Capturing Paris (14 page)

Tim studied her face as though trying to decide how much to tell her. He set his coffee down. “I met Daphne when she was sixteen.

I was twenty-one.” He closed his eyes for an instant, perhaps trying to see that moment all over again. “It was a sort of golden summer—long, endless fair days—there's never been another like it, none that I can remember. I was besotted. There's no other word for it.”

“This was in England?” Annie asked.

“Yes. Their country home in Devon. Roger was wonderful to Daphne. They did everything together. She adored him.” He paused and looked up at the portrait of Nora. “She was pretty wild.”

“You mean Daphne?”

“Both of them, really.” He exhaled, blowing his breath out through his teeth. “Nora wanted everyone to be happy. She gave Roger and Daphne free rein. It was the kind of summer when everyone let down their guard. One party flowed into the next. We migrated from house to house. At the end of the summer Nora hosted a group of young people, friends of Roger's and mine from university. There was a girl.”

“A friend of Daphne's?”

“No. That was part of the problem.” His face hardened. “Tessa Hardwick. She'd been part of the group all summer. For some reason Daphne never liked her. None of us knew then how serious Roger was, how important this girl had become to him. Except maybe Daphne.”

Tim went over to one of the sofas and sat down with the weariness of an old man. Someone had straightened the living room, and the down cushions, crushed from the weight of their bodies the night before, were plumped up, ready for a new day, a new year. The lingering wineglasses, blurred with sediment, had been taken away, the liquor bottles securely corked and placed neatly in a row on the drinks table. The fireplace gaped, cold and empty, the ashes swept back under the grate.

Tim remained silent for a moment, as if lacking the energy to go on. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. Annie felt the presence of the portrait. The artist had painted Nora so that her eyes watched you everywhere you went in the room. It was as if she were listening to Tim's account years after some event.

“There was an accident.” Tim stood. “Everything changed after that.”

“What sort of accident?”

“There was the drinking; probably drugs too.” He walked back to the window.

The rain was heavy now, coursing down in sheets. Annie watched Tim, waiting for some sort of revelation. She folded her arms across her chest. The room was cold.

“You should ask Daphne,” he said. “You should ask her to tell the story.” He looked angry, the lines around his mouth tight. “Roger turned against his sister, naturally. Poor bloke. What would you expect? Then Daphne kind of went off the deep end. Depression, breakdown, whatever you want to call it. Nora brought Daphne here to recover. Daphne always made her escapes to God House. Just like Nora. I thought I could help her through it,” he said bitterly. “I loved her still.” He lowered his head.

“So you came to God House then?” Annie was now totally confused. “What sort of accident?”

“Jesus. Talk about cruelty. The way she treats people …”

“Surely Daphne had friends who cared about her? Other boyfriends?”

“Oh yeah. Boyfriends. Girlfriends too.” He stood up. He face was pinched and angry. “Maybe you should ask her about that.” His tone was sarcastic.

Annie couldn't think why any of this would matter now. Whatever had upset Tim had happened years ago. He obviously cared for Daphne. But last night she'd made it pretty clear that she wasn't interested, at least not in the way he'd hoped.

“Are you still in love with Daphne?” The question popped out.

“Let's just say I can't seem to stay away. I don't think Daphne knows what she wants.” He shook his head. “Part of the problem is this house. She'd never give this up. I know it's lovely. But don't let it fool you,” he said with disgust. “This place is in a time warp.” He got up and walked back to the hall. Annie followed him.

“Well, I'm sorry,” she said, leaning against the door frame, “I mean I'm sorry things didn't work out as you'd hoped.” She watched him pull on his coat and carry his bags to the door. She wondered where Daphne was now.

He turned back and looked at Annie once more. “Are you in love with Wesley?”

“He's my husband,” she said. She wished he would go. She'd had enough of his angry ranting.

“I'd be careful,” he said. “You seem like a nice person.” He hesitated, then spoke again. “You don't want to get entangled in all this.” He pulled the heavy door shut behind him.

Annie stood still in the silent hall. Tim's words hung in the air, sinister. What he'd described sounded terrible. Be careful of what? Tim made it sound like Daphne posed some kind of threat. Ridiculous. Thanks to Daphne, she had found someone who might publish her poems, and Daphne had done nothing but encourage Annie to do what she loved.

And how dare he question her about loving Wesley? What had given him that idea? Wesley hadn't been easy to love lately, but that would change; she knew it would.

Annie buttoned her cardigan sweater and went into the kitchen toward the welcoming aroma of coffee. Her hands trembled when she poured the black liquid into a heavy porcelain cup. She added hot milk from a saucepan on the stove, drew her hands around the smooth warmth, and drank, determined to ignore Tim's ugly words.

Daphne called the long conservatory that stretched across the back of the house the glass room. Another childhood name, like God House. Annie stood there watching the rain, still heavy, patter and splash onto the flagstone terrace outside the French doors. Some of the gutters backed up, causing the rain to gush in torrents off the corners of the roof, but the wide stone floor beneath her remained dry. God House felt like a sturdy ship that had seen rough weather before and was prepared for combat, come what may. She held a second cup of coffee and looked out at the river at the foot of the garden. Even at this distance, it looked threatening. It surged along with a mind of its own.

“I see you found the coffee.” Daphne's voice jarred Annie out of her reverie.

“Thank you. It's delicious. Just what I need.”

“I hope your head isn't as bad as mine.” This morning Daphne's face was strained, the skin below her eyes looked gently bruised and the lines around her wide mouth deeper. She looked older.

“The kitchen is totally cleaned up,” Annie said. “Your Berthe is like a fairy godmother.”

“It makes her happy to be helpful.” Daphne looked over at the iron garden table in the corner. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“No, but I was about to.” She had only just thought about eating.

“Have you been up long?” Daphne asked.

Annie thought she saw a shadow of concern cross Daphne's face. “No. Not long. Wesley is still asleep.” Annie followed Daphne over to the table where Berthe had set out the breakfast. Beside the basket of croissants, there were butter and jam and a platter of cheeses and fruit.

“See, she's an angel,” Daphne said. “She gets these divine buttery croissants from the village, and it's my idea to have cheese.”

“I saw Tim just before he left,” Annie said.

“He wanted to get an early start,” Daphne said. “With all this rain it'll be rough going. I'm glad you aren't leaving until tomorrow.” They sat down in the dark green wicker chairs that looked like they belonged in a garden. Daphne passed Annie the basket of croissants.

A lurking uncertainty made Annie persist. “I thought he was staying until tomorrow as well. He said you'd had an argument.”

“Oh, God.” Daphne leaned back in her chair. “To make a long story short, we've been together off and on. More off than on, really. I told him this morning that it just wasn't going to work.” She rubbed her eyes. “He didn't want to hear that, of course.”

Annie paused and considered whether or not she should continue. She thought again of Tim's parting words. He'd spoken about Daphne as if she'd been some kind of mental case. “He told me about the summer when you met and that there had been some kind of accident—”

“What did he tell you?” Her voice was sharp.

“He said I should ask you about it.”

“Oh Christ. I can't believe he started dredging all that up again—just because I won't fall in love with him. A lot happened that summer, not all very happy. But it's ancient history and doesn't do any of us any good to talk about it. We've all managed to move on.” She shook her
head. “He's totally ridiculous. I am fond of Tim, but I'm not in love with him. I certainly don't want to traipse around the globe watching him sell sailboats.” Daphne put her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. She stared out beyond the breakfast table toward the river. Her face, last night so beautiful and animated, was slack and void of expression, offering no clues, no hint of the truth.

“Look,” Annie said. “This is no way to start a new year. I'm sorry I brought it up.” She reached out and fingered a basket filled with forced narcissus in the center of the table. “The flowers are lovely. The scent fills the whole room.”

“You really are sweet,” Daphne said, and she reached across the table and squeezed Annie's hand. “Look, what shall we do today? Lunch out, a walk, what do you think?”

“I don't mean to be rude, but I'd love to spend some time today writing,” Annie said. “I sent Paul a few poems before we left Paris, but I need to finish the last two.”

“Well then, of course, that's what you should do. I didn't plan anything, thinking we'd sleep in this morning and maybe take another big walk later. You can have the entire day to write.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “We'll finish our coffee and I'll set you up in the library. There's a small fireplace in there and a lovely big desk facing the window.” Daphne leaned back in her chair and seemed pleased with this plan. Annie was ready for some time to herself. She heard footsteps in the kitchen, and a moment later Wesley appeared.

“There you are. The poet and her muse?” Wesley carried a cup of coffee and came to join them. He looked boyishly happy in a rumpled shirt and baggy corduroy trousers. “Happy new year, Daphne.” He bowed in mock politeness. “How are you, Annie sweet?” He met her eyes, bent to kiss her cheek, and touched the back of her neck lightly as he slid into the chair across from them.

“You look like a contented man,” Daphne said.

“I think the year's off to a good start.” He grinned and reached for a croissant. “More good things to eat. Does it ever end?”

“Not today anyway. Berthe's making a wonderful bouillabaisse for supper. Her parents were from Marseilles. It's an old family recipe.”

“I love bouillabaisse,” Annie said.

“Your wife is going to spend the day in the library. She has an editor she needs to impress.” She looked across at Wesley. “You appear to be in good form today. Maybe later you and I could hike over to the next village. There's an old coach house that's been turned into an inn. We could have a quick bite. You wouldn't mind, would you, Annie?”

“You want to go out in this rain?” Annie asked.

“I think it's going to let up,” Daphne said. The sky did appear lighter. “Right now I'm going to go check in with Berthe. The library's ready when you are. Oh, and the matches are on the mantel if you want a fire.” She pushed her chair back and smiled at them. There was more color in her face. “I'll see you later.”

Daphne left the glass room, and Wesley reached for Annie's hand.

Annie put down her pen. She sat curled on the love seat next to the fire. The embers glowed. She'd already burned most of the logs in the basket near the grate. At first it felt strange to be sitting alone on that somber winter day, but then she'd become absorbed in her work. The small library, just beyond the living room, appealed to her more than any other room in the house. The writing desk felt welcoming, and while working there she would look up intermittently to watch the shifting weather. One entire wall was covered with bookshelves, and on the opposite wall, above a table laden with books and magazines, was a series of black-and-white drawings, genre scenes and quiet interiors, that begged further study.

After several hours at the desk, Annie carried her notebooks to the love seat and covered her legs with the paisley shawl she'd found draped over its back. She didn't know what time it was, but the sky was darkening and it looked as if the rain that had let up that afternoon was spitting lightly onto the terrace in the garden.

Earlier that afternoon, she'd watched Daphne and Wesley layer up with sweaters and rain gear. Daphne found a pair of foul-weather boots large enough for Wesley. Their easy banter diminished as they walked down the drive. Annie didn't mind seeing them go. The house itself
offered a kind of solace. She didn't feel lonely, and a curious detachment had settled over her when she sat down to work.

The final two poems were nearly finished, but now she was finding it difficult to concentrate. The leather volume of Verlaine's poems was on the table beside her. She looked again at the inscription Daphne had written in black ink with a wide-nib pen. “To Annie, to inspire you in the days ahead … Daphne—” Indeed. The days ahead. Where would this new year lead?

The book fell open to her favorite poem, “Il pleure dans mon coeur.” The last two lines in the first stanza had been running through her head for days.
“Quelle est cette longueur qui pénètre mon coeur?”
What was this feeling making its way into her heart? Wesley had finally made love to her on that last cold night of the year, but she felt plagued by an uncertainty that wouldn't go away. Some days she didn't care if she ever recaptured the joy in her marriage; on others, she physically ached to have Wesley back the way he used to be.