The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel (25 page)

“Did you see that e-mail I sent about my parents’ fancy new apartment in Paris?”

“Oh, it belongs to your parents? So that’s what you were so all-fired anxious to talk to me about last night?” She took a croissant from the breakfast tray and dabbed it in the apricot jam.

“Well, yeah. What would you say, gorgeous, if I told you that my parents want me to oversee it for them for a while?”

“What do you mean?”

“We didn’t think the deal would go through so soon. Real estate purchases in France can take a long time. They want me to make sure all the paperwork is in order, manage the delivery of the furniture my mother picked out, etcetera. Mom can’t be in Paris because of all the preparations for Christmas, and they’re planning on traveling to Europe in January, so the place has to be ready for occupancy.”

“So when are you going to accomplish all that?”

“That’s why I was wondering if you have your flight booked yet. How about if we make up for that lost weekend in Paris we didn’t get?”

“What?”

“I mean it. I’m clearing my calendar for a week so I can fly over. We can spend the weekend and fly home in time for Christmas. I promised my mother we’d be back by then.”

“This is so…so sudden.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. So, what do you say, gorgeous?”

She didn’t answer him.

“I’m not sure whether we’ll be able to stay there,” he went on. “It will depend on whether there is furniture. Mom insists that it’s in a Paris warehouse, ready for delivery. She purchased it in Italy, most of it, when they were there recently, and had it stored in Paris. She’s a whirlwind when it comes to decorating and furnishing her houses. You’ll be amazed at what she’s done with the new mansion in Bel-Air.”

“I bet I will. So let me get this straight. You are arriving end of the week? Really?”

“Anna, remember that square in Montmartre? The one in the painting I gave you?” He was suddenly serious.

“Yes,” she said, sudden panic setting in.

“I still want to walk there with you,” he said invitingly, thinking to himself,
and there’s some unfinished business to tend to with regards to a certain engagement ring
. When Anna didn’t react, he cleared his throat and added, “Well, okay, we can discuss our itinerary after I get there. I’m just anxious to see you. Call you later?”

“Sure. Bye, Mark.”

Anna hung up the phone and stared into space. She had a gutwrenching feeling that someday she would be forced to decide between Mark and C-C.

CHAPTER 44

A
n hour later, Anna walked past C-C’s green Renault, which was still sitting in the street in front of his apartment building. She stared at it with a shiver, wondering why it was still there if a car thief had wanted to steal it just the night before. As she pushed open the wooden door to the courtyard, she looked up to the window of his apartment, lingering for a second, allowing herself to be swept into his arms, if only in memory, one last time.

Elise spotted her from her apartment window and hustled to open the door. “Anna?
Oh là, mais, entre, ma chère
. I didn’t know you were in Paris.”

“
Bonjour
, Elise.” The two women embraced.

Elise closed the door to keep the cold air from entering the warm apartment. She appeared younger than she had when Anna had visited her in September. She was wearing makeup, her naturally wavy hair, salted with gray, was pulled back in a smart coif, and a pair of gold earrings sparkled in her earlobes. The spectacles were gone, replaced by fashionable reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck. There was definitely something that had occurred in her life that had prompted a positive change in her appearance.

“Only for a few days, Elise. I came for a book signing,” Anna replied.

The old woman made approving clucks of the tongue. “
Ah bon, ah bon
.
Eh bien
, let me take your coat.” She hung Anna’s coat on a rack next to the door, then motioned to her to sit on an antique, brocade-upholstered loveseat. The apartment was quaint, old-fashioned, and spotless, just as Anna had remembered. Like Elise, there wasn’t a thing out of place.

From her handbag, Anna pulled out the wad of hundred-franc bills that C-C had given her in the taxi. “C-C wanted you to have this,” she said, patting Elise’s hand. “It’s to pay his rent while he is away.”

Elise looked puzzled as she took the money, and then her clear blue eyes grew wide. She knew. “It was you, then? You were the woman with him last night?”

“You saw us?” Now Anna’s eyes were wide.

“
Oui, oui
.
Nous
…” then she hesitated, not knowing whether she had divulged something she shouldn’t have by using the first-person plural. “We…that is,
bon
, I mean, I was watching out my window there after I heard the car siren.” She motioned toward the front window of her apartment. “Then I saw Charles-Christian and a woman leave through the back exit, the one I always use as an entrance.”

“Elise, he doesn’t want you to worry.” Anna tried to sound calm and reassuring. “He’ll be all right. He has gone to Africa again…to work.”

Elise cocked her head sideways, squinted her eyes, and wagged a bony finger in Anna’s face.

“In the middle of the night?” Her thoughts turned to the frantic call from Jacques first thing this morning and the hasty departure of Diamanté.

Anna sat in silence. What could she tell her? Yes, in the middle of the night. She diverted her eyes through the arched doorway leading into a small dining room. A mahogany china hutch filled with antique crystal and china sat against the far wall, and a wrought-iron and crystal chandelier hung above an oval table covered with a crocheted table cloth. In the center of the table sat a round crystal bowl filled with fresh fruit.

“I…I really don’t know,” she finally said shaking her head. The event had seemed surreal to her also.

“
Ma chère
,” Elise said gently. She understood more than Anna could have anticipated she did. “I will let Charlie explain when he returns. Would you like something to drink?” She got up to go into the kitchen. “Some wine, maybe?”

Anna nodded. Some wine would taste good. She spotted a large bouquet of mixed flowers on an oval pedestal table in front of the window.

“Your flowers are beautiful, Elise,” she said.

“Oh…that…well,” Elise smoothed her hair back in a girlish gesture as she disappeared into the kitchen. “I have an
admirateur
.”

“Did I just hear what I thought I heard? An admirer?” Anna whispered, smiling to herself.
These French
, she thought.
L’amour is not just for the young in this country
. She studied the romantic arrangement framed by the lace curtains. There were lots of roses in it.
Her “admirateur” is quite serious, I would say
.

Elise returned after a few moments, carrying a silver tray with two small, etched crystal goblets half filled with port. She put the tray on a rectangular footed ottoman between them.

“So does your
admirateur
have a name?” Anna asked as she took a sip of the port.

Elise seemed slightly coquettish. “Oh, I just call him
Lobo
. It’s my Portuguese pet name for him.”

“Well,
Lobo
is nice to give you flowers.”

“He brings me a bunch every week.” The old woman’s nose wrinkled up into a smile.

They chatted about the upcoming holiday and Anna’s plans to return to the United States, and they finished their wine without Anna discovering anything more about the admirer named
Lobo
. She finally got up and put on her coat and scarf.

“Well, I’ve got to go, Elise. I’ll come by again before I leave Paris, if I can.”

The two women embraced, and Anna waved as she walked through the barren courtyard, past the bench under the leafless chestnut tree, and through the heavy wooden door.

Strange
, she thought.
Elise didn’t ask any more questions about C-C. Concierges always make it their business to know everything about their tenants.
She put her hands in her coat pockets and glanced over her shoulder at C-C’s apartment window as she walked down the narrow street, pondering the conversation she had had with Elise. What was the Portuguese pet name Elise said she had given her “
admirateur
?”
Lobo?
Anna knew the meaning of the word in Spanish. Was it the same in Portuguese? She made a mental note to remind herself to look it up.

CHAPTER 45

D
iamanté and Charles-Christian arrived midafternoon in the handsome little village surrounded by hills. Diamanté parked the car in front of his still signless café and woke Charles-Christian with a slap on the shoulder.

“O
n arrive, mon ami
.
Voilà Castagniers
.” Diamanté motioned with his upturned hand. “
Et voilà le resto
. I call it Ajaccio, but it doesn’t have a sign yet.”

Charles-Christian studied the small, weathered stone and brick building. A dark green awning extended from beneath the red-tiled roof. Clear plastic had been hung along the sides and front of it to protect café diners from the winter rains. Wrought-iron tables and chairs spilled from the front out onto the square, but no one was seated at them and the umbrellas remained unopened. He looked around the deserted square. Barren trees lined the perimeter. In the center sat a lone, artichoke-crowned fountain that had been drained for the winter. Directly across from them stood the
mairie
or town hall, its
tricolore
flag thrashing in the wind above the entrance.

Diamanté and Charles-Christian walked into the restaurant. With the exception of a handful of old locals playing cards at a corner table in the bar, it was empty of customers. The place smelled of olive oil and herbs. Lively Corsican dance music played in the background. In the kitchen, they could see and hear Jacques noisily chopping vegetables with a huge kitchen knife.

The café dog, a mixed breed with long, floppy ears and soulful eyes, came from behind a well-worn, galvanized bar. The dog stretched, recognized Diamanté, and loped over to greet him, his bushy tail making windmill circles in the air.

“
Salut
, Max.” Diamanté bent down to rub the dog’s ears and was awarded multiple wet, sloppy licks on the face. “Go ahead. I want to inspect the wine cellar,” he said to Charles-Christian, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen. Then he whistled to the dog to follow him, and the two of them disappeared through a heavy, wooden door behind the bar.

Charles-Christian paused a moment at the doorway to the kitchen and watched his father deftly chopping vegetables into perfectly thin, julienne-sized pieces. He had not seen him in two years, but he was surprised at how dramatically his appearance had changed. At age seventy, Jacques Gérard appeared at least a decade older. He seemed shorter and more stooped. His face, like an old piece of weathered wood, contained deep furrows and wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth. The curve under the brow ridge between his coal-black eyes had deepened, and the upper eyelids sagged. His bulbous nose seemed to have grown larger, the crook in it more pronounced. His graying hair, though still quite thick, had begun to recede, and his eyebrows had become more unruly.

“
Shuh vous aid-ah
,
Monsieur
?”

The accent was unmistakably
provençal
. Charles-Christian turned to face a young woman standing behind him. She appeared to be in her early twenties, dressed in skin-tight blue jeans, high-heeled black leather boots, and a bright lime-green, snug-fitting, low-cut sweater. Her brassy red hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and her emerald eyes were heavily outlined and accented with sea green eye shadow. Multiple silver pierced earrings of various sized hoops protruded from her ears. She carried at shoulder height a tray filled with bar glasses.

The sound of the young woman’s voice drew Jacques’ attention. It was then that he caught sight of his son standing in the doorway. He put down the kitchen knife and wiped his hands on a towel.

“Martine, this is Charlie, my son.”

Martine smiled at Charles-Christian and extended her right hand while balancing the tray of bar glasses with her left. “Martine Dubonnet.” She shook his hand with one firm shake.

“
Enchanté
,
Mademoiselle
.” He smiled.

Jacques was now standing next to Charles-Christian, his hands on his hips, his black eyes studying the son he had not seen since his wife’s death.

“
Salut
, Papa.”

The two men stood motionless for an awkward moment, and then they embraced and held each other in the way only a father and son can when they have previously been alienated by conflict and grief.

In the wine cellar below, Diamanté poured two glasses of
marc
, set them on a small wooden table, and awaited a visitor.

CHAPTER 46