The Last Time I Saw Paris (4 page)

Lying sleepless in the moonlit room with only the
sound of Dexter's breathing for company, Lara felt suddenly overwhelmed by what was happening in her life. She had always thought of herself as a young woman, but now a younger one had taken her place. She was bewildered by the fact that she was getting older and afraid to face the lurking possibility that she might have to get older without Bill.

Throwing on her old robe, she walked to the window and stood looking at the powerful moonlit ocean, steel gray under silver gauze, doing the same thing it always did: surging in then flowing gently back out. Endlessly, infinitely. As it had long before she was born, and would long after she was gone. Somehow, there was no comfort in the sound of the ocean tonight.

She thought of the first time she had met Bill. He was tall, lean, dark, and very attractive. He was already in medical school, and he lived next door. She had been a plump, frizzy-haired teenager, too shy even to speak, except for a brief “Hi” in passing. Anyhow, she considered him an older man, out of her league and out of her life.

He was sitting on the porch steps outside his house and tears were rolling down his face. Lara had heard the news that his mother had just died. Bursting with compassion, she went to sit next to him. She took his hand and held it tightly. After a while he wiped away his tears. He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then he dropped a light kiss on her cheek. And was gone.

They did not meet again until she was seventeen and going off to college at Northwestern and Bill was already an intern at Cook County. For Lara, it was love at second sight. They had dated, courted, almost made out in the back of her mother's new Buick Riviera,
but she had been too scared and he was a gentleman. They were married a week after she graduated.

For years after that she had played the role of helpmate, working all day in a gloomy local newspaper office to pay the rent, staying up nights to help him study. She had cooked endless pots of spaghetti bolognaise, taken care of the bills, fended off the creditors, been there for him. And after that, she had played the role of mother to their two children, as well as the father role since Bill was away so much. But her life had been so full, so busy, so crammed with kids and traumas and being a couple at social events that she had not anticipated any changes.

She stared at the silver ocean, thinking of Bill in Beijing with pretty, blond Melissa. She guessed proximity and a shared passion for their medical work had drawn them together, shutting her out of their charmed, clever, busy lives. How could she compete? What did she have to offer? Only a too-familiar body, a lifeline of memories, a lost world.

Putting a hand to her throat, she touched the tiny diamond lover's knot. Didn't they say it represented the tie that binds? Is that what Bill had meant when he gave it to her? Sighing, she hoped so. Anyhow, she would not take it off until he got back home. She would wear it like a talisman, hoping it would bring him back to her.

Dawn was breaking and she went downstairs and made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea—decaffeinated, though since she was already sleepless she didn't know why she bothered. She carried the steaming mug of tea out onto the deck and leaned on the rail, watching the tide coming in with the dawn.

She wondered what time it was in Beijing. Call the
minute you arrive, she had told Bill, filled with that sudden anxiety about the flimsiness of airplanes, the vagaries of foreign weather, the reliability of air traffic control. Things she never even considered when she took a flight herself. Now, she wondered if he would remember.

Her thoughts turned to the trip they had planned. She had suggested it months ago and she'd thought Bill had seemed pleased.

Her honeymoon had been the most idyllic three weeks of her life, when innocence had been a state of mind, youth taken for granted, and every experience was fresh and new. They had flown to Paris, where they had stayed at the Ritz, a wedding gift from her mother. From Paris they had driven to visit the châteaux of the Loire, then down through the middle of France to the Dordogne. They had crisscrossed the country, ending up in Avignon, then plunged south to the blue Mediterranean and endless sunshine.

She remembered clearly the cities and villages they had visited, the hotels and auberges where they stayed, the restaurants they had dined in, even the places they had picnicked. Everything had gone like clockwork: perfect locations, perfect weather. Perfect lovemaking. And Bill was her first and only lover.

They had flown home from Nice three weeks later, sated with love, gorged on fine foods and wines, their eyes dazzled with vistas of châteaux and ruins and rivers and the bluest sea she had ever seen. It had been the most perfect time in their lives.

Now, she could not recall when they had last managed to spend three days together, let alone three weeks. But soon they were to retrace their honeymoon path through France, and she was counting on this trip to bring the old Bill, the one she used to know, back to her.

W
hen the cold morning fog finally began to unravel, leaving only scarves of lavender mist, Lara called Dex and they went for a long walk along the narrow strip of beach left uncovered by the tide. By the time they got back the sun was burning its way through and the day promised heat. She showered and changed into baggy white linen shorts and a black T-shirt, thrust her bare feet into Keds, hustled Dex into the car, and drove to Carmel in search of a newspaper, a cup of coffee, and a lemon poppyseed muffin.

Carmel's pretty tree-shaded Ocean Avenue was already filled with slowly drifting tourists and Lara ambled along at their same slow pace, gazing in the windows of antique shops and gift shops, clothing boutiques and art galleries, ending up at a cafe where she drank a double cappuccino and fed most of the muffin to Dex, who sat drooling at her feet. She knew it wasn't good for him, but thought, what the hell, every life had to have some forbidden little treat. Even a dog's.

Afterward, she bought a
USA Today
so she would have the TV listings, then browsed the Pilgrims Way bookstore, where she picked up a copy of the latest Michelin guide to France as well as a biography she had been meaning to read, and a copy of Noel Coward's
Diaries.
Reading other people's diaries seemed like peeking into their lives, and she asked herself if
she had become a voyeur now instead of a participant in life. Angry at the thought, she marched out of the bookstore and into the grocery, where, defiantly, she purchased Wonder Bread, brown sugar, bananas, a packet of Oreos, and a quart of milk. Then she returned to the car and drove slowly back along the highway.

The house was filled with sunlight and the sound of the sea, and she ran upstairs to put on the new red bathing suit. She rubbed a 15 sunscreen into her pale skin and tied her long curly hair up in a ponytail, then stared critically at her reflection, seeing how she truly looked in the bathing suit in the harsh light of day instead of in the store's flattering mirror that she could swear had taken five pounds off her. She saw soft pale skin in need of sunshine and free weights, round breasts spilling out of the top, high-cut legs that left more of her exposed than she had thought. She shrugged. What the hell, there was no one to see her. Grabbing a towel and the
Diaries,
she headed out onto the deck.

She was dragging the teak chaise into the sun when the wooden deck gave an ominous creak. There was a sharp, splintering sound and she watched astonished as the chair's back wheels sank into the hole that suddenly appeared. Dex jumped back, barking as though it were alive, making her laugh. But it was dangerous; the whole deck might be rotten. She tried to think when it had last been repaired but it was buried so long in the past she couldn't even recall.

Sighing, she went back inside, leafed through the Yellow Pages, and called a couple of decking specialists. Neither of them could make it out for at least a week, maybe two. “You're better off calling a contractor,” the second one told her. “Try Dan Holland;
he's reliable and he might be able to help you out.”

Dan Holland was not there but a pleasant voice announced that if she left a message he would get back to her. She did that, then went back out and found a corner of the deck that felt secure under her testing bounce, dragged over another chaise, spread her towel, and breathed a sigh of relief as she lay down. Finally.

She put the phone and a can of Diet Coke and the
Diaries
on the small table beside her, pulled a shady straw hat over her ponytail, and stared out to sea. She wondered when Bill would call.
If
Bill would call. If he was thinking about her. . .

The long day drifted slowly toward evening. She and Dex walked the beach. The dog swam and she threw an old green tennis ball for him. She walked so far her calves began to ache and they turned back, ambling wearily home.

Tracking sand into the house, she went into the kitchen, gave the dog a bowl of water, and rubbed him off with an old towel. He rolled appreciatively on his back, then padded after her onto the deck, carefully avoiding the splintery hole.

It was almost five o'clock. A squadron of pelicans drifted overhead, riding the wind, immobile as a piece of sculpture, and the shrieks of gray-and-white gulls pierced the stillness. She leaned on the deck rail with the wind tugging at her hair, listening to the roar of the ocean and watching the spray bursting over the rocks. Waiting for the phone to ring.

But it was the doorbell that rang.

When she answered it, Lara gazed, stunned, at the young man smiling at her. He was tall and lean, his skin was tanned the color of light maple syrup, and a shock of smooth, sun-streaked, light brown hair fell
into his deep-blue eyes. She could see the line of the veins on his strong neck and the tiny pulse beating at the base of his throat, where fine golden hairs curled above the neck of his white T-shirt.

A breathless silence hung between them. Lara was suddenly aware of the too-small red bathing suit and those too-amply-displayed curves and the incongruous diamond necklace, and she wanted to run back inside, throw a big shirt over her pale nakedness. Then he said, “Hi, I'm Dan Holland. You called about your deck. I was out this way so I thought I might as well drop in, see if there's anything I can do.”

“Oh. The deck. Of course.” Lara collected her suddenly scattered wits, asked him in, and showed him the hole in the deck. While he looked at it, she ran upstairs and put on a shirt. When she came back down, Dan Holland was kneeling by the hole, jabbing at the wood with a screwdriver. He walked around, bouncing on the boards, testing their springiness.

“I'll have to check underneath, if that's okay,” he said politely.

Lara watched as he ran down the wooden beach steps. She liked the way he moved, his easy stride. He was a man comfortable in his body; there was an air of solid confidence about him. She could tell he knew what he was doing and felt instinctively that she could trust him to do a good job.

He came back up the steps and said regretfully, in his slow drawl, “I'm sorry to tell you this, Ms. Lewis, but quite a number of the timbers are rotten. My guess is it's been a few years since they were touched. A couple of the big support beams underneath will have to be replaced, plus there's patches of dry rot. It doesn't seem to have spread around the side yet, maybe because it's more sheltered around there, out
of the spray and wind. Anyhow, ma'am, that's the bad news, I'm afraid.”

He smiled as he said it, crinkling his blue eyes, and Lara thought how white his teeth looked against his outdoorsman-tanned skin.

“I guessed it would be bad news,” she said with a sigh. “Can I offer you a cold drink, Mr. Holland? A Coke, a beer?”

“Thank you for the offer, ma'am, Ms. Lewis, but I have to be on my way.” Unhurriedly, he tucked his screwdriver back into the tool belt at his hip.

Of course he would have to leave, Lara thought with a pang. A young man like that must have a busy life. . . .

“So tell me what the damage is.” She was brisk, all business as he explained what needed to be done and promised to work up the costs.

“Thanks for stopping by. I appreciate it,” she called after him, watching as he climbed into the bright-red, dust-covered Ford pickup, with
Daniel Holland Building Contractor
written on the side. A black Lab crouched in the back, tongue lolling, panting in the heat. Dan Holland waved once, then in a swirl of dust and exhaust, he was gone.

Lara wondered how old he was. Young enough to call her
ma'am,
anyhow. And she wondered about his wife, because a good-looking guy like that must surely have one. Probably kids too . . .

The insistently ringing phone jolted her back to reality.

“Hi. I thought you'd be out at the beach.”

It was Bill. He had called her after all.
“You arrived safely,” she said foolishly, because obviously he had.

“The trip was okay,” he was saying. “We had a bit
of turbulence but that's the way it goes these days. Yeah, Beijing is something else, like nowhere you've ever seen.…”

And now I never will, she thought sadly.

He was telling her how busy he was going to be, how the president of China himself was coming out for the opening of the new hospital, that the cardiovascular wing was to be named after him.…

“About the French trip,” he said, sounding hesitant. “We're going to have to postpone it.”

Lara's heart stuck in her throat. She couldn't think straight, couldn't find the right words to express her shock. “But, Bill,” she stammered finally, “we're leaving in three weeks; the tickets are in your desk drawer. I've made all the hotel reservations, I rented a car, even the restaurants are booked.”

Oh, God, please let him say it's okay, she prayed silently. Let him say he can make it. I'm counting on this trip to get him away from Melissa, to get our lives back on track.