The Ghost (15 page)

Shall we go down? he asked her finally. They had been on the mountain for a long time, and it was later than they thought. It was well after one. And he was starving. And as he followed her down the side of the mountain, they skied in perfect unison, and they were both glowing at the end of their run. That was terrific, Monique. Thank you! He had told her his name was Charlie by then, and she looked at him with her most brilliant smile.

You ski great! Like Daddy. From her, it was the highest praise, and Charlie sensed that.

Thank you for that. You're not bad yourself. And then he didn't know what to do with her. He didn't want to just take off his skis and walk away from her, and he didn't think he should take her with him. Are you supposed to meet your mom somewhere? He was only mildly concerned. The resort at Charlemont seemed wholesome and safe. But still, she was only a child, and he didn't want to leave her to her own devices now that they were off the mountain.

Monique nodded at him. Mom said she'd see me at lunch.

I'll walk you inside,' he said, feeling very proprietary about her, and protective of her. It was rare for him to encounter children, and he was surprised at how comfortable he was with her, and how much he liked her.

Thanks, she said, as they walked onto the deck, and wove their way through the crowd, but she told Charlie she didn't see her mom anywhere. Maybe she went back up. She doesn't eat very much. He had visions of a tiny, delicate, modern-day Edith Piaf, although Monique had never said her mom was French, just her father.

He asked her what she'd like to eat, and she asked for a hot dog, a chocolate shake, and french fries. Daddy makes me eat good stuff in France. Yuk. She made an awful face and he laughed as he paid for her lunch and ordered a hamburger and a Coke for himself. After skiing with her at full speed, he wasn't even cold. And he had had a great time.

They took over a small table together, and they were hallway through their lunch when Monique gave a little shout, jumped up, and started to wave at someone in the distance. And Charlie turned around to see who she had seen in the crowd. There were flocks of people everywhere, people waving, talking, shouting, clumping by in, their heavy boots, excited about their morning runs, and anxious to get back on the mountain. He couldn't tell who she'd seen, and then suddenly, she was there, beside them. A tall thin woman in an elegant beige parka trimmed in fur. She was wearing beige stretch pants and a beige sweater and she took her dark glasses off as she frowned at the little girl. Charlie had the feeling he'd seen her somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where. Maybe she was a model, or their paths had crossed in Europe somewhere. There was something very stylish about her, and she was wearing a good-looking fur hat. But she looked anything but pleased as she glanced from him to her daughter.

Where were you? I looked everywhere for you. I told you to meet me at the restaurant at twelve o'clock. Monique looked mollified as she looked up at her mother, but what surprised Charlie was that the woman was as cold as ice with her, and the child was so warm. But the elegant young woman was also angry because she had been worried, and he couldn't entirely blame her.

I'm very sorry, he apologized. It's probably my fault. We rode up on the lift together, and then we skied down and took our time. We started to talk. She looked even angrier at that.

She's an eight-year-old child. She glared at him ferociously and something rang a bell in his mind, but he had no idea what it was. She looked so familiar to him, and he still had no idea why. But as he looked down at her, he could see that Monique was about to cry. Monique, her mother glared down at her relentlessly, who paid for your lunch?

I did, Charlie explained, sorry for the little girl in the face of her mother's tirade.

What happened to the money I gave you this morning? The young woman looked frustrated and angry as she took off her hat, and revealed a long mane of dark auburn hair. And Charlie had already noticed that she had deep green eyes. She didn't look anything like her daughter.

I lost it, Monique told her as two tears finally escaped from her brimming eyes. I'm sorry, Mommy' . She hid her face in her hands so Charlie wouldn't see her cry.

Really, it's nothing, Charlie tried to soothe them both. He felt terrible about the stir he'd caused, first making her late, and then paying for her hot dog. It wasn't as though he was trying to pick her up. He was well aware that she was a child. But the look in her mother's eyes was still ferocious, and after thanking him angrily, she took Monique by the arm, and led her away without even letting her finish her lunch. Just watching them together made Charlie angry. There had been no reason to make a scene and embarrass the child. She was right not to let her hang around with strangers, but he certainly looked harmless enough. She could have been good humored and a lot more pleasant about it, and she wasn't. And as he finished his hamburger, he thought about them, the little girl he'd enjoyed talking to so much, and the mother who was so angry and afraid ' and then suddenly he remembered. He knew exactly where he'd seen her before, and who she was. She was the disagreeable woman from the historical society in Shelburne. And he had disliked her almost as much there as he did this time. She seemed so bitter and so frightened. And then he remembered what Monique had said, that in Paris her mother had cried all the time. It made him wonder even more about them. What was she running away from? What was she hiding? Or was she as unpleasant as she looked? Perhaps, in fact, there was no one inside.

He was still thinking about them when he took the chairlift alone this time, and ran into Monique at the top. She still seemed embarrassed, and she was more hesitant about talking to him this time. But she had hoped she'd see him. She hated it when her mother acted like that. Nowadays, she did it a lot. And that was more or less what she told Charlie, as she looked up at him with her great big eyes.

I'm sorry my mom got mad at you. She gets mad a lot now. I think it's because she gets tired. She works really hard. She stays up really late at night, writing. It was still no excuse for the way she behaved, even the child knew that, and she was really sorry her mother had been so mean to Charlie. There seemed to be no way to make it up now. Do you want to ski with me again? she asked sadly. She seemed so lonely, and he suspected from the way she looked at him, that she missed her father. With a mother like that it was no wonder. And he hoped for the child's sake that her father was warmer than the woman with the sharp tongue and broken look in her eyes.

Are you sure your mother won't mind? He didn't want her to think he was a pervert, some crazy pedophile chasing her little girl. But they were out in the open, on the mountain, there wasn't much that could be misconstrued from that. And he didn't have the heart to reject the child. She seemed so hungry for a companion.

My mommy doesn't care who I ski with. I just can't go inside with anyone, or to their house, or in their car, she explained sensibly, and she was really mad because I let you pay for my lunch. She said we can take care of ourselves. She looked up at him with huge eyes then, apologizing for her extravagance. Did it cost a lot? she asked, looking worried, and he laughed at the innocence of the question.

Of course not. I think she was just worried about you, and that's why she got angry. Moms do that sometimes, he said sensibly, trying to allay her worries, and so do Dads. Sometimes parents are afraid something bad has happened when they can't find you, so when they do find you, they get all wound up. I'm sure she'll be fine by tonight. But Monique was not as certain, she knew her mother better than Charlie. Her mother had been moody and unhappy for so long, Monique could no longer remember a different person, although she thought her mother had been happier when she was little. But their life had been different then, her illusions had not yet been shattered, there had still been hope then, and faith, and love. Now there was only bitterness and anger, and unhappy silence in their lives.

In Paris, Mommy used to cry all the time. Here, she gets angry. She sounded like a barrel of laughs, and Charlie couldn't help feeling sorry for the child. It was so unfair of her mother to take her unhappiness out on her daughter. I don't think she's very happy. Maybe she doesn't like her job.

He nodded, suspecting easily that it was more than that, but he wasn't about to explain it to an eight-year-old. Maybe she misses your daddy.

No, Monique said firmly, as they made a sharp turn side by side. She says she hates him. That was nice. What a great atmosphere for a kid to grow up in, Charlie thought, growing still more annoyed at the mother. I don't really think she does, Monique said, looking hopeful, but her eyes were sad. Maybe we'll go back one day, she said wistfully. But Daddy is with Marie-Lise now. It sounded like a complicated situation, and it appeared to have taken a heavy toll on the child. It reminded him a little bit of his plight with Carole, but at least there were no children to get damaged by it. And Monique seemed to be surviving, in spite of her mother.

Is that what your mommy says? he asked with idle interest, not because of any interest in the mother, but only because he had grown fond of the child. That you'll go back?

Not really ' not yet anyway. She says we have to stay here now. He could think of worse fates. He wondered if they lived in Shelburne Falls, and on the way down he asked her, and she nodded. He knew her mother worked there, but he didn't know if they lived somewhere outside town or in Deerfield. How did you know? she asked him with interest.

Because I've seen your mom. I live there too. I just moved there from New York, at Christmas.

I went to New York once, when we came back from Paris. My grandma took me to F.A.O. Schwarz.

It's a great toy store, he said, and she agreed heartily with him, and they got to the bottom of the run and rode up on the chairlift together this time. He decided it was even worth risking her mother's ire, just so he could enjoy talking to Monique again. He really liked her, and he could sense an unstoppable enthusiasm and warmth and energy in the little girl, despite her problems with her parents. She was so bright and alive and so loving, and she had obviously been through a lot of pain, and yet there was nothing dreary about her. Unlike her mother, who had obviously been beaten down and never came out the other end. Or if she had, whatever there had once been in her of life and hope and happiness had altered. It was almost as though she had died, and a bitter, tired, battered soul had taken her place. In a way, Charlie felt sorry for her. Monique would survive. Her mother obviously had not.

They talked about Europe this time on the way down, and Charlie loved talking to her. She saw everything through the fresh, funny, always slightly humorous eyes of a child. And she told him about all the things she loved about France. There were a lot of them. She thought she would go back one day, when she got big enough to live where she chose, and she was going to stay with her daddy. She spent two months in the summer with him now, and she liked it very much. They spent a month in the south of France. She said her dad was a sportscaster on TV, and he was very famous.

Do you look like him? Charlie asked casually, admiring the soft gold curls and the big blue eyes, as he had since they met that morning.

My mom says I do. But he suspected that that also made her mother unhappy. If he was an Olympic ski champion and a sportscaster, and had a girlfriend named Marie-Lise, there was always the possibility that Monique's mother had gotten a bum deal, or maybe not. But if she Used to cry all the time it didn't exactly speak well for her husband. And he found himself thinking on the way down, as Monique chattered on, what messes most people made of their lives. Cheating on each other, telling lies, marrying the wrong woman or man, losing respect, losing hope, losing heart. It seemed miraculous to him now that anyone managed to make it work and stayed married. He certainly hadn't. He had thought he was the happiest man in the world, until he found out his wife was madly in love with another man. It was so classic it was embarrassing, and he found himself wondering again what had happened between Monique's parents. Maybe there was a reason for the grim look her mother wore, the heart-shaped lips set in a firm, hard line. Maybe she'd been someone else before Pierre Vironnet had turned her bitter. Then again there was the possibility that she was a shrew, and he'd been thrilled to get rid of her. Who knew? And in the end, who cared? Charlie didn't. He only cared about the child.

Monique went to find her mother on time this time. Charlie had asked her about any rendezvous they had, and at three o'clock sharp he sent her off, and went up alone for a last run. But he found that even without the child, he skied no better, no faster, no wilder than he had with his young friend. She could keep up easily with him, and Charlie could see that her father had taught her well. And as he came down the mountain alone this time, he couldn't help thinking about the little girl who'd lived in Paris. Meeting her almost made him wish that he and Carole had had children. It would have complicated things, and they'd be in the same mess now probably, but at least there would be something to show for their ten years together. Now all they had were some antiques, a few nice paintings, and half the linen and china. It seemed precious little to have left to mark ten years together. After ten years, they should have had more.

Charlie was still mulling over it when he went back to the hotel. But the next day, when he skied again, he didn't see Monique, or her mother, and he wondered if they'd gone home. He hadn't asked her if they were planning to stay, and he guessed that they hadn't. He skied alone for the next couple of days, and although he saw some pretty women here and there, none of them seemed worth the trouble. These days, he felt as though he had nothing to say, nothing to offer anyone, no succor, no support, no amusing anecdotes. His well had run dry. The only person who had drawn him out successfully was an eight-year-old. It was a sad statement on his psyche, and his perspective on life.