Capturing Paris (20 page)

“Gabby hunts for me, keeps an eye out for things I'm trying to find for my clients,” Daphne explained. “It's a two-way arrangement.” She pushed the door open into the shop. “I send her plenty of business too. You'll like her things.”

Annie followed Daphne into the hushed, velvety gloom. She had never seen so many objects crowded into one space. She maneuvered carefully around aging upholstered sofas and chairs and in between elegant marqueterie tables with finely carved legs. Almost every surface was covered with bits and pieces: small bronze sculptures, vases, boxes, Chinese lamps, silver candlesticks, brass ornaments. Annie could imagine a story behind each carefully chosen object: a beloved grandmother's sewing box; an aging spinster's wedding linens; yellowing, lace-edged embroidered pillow slips, never used; a set of studs and cuff links worn by a turn-of-the-century dandy at the Paris Opéra. Annie could see the allure of collecting these items, rich in history, unique, and far more interesting than newly fabricated things.

“Have a look around. Gabby's probably having her coffee and afternoon cigarette in the back. I'll tell her we're here.” Daphne disappeared behind a louvered door at the back of the shop. Annie detected the particular scent of a Gauloise, so unlike tame American tobacco.

Left on her own, Annie was drawn to the far wall of the shop, covered entirely in paintings. She immediately noticed a landscape of a wide, sun-washed field dotted with hay bales against a blue sky. Soft, puffy clouds lazed horizontally across the canvas. She could practically smell the newly mown hay and hear the blur of bees humming on a summer afternoon. The picture made her think of Wesley's parents' house in western Connecticut. The fields beyond the barn looked just like this. She remembered visiting there one August. The weather had been hot and dry, and the sound of the mowers came through the windows one morning while they sat at breakfast. Annie had expressed her regret in seeing the swaths of wildflowers cut down along with the hay.

She tried to recall the details of that visit. Was Sophie only seven or eight? It must have been the summer when Wesley made partner at Wilson & James. She remembered how excited he had been to tell his father. Wesley, still in his thirties, was proud of his blossoming career.

They had been so happy then, their lives uncomplicated and sweet. Despite the easy summer days, the pristine country air, and Wesley's admiring parents during that visit, Annie remembered longing to return to Paris. She missed the life they were building there, missed the cafés, the busy streets, their apartment. In Paris she and Wesley were the grown-ups. They were adults creating their future. In Connecticut they remained the grown children, honoring their parents, still caught up in their past.

“You seem far away.”

Annie turned. “This is a wonderful painting. It reminds me of Connecticut.”

Daphne nodded. “Do you wish you were there?”

“No. Of course not. Not now, anyway.”

“It's a lovely painting. Why does it make you look so sad?”

“Sorry. I don't mean to look sad.” How could she explain the mood that came over her? “We spent our summers in Connecticut when we were younger, when Sophie was little. Sometimes I wish that I could merely snap my fingers and recapture those days.”

“I know what you mean,” Daphne murmured nostalgically. She turned away from the painting and surveyed the many objects on a nearby antique desk. She reached for a silver letter opener resting in a satin box.

“Look. It's monogrammed.” She pointed to the elaborate swirling
A
at the base of the handle and handed it to Annie. The blade glinted briefly and Annie felt the smooth handle in her palm.

“It would be perfect on your desk in Paris.” She laughed. “It has your name on it.”

“It's very handsome.”

“Then it's yours.”

“Daphne—”

“I want to buy it for you.”

“No. Really you mustn't.” She handed it back to Daphne. “You gave me a Christmas present, and it's not my birthday.”

“Presents are best when you least expect them.”

“That's so kind. But—”

“I'll take it back to Gabby. She's wrapping the lanterns.”

Before Annie could protest further, Daphne went through the door in the back of the shop. Annie listened to their voices, one melodic in a poetic French cadence, the other in crisp English vowels. Annie was touched by Daphne's generosity, her gesture to cheer her up. It was as if Daphne understood what she barely understood herself. Annie knew that she must seize on all the good things in her life now, her writing and the challenges ahead, but she couldn't stifle an elusive longing, something triggered by the artist's landscape.

Later that afternoon when they returned from their shopping trip, Annie hurried straight to the kitchen to put away the groceries. She set the mussels to soak, and they clattered down into the old stone sink. Annie decided not to work in the library as Daphne had planned to meet there with Paul. Daphne had explained that she needed some time alone with him to discuss the final sale of his wife's furniture. “You know the French—so private, so formal.” Annie assured Daphne that she understood and decided to work upstairs in her bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. Rather than write at the desk, she gathered her notebooks and pen and sat in the chaise longue by the windows.

The day had started to cloud over, but there was still plenty of natural light. Annie opened to the page where she'd left off and stared at the words. They looked empty and lifeless to her now. She closed the notebook and turned her attention to the darkening sky, trying to match color names to the imperceptible variations: pearl gray, dove, graphite, charcoal. The words sounded inadequate to her ears. All too soon she became aware of the sounds below—first the arrival of a car, then the jolt of the heavy knocker on the front door, and finally the murmur of voices.

She reached for her leather calendar book and looked at the date. It was already Wednesday. She'd been at God House for almost a week. She thought of the pile of transcripts sitting at home. They were due before the start of the new semester. Mary was counting on her. She had let the days slip by, ignoring all that needed to be done back in Paris. She let out a sigh. For the first time since her arrival at God House, Annie felt the intrusion of her other world.

Knowing that Paul was downstairs made her feel uneasy. Thankfully, she had completed several new poems. She was proud of this work and eager to show it to him. The new poems were stronger than the first ones, and she thought she had been able to keep the voice of the earlier section alive. There needed to be some kind of thread to weave the collection together. Hopefully, he would see it too. He and Daphne had been talking in the library for quite a while. Would he accept Daphne's invitation to dinner? Annie touched her hair. What would he think?

Trying to gather some resolve, she went into the bathroom to wash her face and freshen up. She turned on the light and studied her appearance. This time she didn't feel sexy; her short hair looked harsh and shaggy to her. She planned to have Raoul, her neighborhood hairdresser, give it a touch-up when she got home. She pulled on her nicer black trousers and a red sweater she hadn't worn yet, wanting to make more of an effort and knowing that Paul might stay. Some makeup and a splash of perfume also helped to improve her spirits.

It was time to start dinner, so she headed down to the kitchen. She heard the faint sound of their voices coming from the library. Daphne must have shut the door to keep from disturbing her. Annie turned on the lamp in the hall and passed through the dining room to the kitchen. She saw that Daphne had arranged a bowl of daffodils, the flowers they'd brought back from the market. They glowed in the twilight on the long polished table.

Annie scooped the mussels out of the sink and put them in a pot, covering them with more cold water for another soak. She examined them carefully and pulled off any remaining beards with a sharp knife. The shimmering navy-black shells smelled of the sea, a pungent wet saltiness. She reached into the icy water, grabbed them by handfuls, and tossed them into an ancient enamelware colander, allowing the excess water to drain into the sink. There was something so elemental about food dug right out of the sand, a peaceful coexistence of land and sea.

“How's the chef?” Daphne asked.

Annie jumped. “I didn't hear you come in,” she explained. “You scared me.” She laughed uncertainly.

“You're just off in your poetic world.” She grinned. “Listen, I'm going up to change my clothes before dinner. We just moved some boxes into the carriage house.” She pushed her hair back off her face. “Paul will be here in a minute. I put him in charge of fixing drinks. He decided to stay for dinner.”

Daphne hurried away, closing the door behind her. Annie reached back into the sink to give the mussels one more soak. Knowing Paul would be dining with them made this evening already feel different from the previous dinners when she and Daphne had been by themselves. They'd eaten in the village a few times, but mostly they'd enjoyed simple suppers in the kitchen or had eaten on trays in front of the fire.

“Bonsoir.”
Now it was Paul's voice interrupting her reverie. “Daphne promised me a surprise guest if I agreed to stay for dinner.” Annie turned. “I am happy it is you,” he said. “I see you are not only a writer. You are also a chef.” Paul smiled. He wore jeans, a light blue turtle-neck, and a tweed sport coat she recognized from a previous meeting.

“Hardly a chef,” she said, happy to see him. “A cook is more like it.” She extended a cold wet hand and quickly apologized. “Sorry, you caught me wet-handed.” God, what a stupid thing to say. She wondered if he understood her unexpected pun. She could feel her cheeks grow warm.

“Do not let me interrupt. Daphne says you are making
moules
.”

“Yes. I'm glad you'll be joining us.” She looked around for a tea towel.

He handed her one from a nearby hook and watched as she dried her hands. It felt very strange to have him here in the kitchen. It took away the professional feel that marked their previous encounters.

“Your hair.” He lifted his hand as to reach out to touch it and then pulled back. “It is most charming.”

Annie was happy with the compliment. She fingered the neckline of her sweater and felt a blush creeping up her throat. Without the weight of her hair, her neck seemed exposed, vulnerable.

He seemed to sense her unease. “May I bring you a drink?”

“I'd love a white wine.” She paused. “No, make that a whiskey.”

“Shall I bring it in here, or do you want to join us in the library?”

“I'll come and join you in a few minutes,” she said. “Thank you,” she added self-consciously. She turned back to the sink, relieved to have a few moments to compose herself. Somehow, having Paul here at God House changed everything. Annie drew her fingers through her hair. It still felt like the head of a stranger. She took a large soup pot from the cupboard next to the stove. She poured in half a bottle of white wine and added a handful of chopped shallots. From the fridge she took some greens for a salad as well as the cheeses that they would have for dessert. She put them on a plate near the stove to warm to room temperature. She wanted everything to be right.

“Bravo!”
Paul exclaimed. “These
moules
, they are excellent.” His eyes in the candlelight appeared especially dark and lustrous. Annie smiled and agreed that she was pleased with the results. The enormous dish of mussels disappeared in no time.

Daphne sat between Paul and Annie at the head of the table and she talked with Paul about La Motte and some of the other towns in the hills above Saint-Tropez. “Have you been to Bistro Luna?”

He shook his head.

“They do an extraordinary
soupe au pistou
.” Daphne swished a hunk of bread through the remaining broth in her bowl. “Totally divine.” She licked her lips.

“Do you know this part of France?” Paul asked Annie. The bowl of discarded mussel shells lay between them.

“Not well. When we didn't go home to Connecticut in the summer, we used to go to Brittany.”

“Those beaches are always freezing, even in August,” Daphne said. She turned to Paul. “We always went down to the beach at Sainte-Maxime. Less crowded than Saint-Tropez, don't you agree?”

“I suppose you are right, but—”

“Is the peanut lady still there?”

Paul laughed with Daphne as she told Annie about the scantily dressed woman selling sugared peanuts on the beach, teasing the men by tucking a few nuts between her breasts and daring them to take a
taste. Daphne lifted her hair onto her head, leaned toward Paul suggestively, and said in a silly high-pitched tone, “
Cacahuètes? Mesdames, messieurs
. Come, come let me offer you a little taste.”

When Annie got up to clear the table and bring the salad, Daphne launched into a story about people she knew on the French Riviera and a trip she'd taken one summer with Tim. Annie was growing weary of trying to look interested in Daphne's tales of the south. She'd begun to wonder if it was all true. It seemed liked Daphne was doing everything she could to keep her out of the conversation. She stayed in the kitchen a few moments longer than necessary. She thought again of her apartment and felt she needed to go home.

She carried the freshly tossed greens back to the table. Paul looked glad to see her. “Tell me, how are the poems coming?” He smiled encouragingly.

“Please, have some salad,” Daphne said, pushing the bowl in his direction.

“I think I've finished two more,” Annie said.

“Which photographs did you choose?”

“Now now, we're not going to talk about work,” Daphne said before Annie had time to answer. “Paul and I just spent several hours on business, and he needs to have a little fun this evening.”