Capturing Paris (12 page)

“Isn't that an awfully expensive present?” Wesley had said.

“Christmas isn't the time of year to be frugal,” she'd told him.

Wesley maneuvered the car carefully in and out of the narrow streets toward the Péripherique that would carry them around Paris and onto the Autoroute du Nord. At last they were headed to God House. It was the final day of the year. It felt good to be going on
a trip, if only for a few nights in the country. A momentary hush hung over the city, as if the busy world was holding its breath.

Traffic was light. They need not worry about
bouchons
. Annie loved that French word, meaning bottle stopper or cork, to indicate a traffic jam. The French always found a way to get back to wine. The afternoon was what Annie began to think of as Naudin gray, the soft, shadowless light that François captured in his photographs. Less cold than usual, it seemed a mild, harmless afternoon.

“Will anyone else be there?” Wesley asked, his voice just audible over the roar of the motor.

“I thought it was just us,” Annie said. “But Daphne told me a friend was visiting from England. Tim something.”

“Just a friend?” Wesley asked the question that Annie had been mulling over. In all their talks Daphne had never mentioned this man. She'd led Annie to believe that there was no one special in her life at the moment.

“I think he's an old friend. Maybe someone from her childhood.”

Wesley remained quiet for the next few minutes of the trip. He took an exit off the main highway. Daphne had suggested they take a secondary road, a more scenic route, once they were away from the city. Annie held the directions and map on her lap.

Riding in the small car together created an intimacy that neither of them could escape. They had made it through Christmas. The days following the party Wesley had retreated to his office for hours at a time. Annie knew he was working on materials to take to the firm in Washington. She'd finished her work at Liberal Arts Abroad and used the final days before Christmas for her writing. When she'd asked Wesley one evening to look over a draft, he had refused.

“I don't see why you're spending all your time on those poems. This guy may not even choose you to do the book.”

“I think I have a chance. Besides, I love the photographs. They inspire me to write.”

“But what's the point? We're going to be moving. I'm going to need you to get the apartment ready to sell.”

Need
. There it was again. Annie had loved creating a family and being needed by her husband and daughter, but more and more she could
feel the seeds of resentment take hold. She also felt the need to write, to make these the best poems possible. The inevitable move to Washington hung between them. She was hurt that Wesley showed no interest in her poems. He was angry that she showed no enthusiasm for starting a new life back in the States. Something in his antagonism made Annie all the more determined to succeed with her poems.

Now, traveling through the bleak outskirts of Paris, they passed industrial sites and blocks of public housing. The light was flat, the scenery uninteresting. Eventually the landscape opened up and they saw farmhouses, barns, and the open fields. The small farms formed a patchwork of geometric shapes, fallow fields of brown, gray, and dusty gold, much like the colors in the Reeds' antique quilts. The sky had also changed, the steady gray giving way to shifting clouds that revealed hints of blue far above.

Annie felt her spirits lift. She'd finally recovered from her cold, and Liberal Arts Abroad was closed for the next few weeks. She'd spent hours in her alcove chair writing as well as reading the delicate leather volume of poems that was Daphne's present to her on the night of the solstice. A collection of poems by Paul Verlaine—a perfect gift. She had told Daphne that Verlaine was her favorite French poet. Before beginning her own work, she liked to read a few of his poems. His clarity of language, melodic verses, and painterly images always inspired her.

“I thought Sophie sounded stressed yesterday,” Wesley said. They had called, waking her in Los Angeles, still groggy in her efficiency apartment after she'd worked long into the night. Wesley kept his eyes intently on the road. He'd never grown accustomed to the wild French drivers. He'd been complaining lately about other typically French things, like noisy motorbikes, heavy smoking in restaurants, and a recent transit strike, all attempts to make his case for a new life in America.

“I'm glad I'm not the only one who worries about her,” Annie said.

“Of course I worry about her. You don't have the right to say that.”

“I wish you'd told her to ease up a bit. You know she's working too hard. What is she trying to prove?”

“I think being the youngest one on this assignment makes her insecure.” He glanced up at the rearview mirror. “She's trying to show them she can manage.”

Wesley put on the brake and slowed, allowing a black diesel Mercedes to pass. “Can't these idiots ever take their time?” His jaw was clenched and he looked pale in the winter light. The exhaust fumes seeped into their car like the ill will that had settled around them.

“Annie, if we lived closer, it would make a difference. If I took the job in Washington, we could travel more, see Sophie on weekends.”

“You've said it over and over.” She tried to keep from getting angry again. “Please, let's not talk about it all the time. After all, nothing's decided yet.” Annie stared out across a flat field with a farmhouse in the distance. It looked uninhabited, mournful.

“They will offer me the job. Hal is convinced of it.”

“Okay, fine. You're getting the job.” Why did everything have to go back to this? It would be nice to be closer to Sophie. She would concentrate on that; it was the only positive aspect of moving.

Annie cracked her window open, suddenly hungry for a burst of country air. It was not as cold as she expected. The road curved and Wesley slowed. “There's the sign for Villandry,” she said.

“I see it.”

“It'll be a right turn.” She smoothed out the map and looked at the directions she'd written on the back of an envelope. Wesley downshifted and turned off the main road following the signs for
centre ville
. “Go past the train station, make a left turn onto the road along the river,” she read from her notes. “Watch for the iron gates about a kilometer on the right.”

A few minutes later they wound along a small country road. Annie caught brief glimpses of the river that shimmered beyond wide fields and lightly forested landscape. Then the trees thickened and the road climbed, hiding the river from view. The first rays of sun she'd seen in weeks peeked through the clouds.

“There's the entrance,” she said, pointing to a pair of open iron gates set in moss-covered stone pillars. Wesley turned and the car crunched onto the gravel drive. The grounds were heavily planted with evergreens and shrubs, and as the drive curved to the left, the house came into view.

God House. Annie was enchanted immediately. They approached the house, a gray two-story building dressed in ivy with three tall
windows on either side of the front door. While not enormous, this house with its faded sage green shutters was perfectly proportioned. Its beauty came from an understated charm, like a well-groomed Frenchwoman of a certain age, perfectly suited to her surroundings. Wesley pulled up in front of what must have been a coach house but now served as the garage. A fairly large building, mottled gray stucco like the house, it had two sets of double doors, painted the same green as the shutters, and heavy iron hinges. A shiny dark blue sports car with English plates sat in front of one set of doors, and Wesley stopped their car in front of the others. “What a lovely house,” Annie said. They sat for a moment in silence.

“Look,” Wesley said, “let's put the rest of our lives on hold for a bit and just enjoy this.” He reached out and touched her cheek. His hand was warm, familiar. Annie looked at him and nodded. He turned and got out and she opened her door, carefully disentangling herself from the packages around her feet. The air, while still winter cold, was softer and seemed to hold promise. Wesley came around and helped lift the satchel of wine while Annie extracted the bouquet of flowers and her present for Daphne.

“Welcome to God House. You're here at last.” Daphne emerged from the front door. She wore jeans, a baggy navy pullover sweater, and a large white apron. Her hair was clipped up on her head with a large yellow plastic barrette, and her cheeks were flushed, as if she'd been cooking over a hot stove. Annie handed her the flowers.

“God, they are truly gorgeous.” Daphne bent her head and breathed in the springtime scent of the white flowers tinged with green. “Viburnum, my favorite. Such extravagance. You are a dear.” She hugged Annie and then Wesley. “What can I carry?”

“Not a thing,” Wesley said. “Annie, if you can take the wine bag, I'll get our suitcases from the trunk.”

Annie gave Daphne the wrapped package and picked up the wine.

“What, more presents?” Daphne said.

“Your Christmas gift. That's all.”

“Now you're spoiling me.” She tucked the package under her arm and cradled the white flowers. “Follow me and I'll show you where to put your things.”

Daphne led the way up the wide curved front steps and into the hall. Annie was instantly transported. The hall, painted a pale peach with a black-and-white stone floor, reminded her of a Vermeer painting. A wide curved staircase led to the floor above. On the right was a low fruitwood chest that smelled of lemon oil. On it sat a big silver bowl of fresh pears and a Chinese lamp decorated with coral-colored dragons. Beyond the chest Annie saw a long wooden bench under which several pairs of boots and shoes were lined up. Light flooded in from double doors at the opposite end of the hall, balancing the entranceway.

Wesley set the bags down at the foot of the stairs. “What a great house,” he said.

“Daphne, it's so beautiful,” Annie said. “I had no idea.”

Daphne put her arm around Annie. “Yes, it is beautiful, and it's the sort of beauty that never fades.” She looked directly at Annie. “I think you'll see that when you spend more time here.” She released her arm. “Well now, let's take all this to the kitchen.”

They followed her through another set of double doors opening into the dining room and beyond into the kitchen, a huge old-fashioned room dominated by a well-worn pine table in the middle.

“It smells wonderful in here,” Wesley said. “I had a feeling you'd be a terrific cook.”

“I'm terrible on my own, but I love to cook for friends.” Daphne set the flowers down on the sink and came over to Wesley, drawing her arm around his waist. “I'm going to put you to work too, my sweet,” she said in a joking voice. “As a matter of fact, there are some bottles of Haut-Brion on the sideboard in the dining room that need to be decanted before dinner.” She handed Wesley a corkscrew and a dish towel.

“I'm happy to help,” he said. He left them together and went to see about the wine.

“And what can I do?” Annie asked.

“Let's get everything in the fridge first,” Daphne answered. “Later, I'll let you arrange the salmon on the platter. I think it would be quite nice to have it with cocktails in the drawing room before dinner.”

Annie saw that Daphne had put a long silver tray on the kitchen table. “It looks like you've been polishing as well as cooking.”

“I have Berthe to help me. You can use that for the salmon.” Daphne opened the oven door, bathing them in the scent of garlic, wine, and roasting meat. She adjusted the heat.

“Who's Berthe?” Annie could feel her mouth water.

“Believe it or not, she's my nanny. Actually, my nanny when I was a little girl at God House. She has always lived here. She looked after me when I was young and she took care of Antoinette until she died. She lives in the apartment above the garage.” Daphne moved about the kitchen with a relaxed ease, sliding the salmon onto a shelf in the refrigerator and removing a platter of cheeses to warm to room temperature.

“Does she help with the cooking?” Annie asked, looking toward the oven.

“I don't let her do as much now. She's pretty old. I made the stew. It's called
daube provençal
. It's like a beef stew, but with tons of garlic and orange peel. It simmers all day in this gorgeous Burgundy.”

“You're the one spoiling us. It smells divine.”

“Let's go put your things upstairs, and then I thought a walk might be nice. First we'll get that darling husband of yours to carry the bags.”

“You even arranged to have the sun come out for us,” Wesley said. He wore a sweater and a sport coat with the collar pulled up, his blue scarf tied loosely around his neck. His favorite corduroy trousers looked suitable for a country walk. Annie had borrowed a pair of rubber boots from the collection in the front hall. She'd put on heavy socks and now clomped along with a childish gait, the boots slipping loosely on her feet. The ground was wet from several days of rain.

“Not bad for a winter's day,” Daphne said. She wore a man's gray overcoat that almost reached her ankles. Annie had never seen such a masculine outfit look so feminine, but Daphne seemed to have a way with clothes, making the sloppiest old things come alive. Daphne thrust her hands in the pockets and led them through the garden. “Tim decided not to join us. Felt he needed a nap. I'm afraid we started celebrating the new year a little early last night.” She laughed and shook her head. “He wants to be in good form for tonight.”

Annie left her coat unbuttoned and enjoyed feeling the soft breeze as it touched her face and throat. This weather was a reprieve from the cold, brittle weeks before Christmas. They were barely into winter, but Annie wondered often where she would be when spring finally arrived. They followed Daphne along a gravel path through the back garden toward the river. “It's absolutely lovely,” Annie said. “It must be heaven in the summer.”