Capturing Paris (23 page)

She pressed the buzzer and the red
arrêt demande
sign lit up on the panel above the driver. The bus drew to a halt, and she got off at the place du Trocadéro with its breathtaking vista of the Eiffel Tower and the surrounding park. She took a small side street in the opposite direction
and entered the Cimetière de Passy. A fraction the size of the famous Père Lachaise cemetery, which suffered from continual bouts of vandalism, the monuments scarred and spoiled by graffiti, this was an enchanting place and she understood what had led François here with his camera. This cemetery was like a village of tombs and mausoleums nestled closely together along pebbled paths.

The mausoleums seemed to Annie like miniature cathedrals, the size of phone booths. She stopped in front of one whose elaborate iron gates sat ajar. Inside was an altarlike structure with a statue of the virgin. Below it, a pot of chrysanthemums all withered and brown, about to turn to dust. Whoever had brought them might be in the grave as well. Reading the stones, most from the nineteenth century, Annie got a feeling not of sadness but of community. The remains of these people were together in a beautiful, quiet spot exactly where they were supposed to be, a community of souls with a view of the Eiffel Tower.

And where did she belong? It made her sad to think about leaving Paris. If she were to stay behind forever, it could only lead to divorce. She tried to imagine herself living in some small apartment, something she could afford, where she would write, do her job, and manage on her own. She turned and pushed this thought aside.

Annie's feet crunched on the gravel path. She sat on a bench in the sunshine and began to write. It felt good to start a new poem. Soon she was able to play with the images and let the powerful mystery of language take over.

Sleeping souls blanketed in winter sun
share their stories, while those wandering above in waning light
search in vain for answers, hearing not the sound
of murmured truths, nor melodies of wisdom
cradled in the frozen ground
.

Annie let the words flow freely, knowing that the real work, the real satisfaction, came with the endless moving of phrases, the combinations of sounds that shaped the poem and brought it to life. As her pen glided over the page, she trusted that some part of what appeared
there would be right, and that it would capture what François's images were telling her. It was astonishing really, the way her writing made her feel better. After an hour or so she could feel the cold creeping in from her seat, so she stood and gathered her things. The poem had begun to take form, and she was ready to go home.

“So, Moms, what's going on between you and Dad?”

Annie and Sophie sat on the sofa in their living room drinking tea. Sophie was leaving in the morning. It was late afternoon, and they'd come back earlier from the monthly lunch at the Verniers'. Wesley, wanting some exercise, had gone out for a walk.

“What do you mean?” Annie couldn't bring herself to look into Sophie's eyes. They were the same color as Wesley's, that clear, honest blue.

“What I mean is, you were both happy and cheerful talking with the Verniers about moving to Washington, but you never talk about it at home. It's like it's some kind of forbidden topic.”

“Haven't you had a good week? We've loved having you at home.”

“Mother, I've had a wonderful week. What's not to love? We've done everything, all my favorite things.”

Sophie's short week at home had flown by. With Wesley, they'd gone to restaurants, seen a Molière play at the Comédie-Française, and braved the long lines for the Gauguin show at the Grand Palais. Annie had taken Sophie shopping, and she'd found a new handbag, blue denim with
BEAU SAC
written in sequins across the front.

Sophie reached over and put her hand on Annie's arm. “You're not answering my question. You don't seem the same anymore, and you hardly talk to Dad.” She stared at her mother with her lucid, intelligent gaze.

“Sophie, sweetie, it's complicated. I'm not sure I understand it myself.” Annie kicked off her shoes and drew her feet up under her on the cushion.

“Understand what?” Sophie tilted her head. She wore an unaccustomed worried expression.

“It's been a difficult year. It was hard for Dad when Wilson & James closed. He tried working at home, but that didn't work out.”

“So? He's got a job now. I don't see what the problem is.”

“Well, I wanted him to look for a job here,” Annie said. “I'm not sure that moving is the best thing for us.” She wouldn't tell Sophie how cold and self-absorbed Wesley had been all those months, or how he'd shut her out and acted as if she didn't exist when it came to determining their future. “You know I've gotten very involved working on this book, and it's thanks to Daphne that my own career is finally taking off.”

“Just what is the deal with that woman?” Sophie now sounded angry.

“What do you mean?” Annie asked.

“Dad thinks you're spending too much time with her.”

“He said that?”

“Yes, and I don't get it. She's supposed to be your friend, and she spent the entire lunch today flirting with Dad, laughing and flipping that mop of hair out of her eyes.”

Annie cringed. Sophie was right. She thought back to the lunch. In the beginning everything had gone well. Céleste and Georges had made a fuss over Wesley and were thrilled to celebrate his new job. Céleste had admired her new haircut,
“Oh, mais ça fait jeune,”
as if looking young was what mattered most.

Annie had been pleased to see Sophie talking animatedly with Céleste's two nieces, whom Sophie had known from childhood, and Wesley had their parents and the other guests listening to his opinions on what was going on in Washington, as if actually living there and breathing the air gave you more insight than tuning in to CNN.

Céleste had invited Daphne to join them, and Annie wondered if she would become a regular Sunday-lunch guest. She'd arrived in the blue velvet cape, a poignant reminder of that first lunch, when she'd breezed so unexpectedly into their lives. Annie was initially uncomfortable seeing Daphne at the Verniers', and the memories of their awkward morning in bed reared up in her mind. She thought of the kisses, Daphne's touch. Daphne acted as if nothing had happened between them as she talked to all the guests with her usual charm.

After lunch, when they'd settled in the
salon
for coffee, Annie slipped out to get more sugar, and Daphne followed her to the kitchen. She
closed the door behind them. “I wondered if you'd disappeared from my life completely,” she said. “I thought you'd at least call.”

Annie breathed in the faint scent of lilacs. Daphne's mouth was drawn into a hard line. She looked less pretty, less the dramatic stranger now that Annie knew her well.

“It's been a crazy week.” Annie's explanation sounded hollow in her own ears. “I've been so busy with Wesley and Sophie. She's only here a week.” Annie knew she should have called Daphne to thank her for her visit, but getting through the last few days had consumed all her energy. A leaden sense of guilt weighed on her, yet she'd done nothing terribly wrong.

“So, you're moving to Washington?”

“I don't know what I'm doing. You know I don't want to leave. There's my book and working with Paul. It's still a long way from being finished.”

“It sounds like you're going to give it all up.”

“I'm not giving up anything.”

“I wonder now why I bothered encouraging you, why I ever took your poems to Paul.” She sounded bitter.

“Daphne, don't say that. You know I appreciate all you've done.” Annie held the sugar bowl like a weight in her hand. “I'm so grateful to you, and I've been writing every day in spite of everything.” She set the bowl down on the table. She hated this feeling of indebtedness. Where would she be without Daphne? She felt close to tears.

“You've been so wonderful to me, so encouraging about my work and letting me stay, but—”

“You mustn't be afraid of your feelings for me.” Daphne's tone was cajoling. She stepped closer and gently ruffled Annie's hair.

“Daphne, I have thought about you. I really don't have those kinds of feelings.” She didn't know what else she could say. She felt a rush of heat coming to her face and turned away.

“My instincts are rarely wrong,” Daphne said.

“I don't want it to be like that.” Annie bowed her head.

“It doesn't have to be like anything. We just need to stay friends.”

Annie felt the weight of Daphne's arm around her shoulders and the pressure of her body pressing gently into hers. Then the soft breath
on her cheek as Daphne whispered, “Sweet friend, you spend far too much time thinking.”

“What's this, a party in the kitchen,
dans la cuisine
?” Georges's voice boomed behind them. “Come back to the
salon
. We're having a little Cognac. Best thing on a winter afternoon.”

“You're a darling, Georges,” Daphne said brightly, withdrawing her arm and stepping away. “You know just what a girl needs.” Daphne took his arm and they made their way back to join the others. After that Daphne had ignored Annie and turned her attentions to Wesley.

Now, sitting beside Sophie, Annie found it impossible to explain any of this.

“You know, Moms, she called Dad twice this week, and he took her to lunch when we went shopping on Friday.”

“I know that. He's helping her get a shipment of antique quilts from Madeleine. He told me about that.” Annie smiled at Sophie and took her chin in her hand. What would she ever do without this precious daughter? Loving a child, she thought, is so pure and simple, the kind of love that never wavers. “You don't need to worry about us, sweetie.” She wrapped her arms around her daughter and gave her a hug. Her most precious antique quilt hung on the wall behind them. Annie glanced up at it and wondered what Daphne and Wesley had talked about besides the quilts.

“Aren't you coming to bed?”

Annie looked up at Wesley from her chair in the alcove off the living room. She'd pulled the afghan over her legs, and her poetry notebook sat on her lap. Sophie was already in bed, her clothes packed for her trip to New York the next day. Wesley's flight was booked for the day after that. Annie knew they needed to talk. He sat down by her feet, and she moved them over, giving him more room.

“Annie?” His hair was mussed. His blue button-down shirt was open at the neck. He looked vulnerable and sweet. She didn't want to hurt him.

“Wesley, not now. I'm working.”

“I love you.” He put his hand on her bent knee and rubbed gently. “I've missed you. You know that, don't you?” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired and defeated. She could see the purple veins in his pale hands. He put the glasses back on as if needing to bring her into focus. “I want you with me, Annie.”

“I know that. We'll talk tomorrow.” She looked down at her notebook. She was trying to bring back the image of the carved stonework from the mausoleum in the Passy cemetery.

He stood up, bent down, and kissed her forehead. He drew his hand across the top of her head. “Tomorrow, then.” He stood and lingered a few moments longer.

She kept her eyes on the page and wrote. When she said nothing more, he left her alone.

She didn't want to write anymore, but she didn't want to go to bed.

Le doute

Wesley's last day. “All's well that ends well,” Annie thought to herself. She
remembered seeing a student production of that play with Wesley, one of their first dates in Cambridge. She doubted that this day would end well. It was already beginning badly. The sky was an unpleasant pewter shade, like before a summer thunderstorm; a stiff wind rattled the shutters. Sophie had left the day before, and her absence was palpable.

Mary called first thing that morning. She was at the office, having returned from visiting her parents in the States during the Christmas holidays. “What happened to the transcripts?” she asked. “They should have been sent out a week ago. I already have messages from several universities asking why they're late.” She was furious.

“Mary, I'm so sorry.” All her excuses—the poems, Wesley and Sophie being home, busy days—sounded weak and selfish.

“You can't imagine what my life is like now,” Mary said. “I can't have things falling apart at work too.”

Annie could hear the pain in her voice. She immediately remembered Tom and the day that she and Wesley had seen him outside the hotel with another woman. What could she say? She couldn't imagine how her friend was coping with this. She promised Mary that the transcripts would be finished and ready to send out by the end of the afternoon.

Annie rushed to the office and immersed herself in the task. She didn't stop until the papers were complete and neatly stacked on Mary's desk. She'd never neglected her job before, and she promised herself she'd find a way to make it up to Mary. Perhaps she could take her out for lunch, to some especially nice place, a quiet restaurant where they could have a good talk.

Relieved that the tedious job was finally done, she put on her coat and set off for home. She pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck. The sky looked ominous, and the same unsettled wind continued to whip through the streets. Annie hated wind. It made her feel discombobulated and fragile, the vulnerable feeling you have when you're about to get sick.

She hadn't intended to be gone for Wesley's last day. That morning he was taking cartons of files to a shipper on the outskirts of Paris. Sophie had helped him pack the boxes before she left, and Annie had had to rush off to the office, leaving him with the tedious task of getting the boxes downstairs and loading them into the car. They had not yet had their discussion about the future.