Capturing Paris (13 page)

“I'm afraid I like to let it go wild.” Daphne surveyed the garden. “The French are so damned ordered in their plantings. All those parterres and such.” She frowned. “I like the plants to have their way.”

“Sounds like a nice form of rebellion,” Wesley said.

Annie could see that this garden, even in its present state, had great bones. Although she admired the restrained classical lines of French gardens, she loved this random beauty too. They walked past the ragged winter borders and overgrown shrubs that swayed seductively in the breeze. The colors of the dormant plants were still muted—gray-greens, soft heathers, shades of honey and wheat. Annie reached up and unfastened her barrette, allowing her hair to fall to her shoulders and blow freely.

At the foot of the garden they came to a well-trod path along the river. As they walked, their conversation became intermittent. Annie drank in the mellow beauty of this last day of the year. The river pulsed along, very much a live creature in the bucolic landscape. She tossed a small stick into the cold, dark water and watched as the current carried it along until it floated into a gentle pool close to shore. There it swirled gently for a moment before the larger stream pulled it out to deeper waters.

They faced into the wind when they turned to go back to the house. Annie liked the way the breeze lifted her hair, and she felt her old energy return. She reached for Wesley's arm, but Daphne stepped between them, hooking her arms into both of theirs. They fell into step and made their way back to the house. The sun was quickly going down. The sky took on a pewter cast, and the temperature began to drop. Wesley reached up to retie his scarf. “I guess I should have worn my overcoat,” he said.

“You'll warm up at God House,” Daphne replied. She linked her arm back in his.

Later, after reading by the window in their bedroom while Wesley napped, Annie got dressed for the evening and went down to help with dinner. She stepped into the living room, a large rectangular room softened with ample sofas, faded oriental rugs, and windows draped in heavy silk. Its pale shades of green and gold matched those in the winter garden.

“Why, hello. You must be the lovely Annie that Daphne's talked so much about.”The voice startled her. She had forgotten about Daphne's friend. He stood up from the fireplace, where he had been arranging logs. He was a slight man of medium height, and the first thing Annie noticed was his handsome, deeply tanned face. He must have spent his Christmas holiday in some tropical climate.

“Tim Fortney.” He grinned, revealing the white teeth of a movie star. “I'd shake your hand, but as you see”—he lifted his soot-covered hands and shrugged.

“Yes, I'm Annie. So nice to meet you.” She was glad to be wearing her dressy silver sweater and her mother's pearls. He seemed to be studying her carefully. He had tossed his navy blazer onto the sofa, and the sleeves of his pristine white shirt had been rolled back for his task.

“Daphne always gives me the jobs she knows I'll hate. Building fires is not my thing.” He bent once again and lit a match to the crumpled paper in the grate. The flame curled up, lapping at the heavier logs stacked above.

“It looks like it's going to work,” she said. They stood side by side watching the flames spread.

“It's just the paper right now. Let's give it a minute, and then I'll mix a pitcher of martinis.” He flashed a grin. “Gin is something I know how to do.”

“I'm going to get the salmon out of the fridge,” Annie said. “That's my assignment for the evening.” She smiled and headed toward the
kitchen. “Then I'll be back for one of your drinks.” She felt him watching her as she left the room.

Annie paused in the dining room to admire the table. Daphne had arranged the richly scented viburnum along with shiny dark green holly in a long silver trough. She'd added strands of variegated ivy, which trailed onto the dark wooden table. The table itself was set simply with starched white linen napkins and heavy silver cutlery. The sideboard, where Wesley had lined up the bottles of red wine, was of the same dark, highly polished wood, and above it hung a medieval tapestry in blues, green, and gold. Annie could picture Old World French aristocrats seated in this room.

In the kitchen she arranged the smoked salmon on the long silver tray. She placed paper-thin slices of lemon around the edges and sprinkled capers across the pink fish. Daphne had left a silver fork for the platter and a basket of toast. Annie liked having a moment to herself. She was able to take in the details and savor the unique presence of God House. In a strange way, she felt like she had been there before. The house seemed to have taken hold of her, making her feel comfortable and at home. Being there made her want to shed all the disquiet of the past months with Wesley. She felt like this was a place where she could start over, reinvent herself.

Annie heard laughter and a crackling fire when she returned to the living room with her platter of salmon.

“There's the lovely lady who left me for a fish.” Tim came over to Annie and took the platter, setting it down on the coffee table in front of the fire. “Now I'll give you a proper greeting.” He kissed Annie on both cheeks in the French tradition.

“Annie, you do look lovely.” Daphne got up from the sofa she had been sharing with Wesley. She wore a midnight-blue velvet sheath, more like a nightgown than a dress. “Tim mixes a mean martini.” She lifted her glass. “We also have champagne.”

“Champagne would be great.” She saw that Wesley had chosen champagne over gin. Tim promptly handed her a flute and took a seat beside her on the sofa across from Wesley and Daphne. Wesley looked so much younger this evening, as if he had shed years since coming through the gates and up the gravel drive to God House. He looked more American
in this setting, but in the best way: even-featured, long-legged, healthy, very male. She could tell he enjoyed sitting beside Daphne, who carried off her sensuous state of dishabille without any problem.

“Daphne, is that your mother?” Wesley asked, looking at the portrait above the mantel. The woman in the picture looked out at them with gray eyes, a strongly defined jaw, and shimmering hair styled in the pageboy of an earlier era. She wore trousers and a finely cut tweed jacket and looked very at home in this richly appointed but somewhat faded room.

“Yes,” she said. “Her name was Nora. My father had it painted when she turned thirty. One of the few periods of happiness in their lives, or so I'm told. Ten years later he left for New York. Another woman, or some business scheme he couldn't miss out on.” Daphne shrugged. “Only problem was he left my mother pregnant with me.”

“Oh, how terrible,” Annie said.

“Not one of my favorite topics. Is it, Tim darling?”

Tim said nothing and sipped his drink.

“It's a fine portrait,” Wesley said.

Annie studied the face. She did resemble Daphne; though, with shorter hair, this could be the portrait of a poetic young man. It had a certain masculine quality.

“Mother gave it to Antoinette, and it's been hanging there as long as I remember.” Daphne eased back into the sofa and rested her head on a cushion. Her hair looked freshly washed and fell in loose, golden strands against the navy velvet of her dress.

“So what brings you to God House?” Wesley asked Tim.

“I'm on my way to Nice, a business trip. Daphne's always a good sport about putting me up. We've known each other for eons.” He looked at Daphne, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “It certainly beats a hotel.”

“No question about that,” Wesley said.

“What sort of business?” Annie asked.

“I'm a yacht broker. I've been in the Bahamas all fall, but I have a Greek client meeting me in Nice.” He drank the last of his martini and reached for the pitcher on the table. “Say, Daph, I saw Roger in London. He says he's coming to France in a few weeks.”

“Roger is my older brother.” Daphne wore a closed expression. “He thinks he's an investment manager, but let's just say that family and money don't mix very well.”

“Now, Daphne, you're sounding like a cranky baby sister,” Tim said, though he didn't seem surprised at her disapproval.

Daphne put her empty martini glass on the coffee table. “Tim, be a darling and entertain Annie while Wesley helps me in the kitchen.” She stood up and gave a hand to Wesley as if to draw him up out of the deep cushions.

“You're sure you don't want my help?” Annie asked.

“Not right now, thanks. The rest is easy, and Berthe's going to do the washing up tomorrow. Enjoy the fire. Tim will take care of you for a few minutes.”

“I'm good at that,” Tim said leaning back and crossing his legs.

Annie could smell the spicy sweetness of his cologne.

It was after nine when they went in to dinner. The viburnum blossoms on the table released their heady fragrance, and Wesley had lit the tall, creamy tapers in the center of the table. They began with oysters that Tim had picked up in a seaside town on his way to God House. The cold ocean saltiness shocked Annie's tongue. Looking at them, limpid and wet in their shells, made Annie think of the lustrous Dutch still lifes that hung in the Louvre. Indeed, the entire dinner would have suited an artist's eye.

Annie loved having recovered her sense of taste; in fact she felt like all her senses had come alive again. She savored every detail of the evening: the finely minced orange rind floating in the wine-flavored sauce, the sharp tang of a Roquefort cheese contrasting with a luscious Saint Alembert, and the velvety smoothness of chocolate mousse on her tongue. The glimmering candles dripped onto the table like the final minutes of the year ticking away. She noticed that each time Tim got up to pour more wine, he touched Daphne in some way: a hand on her shoulder, fingers lifting a lock of hair, and finally, a kiss planted on the back of her neck. Daphne seemed to ignore these flirtatious gestures.

During dessert, he directed his attention to Annie. “Gorgeous pearls,” he said, fingering the triple strand around her neck. Then he took a sprig of viburnum from the bouquet and placed it behind her ear. “Now you look like the medieval princess in the tapestry.” He laughed, as if he no longer cared about propriety. She saw Wesley's mouth tighten across the table.

After dinner in the drawing room, Tim poured Cognac into a glass, swirled it, and held it to her lips. Annie took the glass. The amber liquid felt like an explosion in her throat. Wesley moved beside her and slipped his hand around her waist. Annie leaned into him, allowing her head to fall back against his neck.

“My dears,” Daphne said, “we need to toast the New Year quickly. I think it's already past midnight.” Annie heard the slur of wine in her voice. They had all drunk a lot during dinner. “Wesley, darling, would you mind?”

Wesley withdrew his arm and went over to the drinks table where Daphne had set another bottle of champagne. He opened the final bottle, and the evening became a blur of toasts, silly stories, laughter, and finally kisses all around to celebrate the new year. Tim's body felt hard and unfamiliar when he pulled Annie to him. Daphne hugged Annie and whispered in her ear, “Here's to Annie, the new Annie,” and then Wesley kissed her deeply in front of all of them before leading her upstairs for the night.

Annie's head swirled when she climbed the stairs. Wesley did not release her hand, and when they reached the landing, their shadows fell as one in the dimly lit hall. He opened the door to their room, and she heard it click shut behind her as they crossed the darkness to the bed. She collapsed back onto the fluffy duvet. She saw the outline of Wesley above her and the shimmer of moonlight on the ceiling. Then the almost-forgotten warmth of his body covered hers.

“Annie, my Annie.” The quiet, rhythmic refrain hummed in her ears as her name crossed his lips. Did he need to remind himself that it was she moving under him? Or could he be thinking of Daphne without her velvet dress?

Later, as they lay skin to skin, his lips on the back of her neck, she
let herself dream. She saw herself being carried down a river. She floated freely, her hair loosely splayed like the reeds that caressed her skin and tickled her legs. A voice called her, a woman's voice. She tried to answer but no sound came out. The water became turbulent, the current stronger, and the voice slowly faded, lost in the roar of water.

La Pluie

Tim Fortney did not look as handsome or as tanned in the morning. It was
still early when Annie slipped out of bed and left Wesley in the depths of sleep. She had come downstairs and found Tim standing in the living room staring out the front windows at the slow, steady drizzle falling onto the drive.

“Are you leaving?” She'd seen a duffel bag and briefcase next to the bench in the hall.

“Did we wake you?” He sipped from a mug of coffee. “I'm afraid Daphne and I had a bit of a row.” He turned away from the window. He had deep circles under his eyes.

“I didn't hear anything.” Annie shifted uneasily, not quite sure what was expected of her. “I'm sorry you had a disagreement.”

“History tends to repeat itself in this house,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Annie asked. She wished she had some coffee. Her head felt fuzzy, not quite clear of sleep.

“Daphne's a lot like her mother.” He offered no movie-star grin today. “That's not always a good thing.”

“You've known Daphne a long time,” she said.

“Her brother and I were at school together.”

“Roger?”

“Yes. He's not the villain she'd have you believe, by the way. They've had their arguments over money, but it's more complicated than that.”

“What do you mean?” Annie had a stale taste in her mouth. She hadn't anticipated this kind of conversation so early in the day.