Authors: Monica Wood
Debbie groans appreciatively. “I
hate
singing machines.”
Stewart looks perplexed. “It’s pure kitsch. Old-fashioned glad tidings. You’re supposed to love it.”
“Sorry.” Connie hooks her arm through his. “I won’t hang up next time.”
“You could take a lesson, Connie,” he says. “Your machine sounds like a funeral home.”
She laughs. Stewart is her best friend. They trained together and then flew together for years until he left AtlanticAir for Pan Am. Whenever she stays with him in his Boston apartment, they chat long into the night like girlfriends. He’s the only man she knows who would never leave her.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“It’s under discussion,” Stewart says. He grins. “I’m not getting my way.”
Frank runs a brown hand over his tight curls. “He wants to eat at that place he likes on St. Germain.”
“It wouldn’t hurt either one of you to take a walk on the wild side,” Stewart says. He turns to Connie. “Where’s your crew?”
“Loose in the city. They asked me along, but the invite wasn’t exactly fervent. I felt like their den mother.”
Stewart caresses her arm, as if to soothe her feelings. “Kids today. Where are their manners?”
“Listen,” Frank says. “We’re going to Lucienne. You coming or not?”
Connie glances at Stewart. “Nah,” she says, smiling. “I’ll take the walk on the wild side.”
She watches Frank and Debbie cross the lobby. Debbie’s hair is dark at the roots. Connie lifts her hand to her own hair.
“You look fine,” Stewart says. He always knows what she’s thinking.
Connie twines a few strands around her fingers, then lets go. “What if we stay in, Stewart? A bottle of wine, room service, me. What could be better? Besides, I’ve got things to tell you.”
“Two bottles and you’ve got a deal,” he says, steering her toward the elevators. The doors open. “
Allons-y
.”
By the time they reach the bottom half of the second bottle of wine, the subject of Isadora James has been well worn and Connie is dressed for bed. Stewart lazes on the carpet, leaning on one elbow with his cheek pressed into his eye. He looks tipsy and bored.
“Look, you want to go out after all?” Connie asks.
Stewart shifts elbows, leaving a red scar on the other side of his face. “I’m not sure I can stand up.”
Connie slips out of her chair and sits next to him. She pours the last of the wine and hands him a glass. He lifts it to her.
“Here’s to finding it,” he says.
“Finding what?”
“Damned if I know. Whatever it is we’re looking for.”
They drink. Connie sets down her glass and draws her knees up,
wrapping her arms around them. She feels warm and safe, a little fuzzy.
“So,” Stewart says. “Tell me some more about Isadora James.”
“I told you everything. Two teensy letters, that’s it.”
“Think of something. This is the only interesting thing that’s happened to me in weeks.” His hair, normally blown back in soft waves, is sticking up in cowlicks.
Connie gets up and finds her purse, from which she plucks the two letters. She tosses them to Stewart. “That’s the sum total.”
“Why didn’t you show me these two hours ago?”
Connie shrugs. She was guarding them. From what? Stewart reads the first letter meticulously, holding it close to his face. “She writes like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.” He reads the second one, frowning. “She doesn’t sound anything like you.”
“Why would she?” Connie says. “She doesn’t even know me. I could have grown up on Mars for all we have in common.”
“I’m just saying she doesn’t
sound
like you. If she was really your sister I’d expect something to kick in, you know? Even in a letter. Haven’t you ever read those studies about twins separated at birth? They both smoke Salems, own dogs named Fluffy, and work at meatpacking plants.”
Stewart infuriates her sometimes, assuming her life is his business. At the same time his audacity links them—as does hers, for she has never been stingy with opinions about his life, either. She wonders if this is like being married.
“We’re not twins, Stewart.”
“Still.” He tosses the letters on the carpet. They flap briefly, like moths. “I’d want something a little more convincing.”
“Thank you, Stewart,” she says. “Thank you for that bucket of water.”
“Sorry.” He takes a long draught of the wine. “I envy you, actually. I wish I had a sister to meet. I wouldn’t mind trading my whole family.” He stops, squinting into the air. “What if she doesn’t look anything like you? What if she’s black, or Chinese?”
Connie knows exactly what he’s doing. Her friendship with Stewart is like a game of tetherball, one of them playing the pole, the other spinning wildly around, until it’s time to switch places.
They pronounce judgments and make predictions about each other’s love affairs, providing wine and solace at the end. After the initial diversion that a new man brings to her life, Connie sometimes looks forward to the breakup, knowing Stewart will be waiting on the other side, ready to talk all night about what went wrong.
But Isadora James is not a lover, and the possibility this time is something else altogether, having to do with flesh and blood, permanence, even healing.
“Can we talk about something else, please?”
Stewart sinks back on his elbows. “Fine. Let’s talk about
my
thrilling life.”
“All right. How’s Craig?”
“Old news.”
“That was short-lived.”
He grimaces. “Story of my life.”
He’s trying to be his old playful self, but his spirits are low, gathered into his forehead, his held jaw. Connie understands, but she doesn’t want to be part of it tonight. She wants to be happy.
She waits a while. “I met someone.”
His head swivels toward her, a darting, chickenlike turn. “Is it serious?”
“I’ve seen him a few times. He lives right here in the city. Not far from here, in fact.”
Stewart raises his eyebrows. “Oh ho, a Parisien. How’s his English?”
“Good enough.” She laughs. The last Parisien she dated, a commuter pilot named Luc, could barely say hello. Connie’s command of French is all business:
What would you like to drink? May I see your boarding pass?
She can ask directions and order food, but can’t discuss a movie or tell a man why she likes him. Stewart accused Connie, quite rightly, of having chosen Luc for his poor English. It is Stewart’s theory that Connie prefers men with some kind of built-in obsolescence. Before Luc she dated a man who was two months from moving to New Zealand.
“So what’s the guy’s name?” Stewart asks.
“Marcel.”
“Marcel. Hm.”
“I like him.”
“You’re not in love, are you?”
“God, no.”
“Don’t let him get too smitten,” Stewart says. He always says that.
The wine is beginning to give Connie a headache. She gets up, steadies herself against the TV, and retrieves Isadora’s letters from where Stewart dropped them, succumbing to a compulsion to care for what she does not yet have. She smoothes the pages one at a time, staring at the innocent-looking handwriting.
“Doesn’t she make you feel old?” Stewart says. “I mean, look at this. How young did you say she was?” He frowns. “This is the handwriting of a teenager.”
“Don’t be a pill, Stewart.”
“I’ll bet she’s adorable,” he says glumly. “A morning person, I’ll bet. You won’t be able to stand her.” His face shows his full age and an indefinable sadness. “Cute and healthy,” he says. “Worse than the New Guards.”
“How many
bon mots do
I have to hear in one night?” Connie snaps, then a warning disrupts her irritation. “You’re not sick, are you?” Stewart is a careful man, but they’ve lost too many colleagues not to be jumpy.
He shakes his head, his fire gone. “It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t recognize myself lately,” he says. “I don’t want the things I wanted.” Connie creeps up close to him and holds his hand. Perhaps they are best together when one of them is unhappy. “I just want someone to
listen
to me.”
Connie squeezes his fingers. “Don’t I know it.” There are other things she could say, about terror, exhaustion, loneliness. “Listen,” she says, brightening. “How long are you here?”
“Another day.”
“Perfect. Let’s do something tomorrow. Have you ever seen Versailles?”
“Only ninety times.”
“Will you come with me?”
He smiles. “Sure. We can rent a car, bring a picnic. It’ll be fun.”
They part with the promise to meet at noon, giving them ample time to sleep in. The next day dawns bright and clear, a good omen. Connie answers her door, expecting Stewart; instead she finds Marcel.
“Con
-stance
!” he calls. Her name sounds liquid and lovely in French. Though he speaks to her only in English he always calls her by her French name.
“How did you know I was here?”
He taps his temple. “I remember your schedule.”
She had intended to pass him over on this trip, but decides she’s glad to see him after all. She winds her arms around his neck. He is slightly built, barely her height. She loves his eyes, a rosy shade of brown. She’s not in love, though Marcel is sweet, a graduate student living with his parents on Boulevard Malesherbes, not far from the hotel. He is young, unsettled, his life forever beginning; already she can see he will be in school for years. But she likes his uncomplicated company and the notion of beginnings. She looks forward to telling Isadora James about her Parisian boyfriend.
“I left my job,” Marcel says. “Quit!” His accent is strong; his every phrase sounds quaint and dear.
“What are you talking about?”
He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners, making him seem older, more attractive. “I said to myself, such a beautiful day, and the lovely Con-
stance
is here. My lady will come with me for a ride.”
Marcel’s mode of transport is an ancient motorbike that Connie finds charming, with the full knowledge that in a matter of weeks it will come to annoy her. It makes for a windy, noisy ride, and she’s burned her ankle on the exhaust pipe already; but for the moment it’s perfect, and she likes to ride with her body pressed close against Marcel’s back, her hands fisted into his stomach.
“But you need your job, Marcel.”
“There are other jobs, Con-
stance
! But how many days like this?” He stands back, admiring her. This part won’t last long.
“Hello, hello,” Stewart says, appearing at the door. A lumpy grocery bag, with two baguettes sticking out the top, crackles as he shifts it against his chest. He stops.
“Marcel, right?”
Marcel nods. “You are Stewart.”
Stewart glances at Connie, pleased. Then his face darkens, figuring out the rest.
“This is a bit awkward,” Connie says. “Marcel quit his job, Stewart. Just to spend the day with me.” She lowers her voice. “How can I say no? Could you find somebody else—Frank or Debbie, maybe?”
“You mean I should let someone else have the pleasure of my company?”
Connie checks his face to tell how he means this, but his eyes don’t move, and she doesn’t have his talent for reading minds.
Stewart turns to Marcel. “May I have a word with your friend?” he asks, then steps into the hallway, where Connie follows him. “What, is he nuts?”
“For wanting to be with me today?”
“For quitting his job!” He shakes his head. “This guy’s a case, Connie.”
“You’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad. Go break the guy’s heart.” He hands her the bag of food. “Have a ball.”
“You’ve done this to me plenty of times, Stewart, in case you forgot.” She watches him stride down the hall and bang the elevator button. “Fine,” she calls after him.
The room is darker when she returns; the sky outside has cast over with low clouds. Another gray day after all. Her good omen is gone.
Marcel is sitting on the bed, smiling apologetically. “I have spoiled something?”
Connie shrugs. “Stewart likes to play the brother I never wanted.” She checks the sky again. “Not much for riding weather.”
He leans forward, his eyes fixed on her. “Then we stay here.”
She peers into the bag: cheese, eclairs, a Bordeaux Stewart likes. “I guess we’ve just inherited a picnic.”
They feast indoors. Marcel whips the bedspread off the bed and it floats down, white and bridelike. They drink, eat, make love, nap on the floor.
Connie stirs. She is naked, lying on her back, unwilling to fully
wake. The spell of the Bordeaux is working its way out to her fingers and toes. Their picnic has taken a long time.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she murmurs.
Marcel turns beside her, propping himself up on one elbow, gazing at her.
“Of course. Anything.”
She smiles. “This is my first picnic.”
“True?”
“My very first.”
“But a picnic takes place in the out of doors.”
“Don’t say that. We can pretend.”
She rolls onto her stomach, trying to stay inside her half-sleep. Marcel places his narrow hands on her shoulder blades and presses down.
“Mm. Nice,” she mumbles.
He kneads her back, her shoulders, her neck. He pets her hair. His hands, warm and insistent, cup her shape, moving down over the curve of her waist and hips, down over her thighs and calves and ankles. He holds one foot between his hands for a moment.
She rolls over. “Now do the front.” She smiles at him, then closes her eyes.
For a long while she lies there, drifting under his moving hands. When she opens her eyes she finds him gazing at her as if she were a fragile, tender thing. She starts, fully awake, embarrassed to have him looking at her—not at her body, but directly at her face, into her eyes. She sits up and draws the blanket around her.
“Let’s do something,” she says. “How about going to Versailles?”
He gets up and begins to put on his clothes. “It is too late in the day.” He winks at her. “I am not sorry.”
She watches him dress, the way he moves, the way the soft cotton slides over his chest, whispery as a slip.
“My parents want to meet you,” he says. He bends down and lifts her chin with one finger, kissing her chastely on the lips. “My mother would like to cook you a dinner.”