The Love Season (30 page)

Renata shook her head.
No, not me. I’m not like that
. “Whatever happened with the restaurant in Africa?”

“Nothing happened,” Marguerite said. “While we were in Morocco, your mother discovered she was pregnant.”

“With me?”

“With you.”

“So I ruined her dream, then?”

“No, no, darling. It would never have worked out anyway, for a million reasons. It wasn’t meant to be.”

“You could still do it,” Renata said.

Marguerite laughed. “That time has come and gone.”

“No, really,” Renata said. “You could open a restaurant over there like you and Mom wanted. You could leave this place for a while.” Renata’s voice sounded concerned and Marguerite wondered if it contained any pity. The last thing she wanted was for the child to pity her.

“Leave?” Marguerite said, as though the thought had never occurred to her. It had, of course. Sell her house and move to Paris. Or Calgary. Start over someplace new, like she was nineteen instead of sixty-three. “I’ll have to think about that.”

Marguerite cleared away the dinner plates and left Renata in the dining room to enjoy the champagne, the flowers, the ticking of the old clock. All this information at once, it was a lot for a person to process; Renata could use a few minutes of quiet. As Marguerite rinsed the dishes she pondered the girl’s words. Out of the mouths of babes.
You could still do it
. Marguerite thought about the night Candace first mentioned the restaurant. She remembered Candace’s anger with her, her frustration.
I want you to reimagine
. She could reimagine now, with ease: A restaurant with walls of canvas, swathed like the head of a Bedouin. A place in the middle of the desert that would be hard to reach, where some nights it would be just Marguerite alone, enjoying enough romantic atmosphere for fifty people. She would wait those nights for the ghost who left footprints in the sand.

Before she set out dessert, Marguerite retreated to her bedroom to fetch the photographs from her dresser. There were only the two that Marguerite had to show, though there were hundreds of others—pictures from the restaurant opening, benefit nights, pictures from Candace’s wedding, from Morocco—that Marguerite kept in a wooden wine crate in the storage space of the smallest of the five upstairs bedrooms. Maybe one day down the road she would have the courage to pull that box out and sift through it, but for now there were just these two pictures. Marguerite set them down in front of Renata. Renata picked up the christening picture first and squinted. Admittedly, there wasn’t much light in the dining room, but Marguerite didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere by making it brighter.

“That’s me?” Renata said. “The baby?”

“That’s your christening party.”

“It was at the restaurant?”

“Of course. You’re my godchild. The one and only.”

Renata gazed at it with the most heartbreakingly earnest expression Marguerite had ever seen.

“You don’t have pictures of Candace at your house?” Marguerite asked.

“Oh, we do,” Renata said. “Just not this one.”

“Right,” Marguerite said. The girl’s life had more holes than Swiss cheese. But here was a hole Marguerite could fill. Renata, Marguerite, and Candace at the party following Renata’s christening. “It was probably the most glamorous christening party any child ever had. We had foie gras, black truffles, champagne, thirty-year port, Cuban cigars, caviar—”

“Really?” Renata said. “For me?”

“Really. For you.” Daniel had insisted on footing the bill for everything, though Marguerite had given a case of champagne and Porter had, somehow, conjured up the cigars. “It was a big deal, your arrival in the world.”

“I love this picture,” Renata said.

“Yes, so do I.” Marguerite studied it, trying to see with fresh eyes. Both she and Candace looked so proud, so awestruck, that they might have been the baby’s parents: mother and godmother.

The other photograph was black-and-white. It was taken one long-ago autumn; it was just Candace and Marguerite sitting at one of the deuces facing Water Street. Neither of them was looking at the camera; they had plates of food in front of them, but they weren’t eating. Marguerite was saying something, and Candace’s head was bent close to the table, listening. Marguerite doesn’t remember the moment the photo was taken or even the night; it was snapped by one of the photographers from
The Inquirer and Mirror
. It ran the week of October 3, 1980, on the Seen on the Scene page. Marguerite had been furious; she’d called the newspaper and threatened to sue, though the editor of the paper had laughed and said,
The picture’s completely innocuous, Margo, a slice of life, and it’s a damn attractive shot of you both, I might add
. The caption under the picture read:
Chef Marguerite Beale engages in tête-à-tête with friend Candace Harris at French hot spot Les Parapluies
. Marguerite never quite came around to the editor’s point of view—to her the picture was an invasion of privacy; it reminded her uncomfortably of the picture of Porter with Overbite Woman in
The New York Times
. It put Marguerite and Candace’s intimacy on display—however, it was this very thing that eventually endeared the picture to her, and she asked that the editor send her a print.

“Dessert?” she said. She spoke the word brightly, though inside she
panicked. Dessert, no matter how sweet, meant the end. Marguerite would have to tell about the end.

“I’d love some,” Renata said.

Marguerite disappeared into the kitchen.

9:30 P.M.

The young black woman came out onto the deck with her eyebrows knit together and her mouth pressed into a flat line. Even in the night air, lit only by candles and tiki torches, Daniel could tell she was a few shades paler than she’d been when she left. Daniel stood up and the table grew quiet. They had just been talking about the Opera House Cup sailing race, and an old boat they all remembered called
Christmas
.

“Renata?” Daniel said. “She’s asleep?”

“She’s gone,” Nicole said.

Cade whipped around in his chair. “What?”

“The guest room was empty,” Nicole said. “Her things are gone.”

The Robinsons were quiet, except for Claire, who coughed into her napkin, in order to keep from laughing. She wasn’t sure why but she found this very funny. All except for Cade, who looked like he was fourteen years old again, dropped off for his first day of boarding school, abandoned by his parents, separated from his friends. He had been so forlorn that first day, whereas Claire had felt free at last.

Suzanne laughed, too, but shrilly. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Where did she go?”

Nicole felt like Suzanne was daring her to come right out and say it:
She left with Miles
. But Nicole couldn’t stand to think the words, much
less speak them out loud to a tableful of people, and furthermore, she hated being the center of attention.
Don’t shoot the messenger
, she wanted to say, though she knew they would anyway. That was why she’d left the ring right where it was, on top of the dresser. There was no use bringing down all the bad news at once; they could find the ring themselves when they went upstairs to investigate.

“You’re sure her stuff is gone?” Cade said.

“I’m sure.”

“I know where she is,” Daniel said.

“Where?” Cade said.

“Where?” Nicole asked, forgetting herself. Then she thought,
You don’t know where she is. You’re only her father
.

“She’s with her godmother,” Daniel said. “Marguerite Beale.”

“No,” Cade said. “She called Marguerite to cancel.”

“That’s where she is,” Daniel said. “Trust me.” Faces around the table seemed unconvinced, or uncaring, but what these people didn’t understand was the allure Marguerite held. Daniel had kept Renata away from her for fourteen years. He didn’t want Renata to have to hear Marguerite’s side of the story, her teary admissions, her apologies. But Renata had sought it out on her own. In a way, Daniel felt proud of her. She hadn’t been taken in by these people; she hadn’t been hypnotized by their wealth; she had kept her eye on what was important to her—seeing Marguerite, and learning about her mother.

Suzanne exhaled loudly and cradled her pink cheeks in her hands. She looked completely deflated. Daniel thought he might feel gratified by this, but instead he was ashamed. He very calmly sat back down. The poor woman had put a lot of work into tonight’s dinner party and Renata had poked a hole in it. Despite Daniel’s overwhelming desire to see his daughter, he wasn’t willing to shred the evening further; he would salvage
what he could. Renata wasn’t going anywhere; she was safe. Daniel buttered a Parker House roll and took a bite.

Cade glared at him. “I’m going over there to get her.”

Daniel swallowed the bite of roll and sipped his scotch. “Leave her be, son.”

“What do you know about leaving her be?” Cade said. “She left because you showed up. I’m sure that’s why she left.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Daniel said.

And because she doesn’t want to marry Cade
, Claire thought.

And because she had sex with Miles
, Nicole thought.
She was swept along by his beautiful promises
. Just the way Nicole had been last winter when she was working as a breakfast waitress on the harbor front in Capetown. Miles had suckered her in with promises of love and money. Nicole was encouraged, however, by the confidence of the father’s words. Maybe Renata did go to whatshername Beale’s house. Hadn’t she been talking about it with Suzanne that morning in the kitchen? Nicole sensed a filament of hope. Maybe Renata didn’t go with Miles after all. For the first time all day, Nicole felt relieved. She felt almost happy.

“Let’s just eat,” Joe Driscoll said in a voice that would not be argued with. He held the end of an ear of corn with one hand and his butter knife with the other. Neither hand was shaking.

Cade noticed this, but he was too agitated to let it register. He threw his napkin onto his plate. “I’m going up to see for myself,” he said.

“Cade,” Suzanne said. “Listen to your father, please. Eat your dinner.”

The Robinsons returned to their dinner plates; Kathy Robinson murmured something complimentary about the salad dressing. Joe Driscoll buttered his corn. Claire Robinson sipped her tea, which had grown cold. She knew, as did Nicole, who slipped into the kitchen, as did Daniel Knox, as did the others deep down in their hearts, what Cade was going to find.

9:42 P.M

Nine thirty was Lights-Out at Camp Stoneface and had been all summer. The twelve girls in Action Colpeter’s cabin were doing their nighttime-whisper thing, which sometimes lasted until midnight if Action didn’t lay down the law. However, tonight, for some reason, Action was antsy, eager to wash her hands of Camp Stoneface and the million and one rules she hand to enforce. What she wanted more than anything was to be
alone
, so she could
think
.

“I’m going to be right outside on the stoop,” Action announced to her campers. “So do not attempt any funny business.” Such as drawing with indelible marker on the girl who fell asleep first, such as telling stories, real or made up, about doing drugs or having abortions.

Action took her flashlight and her pen and notebook and sat on the top step right outside the cabin door. If they thought they were escaping tonight to raid the mess hall for stale potato chips or to make mooning noises through the screens of the boys’ cabin, they were mistaken. Action started a letter to Renata.
Hola, bitch-ola!
But this sounded too cavalier. The truth was, Action was worried about Renata. Action had been born with nearly perfect instincts, and her instincts about Renata this second rang out:
Doomsday
.

Action heard a noise coming from the grass nearby. Even after eight weeks in the thick woods of all-but-forgotten West Virginia, Action was still freaked out by the wildlife—the bullfrogs, the owls, the bats, the mosquitoes. Action had grown up on Bleecker Street; her experience with wildlife had been limited to the freaks she’d seen on Christopher Street and in Alphabet City. The noise in the grass sounded suspiciously
like a bullfrog. It made a buzzing, thrumming sound at regular intervals. Action shined her flashlight in the frog’s direction; if she kept her eye on it, it wouldn’t land on her
—plop!—
wet and slimy. She was wearing jeans and running shoes. She could step on it or nudge it away. The noise persisted. Action climbed down off the steps and hunted through the grass for the frog.

Her flashlight caught a glint of something silver. What was this? Action bent down, peering at the thing that was making the noise as if it were as unlikely as a moonstone. Ha! She snapped it up, triumphant. It was a cell phone, the ringer set to vibrate.

Eight weeks ago, discovering a cell phone in the grass would have made Action livid. Cell phones—and all other treasures from the world of IT—were strictly
verboten
at Camp Stoneface. Action and her fellow counselors took great joy in stripping campers of their cell phones, Game Boys, iPods, and laptops. But now, in the third week of August, discovering a cell phone in the grass, at night, while she was alone, was like a sign from the Virgin Mary herself. Action was supposed to call somebody.