Impossible (14 page)

“I did.” She smiled at him. “It's a bit eclectic. The rest of the house is more formal.” As was the gallery, and the wing of the house where her father had lived. The antiques and paintings he had collected were exquisite. But Sasha liked her part of the house better. So did Liam. He loved it and felt instantly at home.

She put some soup on the stove for him, and offered him an omelette, which he accepted gratefully, and admitted he was starving. He hadn't eaten since lunchtime.

“I can make pasta, if you have some,” he offered. She hesitated, and then nodded. She didn't want him lingering. She was going to feed him, scold him for showing up on her doorstep, and send him off to his artists' hostel in the Marais. What he did after that was his business. She was not going to make it hers, now or ever.

They both got busy cooking, and half an hour later, they were sitting next to each other at the kitchen table, talking, arguing about two of the artists she represented. He thought one of them was excellent and promising, and worthy of the opportunities she'd given him; he said the other had no merit and no talent whatsoever and was an embarrassment to her. According to Liam, his style was imitative, superficial, phony, and pretentious. “I can't stand him. He's a total asshole.” Liam had strong opinions on most subjects.

“Yes, he is,” Sasha conceded. She didn't like him, either. “But his work sells like hotcakes, and museums love him.”

“They just kiss his ass, because his wife has money.” And then he looked at her sheepishly and chuckled. “I guess people could say that about me one day, if you and I wind up together.” The way he said it made her tremble.

“Don't worry, we won't. You'll never have that problem.” She looked sad as she said it. “There's another good reason for us not to ‘wind up together,' as you put it.”

“I want you to notice something,” he said, as he pulled up one soaked leg of his blue jeans, and pulled off his cowboy boot with some effort. She couldn't see anything remarkable. He was wearing white cotton athletic socks, and he pointed at the one she was staring at. “You see that. Socks. I wore them for you. I bought them at the airport.” You couldn't see them in his cowboy boots, but like a child who had done something to please his mother, he wanted her to know he had done it, and to get credit for it.

“You're a good boy, Liam,” she said, teasing him, but touched nonetheless. It was obvious that he wanted to please her, and win her approval. But he needed a lot more than socks to be a grown-up, and he just wasn't. Everything about him shrieked of boyhood and wacky artist. And as he had told her so proudly before, no one was ever going to control him. His father had tried, and his brothers, and Liam had defied them. Sasha didn't want to. She wanted him to control himself and be an adult. Even coming to Paris had been a lovely gesture, but it was still wild and impulsive, and did not respect what she'd asked him, to stay away from her, and forget the moment of insanity they had indulged in London.

“What were you going to do tonight, before I got here?” he asked her with interest as they finished their dinner. Both their contributions to the meal had been delicious. They were both good cooks.

“Nothing. Read. Go to bed. I don't go out much.”

“Why not?” He frowned as he looked at her.

“Obvious reasons. Sad. Alone. It depresses me to go to parties by myself. I feel like the fifth wheel all the time, or the only solo act on Noah's ark. My friends feel sorry for me, which is just too depressing. I only go out when I have to, with clients.”

“You need to get out more,” he said matter-of-factly, as though she had hired him as a consultant on her social life. “You need more fun in your life. You can't just sit here in an empty house, reading and listening to the rain outside. Christ, if I did that, I'd be suicidal.” She didn't tell him that sometimes she was, that more than once she had considered it, since Arthur died, and the only thing that had stopped her was knowing she couldn't do that to her children. Otherwise, she would have. Instinctively, he sensed it. Given the way she was living, and the solitude she had imposed on herself, he didn't blame her. All she had in her life now was the gallery, and occasional visits with her children. “Tomorrow I'm taking you to the movies. Do they have samurai films in Paris?” he asked with interest, as he helped her clear the table. She laughed at the question.

“I have no idea. I've never seen one.” If nothing else, he amused her. He made her laugh sometimes as she hadn't in years, or maybe ever.

“You have to. They're terrific. Very good for the soul. You don't even need to read the subtitles, just listen to the noises. They chop each other up in little bits, and make a lot of really great noises. It's a deep psychological experience. Xavier loves them.”

“He never told me,” she said, smiling at him.

“He's probably embarrassed. He considers himself a serious intellectual. There's nothing intellectual about samurai movies. I hate the movies he goes to, they always put me to sleep.”

“Me too.” She laughed openly. “He loves all those terrible Polish and Czechoslovakian movies that go on forever. I won't go with him.”

“Good, then you can come to the movies with me. I'll even take you to a chick flick. How long has it been since you've been to a movie?” She thought about it for a minute, and realized it was the same answer to that as to everything else in her life.

“Not since Arthur died.” He nodded and didn't comment, and glanced at her freezer. She had a modern American refrigerator and freezer, which was rare in Paris. Arthur had insisted on it when she remodeled the house. They had big, beautiful American bathrooms, too, a major luxury in France.

“Do you have ice cream? I'm addicted to it.” There were worse things to be addicted to, she realized. Like him, for instance. He hadn't even bothered to drink wine with dinner, although she'd offered.

“Actually …” She opened the freezer and stared inside. There was nothing in it but ice. She never ate desserts or ice cream. All she had in the refrigerator was what the housekeeper left her for dinner. Some salad, a few vegetables, homemade soup, and now and then some cold cuts, cheese, or chicken. She didn't eat much. Liam ate like the healthy young man he was. She turned to him in some embarrassment. “No ice cream. I'm really sorry.” She couldn't even remember the last time she'd bought some, or eaten any.

“That's a major problem.” He looked seriously concerned.

“I'll know for next time,” she said, as though there would be one, which she was determined there wouldn't, and then she had an idea. She hadn't been there in years, not since the children were small. She had a new child in her life now. She had Liam. “Put your jacket on. We're going out,” she said with a look of sudden inspiration, as she stood smiling at him.

“Where to?” he asked, as she put her raincoat on, and picked up her handbag. She was still wearing the serious black pantsuit she had worn to the office. A moment later, they were outside. She led him to the garage, and got behind the wheel of her tiny Renault. He nearly had to be a contortionist to get in it with her. His legs were too long for her small car, but for Sasha it was perfect.

She drove to the Île St. Louis and found a parking place for her little car, and then tucked her hand into his arm, as they walked under an umbrella. They stopped in front of an ancient brown storefront marked Berthillon, and she looked proudly at him. “This is the best ice cream in Paris.” She explained the system to him of how many “balls” in what kind of cone, or cup, and what toppings. He had pear, apricot, and lemon in a sugar cone, and they bought three huge containers of chocolate, vanilla, and coffee. She had a single ball of coconut, and they chatted happily on the way back to the car. She gave him a brief scenic tour, driving home, although he said he knew Paris, but not the parts she was familiar with, and on the spur of the moment, they stopped for coffee at the Café de Flore. It was one of the oldest cafés in Paris. They walked past the Deux Magots as they walked to retrieve the car, and it was ten o'clock when they walked into the house again. He decided to try the other flavors of the ice cream they'd bought. This time they sat in the living room, and he lit the candles. It had turned into a delightful evening after all. The kind of evening one couldn't have alone. Going to Berthillon alone would have depressed her, driving around Paris would have been pointless. And coffee alone at the Café de Flore would have seemed pathetic. But with Liam, it all worked, and they had fun. It was the conversation and the political arguments that made it work, the discussions about art, the exchange of opinions, the laughter at his stories and jokes, his irrepressible exuberance and enthusiasm about life that made it fun, for both of them. He may have been boyish, but he was smart, and entertaining to be with. She was beginning to wonder if they could be friends. It was one in the morning when they stopped talking and she yawned.

He asked if he could use her phone then, to call the artists' hostel. He had meant to call them from the airport but hadn't. He came back minutes later, looking sheepish.

“That was stupid,” he said, looking embarrassed. He hadn't even kissed her that night, and she was grateful for it. If he had, she would have told him to leave. She had promised herself that, before things got out of hand again.

“What happened?” She was snuffing the candles out. He was going to be leaving in a minute. The evening had gone well, and had been easy. If she could just get over her insatiable attraction to him, everything would be perfect.

“I didn't call them soon enough. They're full. I can probably find a hotel somewhere,” he said, looking at her with unspoken questions, and she suddenly looked worried.

“Are you asking me if you can stay here?” she asked him pointedly, wondering if it had been a manipulation or if the artists' hostel in the Marais really was full. But he did look genuinely embarrassed. He just wasn't organized, and never had been. He had told her that Beth had done everything for him ever since he was nineteen, until she left. And at first he couldn't manage without her, but was learning.

“I wasn't going to,” Liam said honestly. “I didn't want to put you on the spot. I can sleep at the airport if I have to, or the train station. I've done it before, it's no big deal.”

“That's silly,” she said practically, and then took a deep breath. “You can sleep in Xavier's room. But Liam, I won't sleep with you. I don't want to turn my life into a mess, nor yours. If we go on doing what we did yesterday, it will only be confusing.” He didn't recall either of them being confused the night before, but he said nothing and nodded.

“I'll be good. I promise.” He knew this would have been hard for her, too. She had lived here with her husband and children. The house was not a clean slate for her, unlike the hotel room in London. He didn't want to upset her, or frighten her, and he knew he would if he made a move on her here.

He followed her respectfully as she led him to Xavier's room, on the floor above her own. His room was directly above hers, a good-looking young man's room, with simple decor, in navy blue, and a painting she had given him years before for Christmas, of a woman and a young boy. He had loved it at the time, and it still hung there as a reminder of her son's childhood. The room had
oeil de boeuf
round windows that looked out onto the garden. Liam liked knowing he was near her, as she kissed him goodnight on both cheeks, and he managed to resist her. He was in no hurry. What he felt for her could wait, if it had to. He lay in bed that night, thinking of her, as she did about him. A thousand times he wanted to run down the stairs to her, but he didn't. He didn't see her again until they met in the kitchen the next morning.

She made him eggs and bacon, and they discussed what they were going to do. Since he had stayed politely in Xavier's room, without arguing about it, or crossing her boundaries, she was no longer anxious for him to leave. The weather was gray but better, and they decided to walk along the Seine. They looked at the Bateaux Mouches, and she pointed out new things to him. He purchased an art book and gave it to her. They bought crêpes from a street vendor, wandered past the pet stores, and laughed at the chickens. Liam wanted to go inside, and talked about a dog he'd had as a child and loved. It had died the same year as his mother. The rest of the time he made her laugh, told her jokes and funny stories. She asked him about his children, and she talked about her own. It was one of those perfect afternoons of ease and comfort, shared confidences and friendship, and love that was unspoken but powerfully felt by both of them, no matter how much she was resisting. He gave her what she had missed for the past fifteen months, companionship, and someone of her own to talk to. He filled her loneliness like foam that expanded and filled it to the brim.

They were standing in the last of the pet shops on the
quais
when he spotted a cocker spaniel. The man in the pet shop told them it was the runt of the litter, and Sasha said it had the saddest eyes she'd ever seen.

“You should get a dog,” Liam said confidently. “It would keep you company.” He had thought of the same thing, but it was too complicated for him in England.

“I travel too much. I'd either have to leave it here, or forever be dragging it on and off planes, which doesn't seem fair.”

“You do it. Why couldn't a dog?”

“I haven't had one since the kids were little. It's too much work,” she said practically. “It would pee all over the gallery and Bernard would kill me, and so would Karen in New York.”

“You can't let other people make those decisions.” But she did. She was doing the same thing about him. She was too afraid of what other people would think if she got involved with him. And he wasn't housebroken either.

They took the puppy out of the cage, and she came to life instantly while Liam played with her. Sasha stood back and watched, as the puppy licked his face and he let her. She was black and white, with a pretty head, black legs, and four white feet. He told her the dog he had had as a boy had been a cocker spaniel, too.

“Maybe you should buy her and take her home with you,” she said, encouraging him. He was obviously enamored with her, and looked sad when he put the little dog back in her cage. She whined and barked as they left. Liam looked back at her, blew her a kiss, and waved.