Summer's End (16 page)

“With both of us gone, I can’t understand why you don’t paint at home. And what is this sudden new frenzy for your work?”

“What ‘frenzy’? I’m painting as much as ever.”

“Deanna, I really don’t understand.” But the tone in which he said the words suddenly hit her like a slap in the face.

“I enjoy my work.” She was goading him and she knew it.

“I don’t really think you need call it ‘work.’” He sighed into the phone and looked at his watch.

“I call it work because it is. I’m having a show at a gallery next month.” Her voice rang with defiance, and she felt her heart race faster and faster. He didn’t answer.

Then: “You’re what?”

“Having a show at a gallery.”

“I see.” There was a nasty tone of amusement in his voice, and for a moment she hated him. “We’re having a bohemian summer, are we? Well, maybe it will do you good.”

“Maybe it will.”
Bastard … he never understood!

“Is it necessary to prove your point by having a show? Why not dispense with that? You can work in your other studio, and let it go at that.”

Thank you, Daddy.
“The show is important to me.”

“Then it can wait. We’ll discuss it when I get back.”

“Marc….”
I’m in love with another man…
. “I’m going to do the show.”

“Fine. Just let it wait till the fall.”

“Why? So you can talk me out of it when you come home?”

“I won’t do that. We’ll talk about it then.”

“It won’t wait. I’ve already waited too long.”

“You know, darling, You’re too old for tantrums and too young for menopause. I think you’re being very unreasonable.”

She wanted to hit him, except that for a moment she also wanted to laugh. It was a ridiculous conversation, and she realized that she sounded a great deal like Pilar. She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. Tell you what: You win your case in Athens; I’ll do what I need to do with my art, and I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Is that your way of telling me to mind my own business?”

“Maybe so.” She was suddenly braver than she had been in years. “Maybe we both just have to do what we need to do right now.”
Oh God, what are you doing? You’re telling him.
… She held her breath.

“Well, in any case, you need to listen to your husband, and your husband needs to go to bed, so why don’t we just relax about all this for a while? We’ll talk again in a few days. All right? Meanwhile, no art show.
C’est compris? Capisce?
Understood?”

She wanted to grit her teeth. She wasn’t a child, and he was always the same. Pilar got the motorcycle, Deanna did not get the art show, and we’ll all discuss it “when I have time.” His way, always
his
way. But not anymore. “I understand, Marc, but I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

It wasn’t like him to be so obvious. Deanna realized that he must be very tired. He must have noticed it too. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk another time.”

“Fine.” She stood silently in her studio, waiting, wondering what he would say.

He said,
“Bonsoir.”

And he was gone. Good night. And this time she hadn’t bothered to tell him she loved him. “No art show.” The words rang in her head. No art show. She sighed heavily and sank into her chair. What if she defied him? What if she had the show anyway? Could she do that to him? To herself? Was she brave enough to just go ahead and do what she wanted? Why not? He was away. And she had Ben. But it wasn’t for Ben. It was for herself. She looked around the room for a long moment, knowing that her lifetime was facing those walls, hidden on canvases no one had seen and would never see unless she did what she knew she had to do now. Marc couldn’t stop her, and Ben couldn’t make her do it. She had to do it now. Had to. For herself.

As Marc set down the phone, he looked at his watch again. It was almost ten, and the call to Deanna had done nothing to soothe his nerves. Dammit. He had told her about the motorcycle, and he hadn’t meant to. And her bloody art show. Why the hell didn’t she give up on that nonsense? And where the hell was Chantal? Jealousy was beginning to gnaw at his insides again as he poured himself a Scotch. When he heard the bell, he went to the door and opened it an inch. It was the little old man from next door. Monsieur Moutier. He was sweet, Chantal said, and he was taken care of by a daughter and a maid. He too had once been a lawyer, but now he was eighty years old. He had a soft spot for Chantal. Once he had sent her flowers.

“
Oui?
” Marc looked at him questioningly, wondering if the old man was ill. Why would he come to their door at this hour? “Is something wrong?”

“I … no. I…
je regrette.
I wanted to ask you the same thing. How is mademoiselle?”

“Very well, thank you, except that as far as I can see she’s a little bit late getting home.” He smiled at the elderly gentleman wearing the black smoking jacket and needlepoint slippers doubtless made by his daughter. “Would you like to come in?” Marc stepped aside, wanting to get back to his Scotch, but the old man shook his head.

“No, no….” He looked sorrowfully at Marc. He understood only too well. The man who always traveled, who was never there. He had been that way too. His wife had died, and he had learned too late. “She is not late, monsieur. They took her to the hospital last night.” He gazed at Marc as the shock registered on his face.

“Chantal? My God! Where?”

“The American Hospital, monsieur. She was in some kind of shock. The ambulance driver said—”

“Oh, my God!” Marc glanced at the old man in terror and then ran inside to grab his jacket from a chair. He returned instantly and slammed the door to the apartment, as the old man stepped aside. “I have to go.” Oh, my God…. Oh, Chantal. … Oh, no…. Then she wasn’t out with another man. Having raced down the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest, Marc ran into the street and hailed a cab.

11

The taxi pulled up at 92 Boulevard Victor Hugo in Neuilly in the quiet outskirts of Paris. Marc thrust some franc notes into the driver’s hand and raced inside. It was well past visiting hours, but he walked purposefully toward the information desk and inquired for Mademoiselle Chantal Martin. Room 401, admitted with diabetic coma, present condition satisfactory. She can go home in two days. Marc stared at the nurse, dismayed. Without discussing the matter further, he took the elevator to the fourth floor. A nurse sat sternly at her station and observed him as he disembarked from the elevator.

“Oui
, monsieur?”

“Mademoiselle Martin.” He tried to sound commanding but he felt suddenly frightened. How had it happened and why? He felt a sudden surge of guilt for having gone to Antibes. “I must see her.”

The nurse shook her head. “Tomorrow.”

“Is she asleep?”

“You may see her tomorrow.”

“Please. I—I came all the way from—” He was about to say the South of France, then had a better idea. He flipped open his wallet. “From San Francisco, in the United States. I caught the first plane after I heard.” There was a long pause.

“Very well. Two minutes. And then you go. You are … her father?” Marc only shook his head. It was the final blow.

The nurse led him to a room not far away. Inside, a dim light burned. She left Marc-Edouard at the door. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold before stepping softly inside.

“Chantal?” His voice was a whisper in the dark room. She was lying in her bed, looking very pale and very young. In her arm there was an intravenous tube, attached to an ominous-looking bottle. “Darling. …” He approached, wondering what he had done. He had taken on this girl and only given her half his life. He had to hide her from his mother, his child, his wife, sometimes even from himself. What right did he have to do this to her? His eyes were too bright as he stood at her side and gently took her free hand. “Darling, what happened?” A sixth sense had already told him that the diabetic coma was no accident. Chantal had the kind of diabetes one didn’t fool around with. But as long as she took her insulin, ate well, slept enough, and didn’t get pregnant, she’d be all right.

Her eyes closed and tears filtered through her lashes. “
Je m’excuse.
I’m so sorry…” Then after a pause: “I stopped taking my insulin.”

“On purpose?” As he watched her nod, he felt as though someone had delivered a blow to his heart. “Oh, my God. Chantal, darling … how could you?” He watched her in sudden terror. What if she had died? What if …? He couldn’t bear losing her, couldn’t bear it. Suddenly, the full force of it struck home. He reached for her unencumbered hand and pressed it hard. “Don’t ever, ever do that again!” His voice rose desperately. “Do you hear me?” She nodded again. And then there were tears pouring down his face as well. He sat down at her side. “I would die without you. Don’t you know that?”

There was no answer in her eyes. No, she didn’t know it. But it was true. He himself knew it for the first time. Now there were two of them. Deanna and Chantal. Two of them he owed a lifetime to, and he was only one man. He couldn’t live with himself if he put Deanna out of his life. And he couldn’t live without Chantal. The weight of it struck him like an axe. He saw her watching him. He was almost gray. “I love you, Chantal. Please, please don’t ever do anything like this again. Promise me!” He squeezed harder on the delicate hand.

“I promise.” It was a whisper in the sudden electricity of the room. Fighting the sobs that were rising in his chest, Marc-Edouard folded her gently into his arms.

By the end of the day, Deanna had chosen eleven paintings. It was going to be hard work selecting the rest. She set the eleven to one side and then walked back to the main part of the house. She was still thinking of her talk with Marc. She wondered if she would have defied him about the show if he hadn’t let Pilar buy the motorcycle. It was strange how those things worked. Their marriage was filled with petty revenges. She walked up the stairs to her bedroom and peered into the closet. What would she need? Another bathrobe, some jeans, the champagne-colored suede skirt that she was sure Ben would like. What was she doing here, in Marc’s bedroom planning her life with another man? Was she being menopausal or childish, as he’d suggested, or merely crazy? The phone rang as she stared into her closet, wondering. She didn’t even feel guilty anymore, except when she talked to Marc. The rest of the time she felt as though she belonged with Ben. The phone rang again and again. There was no one she wanted to talk to. She felt as though she had already moved out. But reluctantly, she picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Can I come get you? Are you ready to come home?” It was Ben. And it was only four-thirty.

“So early?” She smiled into the phone.

“You want some more time to work?” As though her work mattered, as though it were important, as though he understood.

But she shook her head. “Nope. I’m all through. I picked out eleven today. For the show.”

Her voice was strong, and he smiled. “I’m so proud of you I can hardly stand it. I told Sally today, about the show. We’re going to run a beautiful ad.”

Oh, Jesus, not an ad. What about Kim?
She felt as though she were gasping for air when she spoke again. “Do you have to do an ad?”

“You let me handle my business, and you handle yours. Speaking of which, I’d like to handle….” His voice was very soft in the phone, and Deanna blushed.

“Stop that!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re in your office, and I’m—I’m here.”

“Well, if that’s all that’s stopping you, let’s both get the hell out of those repressive places. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Are you ready?”

“Desperately.” She couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Every moment she spent in it was oppressive.

“Desperate enough to go all the way to Carmel?”

“I’d love it.” Then: “What about your housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Meacham? She’ll be off.” It was disagreeable to be hiding like that, but he knew Deanna felt that she had no choice. She still wasn’t free. “Anyway, never mind Mrs. Meacham. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. And by the way, Deanna,” he paused while she waited, wondering what he would say; he sounded very solemn. Then his voice dropped again, and she almost could see him smile. “I love you.”

She smiled happily and closed her eyes. “So do I.”

The weekend in Carmel was heavenly. The Fourth of July. They spent all three days wandering on the beach, lying in the sun, looking for shells, and collecting driftwood, and once or twice braving the still-icy ocean for a quick swim.

She was already smiling to herself as he lay down next to her on the blanket, shivering from the sea. She had been soaking up the sun and improving her deep-honey tan.

“What are you smiling about, sleeping beauty?” His body was cool and damp next to hers, and his skin felt delicious as she turned and ran her fingers down his arm.