A Sudden Change of Heart (26 page)

“I’ve brought iced tea for you, Claire. I know you love it. I found your favorite yesterday at the market.
Honey peach.
And for you, Natasha, I’ve squeezed fresh grapefruit.” As she spoke, Fenice placed the laden tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “There’s some chocolate chip cookies too. Just out of the oven. And as soon as Laura gets back, I’ll be fixin’ the eggs and the English muffins. Can’t have you starvin’, now, can we?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Fenice, you’re too busy to do the eggs. I can manage!” Natasha exclaimed. “I’m a good cook.”

“Get on with you, it’s no trouble for me. Stay with your mama, keep her company.”

“Thank you, Fenice,” Claire said.

Fenice beamed at them both, swung around on her heel, and went marching out, looking very much like a woman totally in command of her domain.

Watching her go, Natasha asked, “Has Fenice ever been married?”

“Oh, no, she’s married to Rhondda Fach,” Claire explained. “At least, that’s what Laura and I think. She never got too involved with a man, because she didn’t want to leave the valley and this house.”

“And those who live in it, I guess,” Natasha added, sounding much wiser than her years.

L
aura was pleased.

She sat opposite Claire in the small dining room, watching her eat a plate of scrambled eggs along with a slice of Fenice’s freshly baked bread spread with butter.

“The strawberries look delicious,” Laura volunteered.
“Big and luscious, Claire, and Fenice has whipped up some cream. It’s a real treat.”

“I can’t wait,” Natasha interjected, then, turning to Laura, she confided, “Mom says Dad can come and see her. He wants to very much. It’s just a question of the right date. Mom said perhaps he could visit after my entrance exam for Chapin. What do you think, Laura?”

“It would be fine,” Laura murmured, and glanced at Claire, raising a brow quizzically as she did. She was suddenly curious about this new development.

“I agreed, Laura.” Claire then explained. “Natasha told me her father’s rather upset about my illness. And
she
wants him to visit me here as much as
he
wants to come. Whenever you say, Laura. It’s your call.”

“Hercule will be here this coming weekend. He could come then.”

“Or during the week,” Claire suggested. “I don’t think Philippe would expect to stay overnight.”

“But maybe—” Natasha began, and stopped when she saw the startled look on her mother’s face.

Changing the subject, Claire now said, “I dozed off when you were out buying the strawberries, Laura. So many memories came rushing back. Do you remember when we painted Dylan gold?”

“Oh, my God! How could I ever forget!” Laura cried, shaking her head and laughing. “Did we get it from Grandma Megan!” Sobering, she added, “But seriously, we really could have hurt him, you know. I tremble whenever I think about it now.”

“You didn’t really paint him gold, did you?” Natasha asked, putting her fork down, looking first at Laura and
then at her mother in amazement. “It’s very dangerous. The pores can’t breathe through paint, you know.”

“Exactly.” Laura grimaced. “We were well and truly punished.”

“But why did you paint him gold?” Natasha pressed.

“We were doing a little play, for Grandpa Owen and Grandma Megan. Very short, only two scenes, about Antony and Cleopatra. Dylan was the most beautiful little boy, and we decided to make him into a golden idol,” Laura explained. “And your mother knew enough, even if I didn’t, not to paint every part of him. So we fashioned a mask for his face out of cardboard painted gold, and we made him a pair of tiny briefs from a piece of gold lamé Fenice found in the rag bag here at the farm.”

Natasha began to laugh. “I would have loved to see your tiny golden idol. I suppose he was adorable.”

“But sticky. The paint didn’t dry very well,” Claire remarked, and then, looking across at Laura, she added, “And it was all your idea.”

“You always blamed me for everything,” Laura complained, grinning at her.

“Only when I thought I could get away with it,” Claire retorted, and began to chuckle.

26
     

“T
his is an extraordinary story, Laura,” Hercule Junot said, steepling his fingers, looking at her over the top of them. “Rosa Lavillard is in the same position as Maxim … she’s the heir to a great art collection she can’t find.”

“Exactly.
But I might find
it
for her,” Laura answered. “Or, rather, I might stumble upon a painting or two in the course of my work. After all, an enormous amount of material comes across my desk, as you know, and every day of the week. All I need is the right information from Rosa, so I know what to keep my eyes open for … names of artists … names of paintings.”

“I am quite certain she will be only too happy to give the information to you.”

“She is. She’s had the record book and inventories copied, and I’m hoping she’s going to give everything to me tomorrow, or on Sunday. You see, Grandma Megan wants her to come up for lunch on one of those days this weekend. And I—”

“But what about Claire, my dear? Won’t she object?” he ventured, cutting in. “You know that Rosa Lavillard is not a favorite of hers.”

“I do. But I’m planning on chatting to Claire about Rosa later today, if she’s not too tired.”

“That would be good. Certainly it would be a relief if they could be on cordial terms. I do loathe dissension of that kind.
Mon Dieu,
Laura! Would it not be wonderful if Natasha got to know her grandmother?”

“Yes, it would. Especially under the circumstances.”

Hercule gave her a worried look and asked swiftly, “What
are
those circumstances? Please tell me the truth.”

“I would never lie to you, Hercule, surely you know that by now. Claire’s about the same. No real improvement, but at least she’s not worse. She’s finished the course of chemotherapy treatments, and she doesn’t have to go back to Sloan-Kettering for a few months, in the fall, actually. But what pleases me is that she’s been so much better since she’s been here at Rhondda Fach.”

“That is good to know, yes,” Hercule murmured.

“I’m praying she’s going to beat it, Hercule.”

“So am I.” He sighed and looked away, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand. After a moment, he brought his gaze back to Laura and went on quietly. “If I have any regret in my life, it is that I never told Claire how I felt about her, that I didn’t ask her to marry me. What a fool I’ve been. And it has been such a waste of years. Years when I might have been able to make her happy. Perhaps I could have helped her to allay her pain, helped her rid herself of that terrible bitterness. Just to make her mental anguish disappear would have been very rewarding.”

“Tell her now,” Laura said, leaning closer to him under the sun umbrella. She touched his arm affectionately and smiled up into his face. “Tell her how you’ve always loved her. You don’t have to actually propose, but you could make her understand how much you care. I think it could
only be a positive for her. And it may very well make
you
feel better, Hercule. I can guarantee this … she won’t be angry. Claire’s changed. Well, a little bit. Some of her fierce anger has evaporated, at least.
Tell her.”

“Do you think I really should, Laura?” Hercule exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. “I will do it, but only if you are certain I will not upset her.”

“Of course you won’t. Any woman would be flattered to hear a declaration of love from a man like you, and it’s something for her to look forward to … getting better, spending time with you.”

“Do you think she would want to do that?”

“It’s possible, yes. I do know she cares a lot about you. She’s told me so.”

He smiled broadly. “I could give her a life of ease. We could travel, do anything she wants. I wouldn’t expect her to marry me … as long as we are together, that is all that matters.”

“Then tell her that.”

Hercule nodded but made no further comment. He sat staring into the distance, his eyes focused on the willows at the edge of the stream at the bottom of the garden.

He and Laura were sitting on the terrace having an aperitif before lunch on Friday. He had arrived at Rhondda Fach the night before and had been pleased to see Claire looking relaxed, and so much more vital and energetic than he had expected.

He thought for a moment or two about Laura’s advice, and then, putting the matter of Claire to one side, he said, “It will be a challenge for you … seeking Rosa’s paintings.”

“Obviously, I can’t actually go out and look for them,
because, like Sir Maxim, I wouldn’t know where to even start. But if one of them should go onto the market, I’ll be poised and at the ready … I can go after it.”

Hercule nodded.

Laura said, “I want to do it for Rosa, but it’s for Natasha as well. The art collection is her inheritance.”

“L
unch looks rather splendid, Fenice,” Megan remarked as she eyed the buffet that had been set up at one end of the dining room. “You’ve outdone yourself today.”

“Thanks, Mrs. V. But all I did was bake the rolls. Natasha made everything by herself. The salad niçoise, the quiche Lorraine, and the caramel custard and raspberries for dessert. The girl’s a wonder in the kitchen, a good little chef. My hat’s off to her.”

“Thank you, Fenice,” Natasha said as she came into the dining room carrying a bottle of
vin rosé.
After putting it in the bucket of ice, she turned to Megan and said, “Can I sit next to you, Grandma Megan?”

“Well, of course you can, Natasha dear,” Megan replied, smiling at her. “And my congratulations on this wonderful lunch.”

“Mom taught me everything about cooking. She’s a much better chef than I am. But I’m striving to reach her level.”

“You will, if you’re not there already, and I have a feeling you might be. Where is your mother, Natasha?”

“Hercule’s bringing her in from the garden, she sat out there for a while. And Laura went upstairs to change her clothes. Oh, here they are now. At least, here’s my mother with Hercule.”

Hercule and Claire came into the dining room together; Claire was well-groomed and looked pretty in a caftan made of amber and red printed cotton.

Megan said, “Where do you wish to sit, dear?”

“Over there, with my back to the window, so the sun’s not in my eyes,” Claire answered, and allowed Hercule to shepherd her to a chair solicitously.

Laura finally arrived dressed in a loose white cotton tunic over narrow black pants and sporting black-rimmed sunglasses. “It was blistering in the garden, Gran, I’m glad you stayed indoors.”

“Yes, she’s right, and it was far too hot for me,” Claire interjected.

“You’ll soon cool off, Claire,” Megan assured her, and went on. “You’ve made a fine little chef out of Natasha. This splendid lunch is all of her creation.”

“Not the rolls,” Natasha was quick to point out. “Fenice made the rolls.”

Everyone laughed at this comment, and then they served themselves the summer fare, except for Claire, whose plate was prepared by Natasha. Hercule went around the table pouring the wine, and Laura filled their glasses with ice water.

It was halfway through the lunch that Claire said, “I’m so happy we’re all here together today. The people I love the most in the whole world are with me….” She paused, smiled at them.

“We all love
you,
Claire,” Megan said, and reached out and touched her hand affectionately.

“I want to thank you … all of you … for giving me such support, for helping me to cope with my cancer. For giving me the courage to keep fighting.”

L
ater that afternoon Claire walked slowly down the corridor to Laura’s room, tapped on the door, and went inside. “You said you were going to work, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Claire said, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Not at all, I was just looking through some of the art catalogues that came to the office this week. I’m not doing anything very pressing.”

“It’s good of you to spend so much time out here with me, Laura. I worry that you’re neglecting your work.”

“You know better than that, and in any case, July and August are pretty slow months usually. Everyone’s on vacation. Don’t worry, Alison won’t hesitate to give a yell if I’m needed at the office.”

Closing the door, Claire wandered into the room, sat down on the sofa facing Laura, who was perched on a chair behind her French provincial desk.

Lifting her feet up onto the sofa, Claire gave Laura a penetrating look and said, “You advised Hercule to come right out and tell me that he loved me.”

“Yes, I did. Because it was nagging at him, and it has been since last December, probably even before that. I thought it would make him feel better, and you too, Claire. It’s nice to know a truly wonderful man cares, isn’t it?”

“It is. But there’s no future for us.”

“Is that what you told him?”

“No, not in so many words. I sort of fudged it. I didn’t want him to become upset.”

“What do you mean?”

“Laura, there is no future for me. So how can there be a future for me with Hercule?”

“But you’re so much better!” Laura cried. “Aren’t you? Or are you acting?”

“No, I’m not acting. I do feel stronger than I have for ages, and I don’t have much pain. But my days are numbered, whether it’s weeks or months or even a year, and therefore I can’t offer a man a life with me.
I don’t have one to offer.”

“Doug once said to me that we are all dying, that we die a little bit every day.”

“You’re splitting hairs, Laura, and you know it.”

Ignoring this remark, Laura asked, “Do you love him?”

“Yes, you know very well I do … as a friend. He’s always been perfectly wonderful to me, but I’m not in love with him, not as he is with me. Still, if I weren’t so ill, I’d probably give it a shot…. I mean, I’d live with him, see how it worked out….”

“Did you tell him this?” Laura asked.

“I told him I loved him, but perhaps in a different way than he loved me. And I said if I were in better health, I would be honored and flattered to be his permanent companion.”

Laura didn’t say anything. She sat back in the chair and let her eyes wander around her bedroom. Its pate apple-green walls were gentle, a cool backdrop for the heavy white cotton draperies patterned with red roses, the antique French country furniture, the big bed dressed entirely in white, and the dark green carpet.

“It
is
a charming room,” Claire murmured, following
her friend’s gaze. “I’ve always liked it, and for as long as I can remember.”

“Most of your life and mine,” Laura whispered, and pushed down the sudden incipient tears that threatened to spill.

“Laura?”

“Yes, Claire?”

“There’s something … something I’ve never told you,” Claire began, and then suddenly stopped with abruptness. She sat staring at Laura, the dearest person in the world to her except for her daughter, and wondered how to go on.

“What is that?”

“I should have told you long ago. Perhaps my life would have been different if I had.”

“You sound very serious,” Laura remarked, returning Claire’s intense gaze. “And what do you mean when you say your life might have been different?”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have been so screwed up, and maybe I wouldn’t have been so screwed up either, so angry, so bitter and resentful….”

Laura seemed baffled. Slowly she said, “I’m not following you.”

“Do you remember how you sometimes found me here in your room, crying my heart out on that very bed, hugging a pillow?”

Laura nodded. “You never would tell me what was wrong.”

“I was crying because I was sick at heart. And I was clinging to the pillow as if I were holding on to you. My Laura. You were the only thing I had in my life that was good and decent.”

“Tell me what happened to you, Claire. Tell me what this is all about.”

“It was my father—” Claire came to a halt. She stared at Laura. Her face had turned chalk white, and she was unable to continue.

Laura rose from behind the desk and went and sat with Claire on the sofa. Taking hold of her hand, she held it tightly in hers. “Your father hurt you. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”