of her tongue and the glass of water at her lips, the Evian transporting the pill smoothly down her throat. “Thank you.” Cynthia resumed her seat beside Mattie on the floor, the two women leaning against the foot of the bed. “You don’t have to stay,” Mattie told her. “I’m okay now. My husband shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Tell me about him.” The other woman settled in, clearly not going anywhere.

Mattie pictured Jake’s dark blue eyes and handsome face, his strong hands and gentle mouth. “He’s a wonderful man,” Mattie said. “Kind. Good. Loving.”

“Good-looking too, I’ll bet.”

“Great-looking.”

The two women laughed softly. “So, you got a good one,” Cynthia said.

“Yes, I did,” Mattie agreed.

“I had a good one once.”

“What happened to him?”

“Circumstances,” Cynthia said vaguely.

“Circumstances change.”

Cynthia nodded, looked toward the floor. “Yes, they do.”

“Are we talking about your ex-husband?” Mattie asked.

“God, no.” Cynthia laughed. “Although, who knows? He didn’t stick around long enough for me to find out.”

“Doesn’t sound like you missed anything.”

“I don’t know. I always felt maybe I could have tried harder, you know.” Cynthia tapped the side of
her head. “Never been too bright where men are concerned.” She glanced at Mattie. “Is there some reason we’re sitting on the floor?”

“It’s not as far to fall,” Mattie said simply, as Cynthia helped her back onto the bed, propping some pillows behind Mattie’s head and stretching her legs across the top of the white comforter.

“We’re not going to let you fall,” Cynthia said, examining Mattie’s face with a careful eye. “You know, I think maybe we should put some cold water on that cheek. It’s starting to swell up a bit.” She walked into the bathroom. “Oh, look,” she called out over the sound of running water. “You’ve got Renoir on your floor. I got Toulouse-Lautrec on mine. Jane Avril doing the can-can at the Moulin Rouge. Pretty neat, huh?”

Between the rain hitting the window, the water running in the bathroom, and the sound of Cynthia’s voice, Mattie didn’t hear the key turning in the lock. She didn’t see the doorknob twist, didn’t realize Jake was back until he was closing the door behind him. “The damn gallery was closed for renovations,” he was saying, almost in slow motion, as he shucked off his jacket and smiled toward the bed, the smile immediately disappearing. And then suddenly, everything was happening very quickly, as if the whole scene had been prerecorded and the action was being fast-forwarded. Even later, when Mattie tried to recall the precise order of events, she found it difficult to pin them down, to separate one development from the next, one sentence from another. “My God, what happened to you?”

“I’m fine, Jake,” Mattie assured him. “I just had a little fall.”

He was instantly on his knees beside her. “Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“It’s okay, Jake. I wasn’t alone.”

“What do you mean?” He looked toward the bathroom. “Is the water running?”

“Cynthia’s here,” Mattie said. “She’s making me a cold compress.”

“Cynthia?”

“The woman from Chicago that I met in the courtyard when we first got here. You remember. I told you about her. Cynthia Broome.”

The color drained from Jake’s face, like water rushing from a tap. First, his cheeks, then even his eyes, seemed to pale. “Cynthia Broome?”

“Did I hear my name?” Cynthia stepped out of the bathroom and approached the bed as Jake rose clumsily to his feet. “You must be Jake,” she said, transferring the wet towel to her left hand and extending her right toward him.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his hands stiffly at his sides. “What are you doing here?”

“Jake!” Mattie said. “Isn’t that a little rude?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, trying to laugh. “You just caught me off guard, I guess.” He cleared his throat, lifted his hands into the air. “I go away for an hour, and I come back to find my wife covered in bruises and a stranger in my bathroom.”

Was it her imagination, Mattie wondered, or did Cynthia wince at the word
stranger
, almost as if she’d been struck? And what was the matter with Jake? It wasn’t like him to be so nonplussed, regardless of the situation.

“It’s been a frustrating morning for you,” Mattie said, as Cynthia walked around the bed and sat down beside her, gently applying the compress to Mattie’s cheek.

Jake stood frozen to the spot. “Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I had an attack,” Mattie explained. “I couldn’t breathe. I fell. Luckily, Cynthia was here. She helped me.”

“What was she doing here in the first place?” Jake asked, speaking about Cynthia as if she weren’t in the room.

“I was told your wife was looking for me.” Cynthia’s voice was suddenly as cool as the compress. “I dropped by as a courtesy.”

“A courtesy?”

There was no mistaking the anger in Jake’s voice. What was the matter with him? Mattie wondered. It wasn’t like him to be so reactive. Although he’d always been impatient with people he didn’t like. She thought of the incident in the Great Impasta, his outrage when his partners jumped to the wrong conclusions about her behavior. But what did he have against Cynthia Broome? Why would he be angry at her? Surely he didn’t hold her responsible for Mattie’s attack. “Jake, what’s going on? Are you all right?” Mattie asked.

Jake ran a shaking hand through his dark hair, took a long deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I guess the morning kind of got to me. I trudge all the way over to the damn gallery in this goddamn rain, and then it’s closed, and I can’t get a cab for over half an hour, and I finally get back, and I find—”

“Your wife covered with bruises and a stranger in your bathroom,” Cynthia said, completing the sentence for him.

“Thank you for helping my wife,” Jake said.

Cynthia nodded. “It was my pleasure. I’m glad I could be of help. Anyway,” she continued in almost the same breath, holding the compress out toward Jake, “time for you to take over. This room really isn’t big enough for three people.” She pushed herself off the bed, retrieving her jacket and dropping the compress into Jake’s hand as she walked past him. “Watch out for the chocolates,” she advised.

“Maybe we could all have lunch together later,” Mattie said as Cynthia opened the door.

Cynthia checked her watch. “Actually, I’m booked on some mystery tour of the city this afternoon. The mystery is whether we’ll be able to see anything in all this rain.”

“How about tomorrow?” Mattie pressed, although she wasn’t sure why. Clearly the woman was as eager to leave as Jake was eager to see her go. Sometimes there was just a natural negative chemistry between two people, Mattie was forced to admit. Her mother claimed that was true of dogs. There was no reason why it couldn’t apply to human beings as well. Why was she pushing for something that nobody really wanted?

“I’m kind of booked up for the rest of my stay.” Cynthia swayed from one foot to the other.

“I understand,” Mattie said, though she didn’t really. “Maybe back in Chicago. You’ll have to give me your address and phone number.”

“I’ll leave it with the dragon lady.” Cynthia checked
her watch a second time, although the glance was so brief, Mattie doubted the hour had time to register. “Take care,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Jason.”

“I’ll walk you downstairs,” Jake volunteered suddenly. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he told Mattie, who said nothing as he followed Cynthia into the hall and closed the door behind him.