Summer’s End

10

“O.K., kid, off your ass. It’s your turn.” Ben poked her gently in the small of her back, and Deanna groaned.

“It is not. I made breakfast yesterday.” She smiled into the pillow and hid her face.

“Do you know that I love you, even if you are a liar? I made breakfast yesterday and two days before that and for four days just before that. In fact I think you owe me three in a row.”

“That’s a lie!” She was giggling.

“The hell it is. I told you, this is a democracy!” He was laughing too and trying to turn the naked body he loved so that he could see her face.

“I don’t like democracy!”

“Tough. I want coffee and French toast and eggs.”

“What if I won’t do it?”

“Then tonight you sleep on the terrace.”

“I knew it. I should have brought Margaret.”

“A ménage à trois? It sounds lovely. Can she cook?”

“Better than I can.”

“Good. We’ll have her move in today.” He rolled over in bed with a satisfied smile. “Meanwhile, get off your dead ass and feed me.”

“You’re spoiled rotten.”

“And I love it.”

“You’ll get fat.” She sat on the edge of the bed looking at his far-from-overweight body. “Besides, eggs aren’t good for you, they have carbohydrates or cholesterol or chromosomes or something, and…” He pointed toward the kitchen, a mock scowl lining his face, and Deanna stood up. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

Laughing, she vanished into the kitchen. They had been together for two weeks-a moment; a lifetime. They shared the cooking and the chores. A funny little old lady came in twice a week to clean, but Ben liked doing things for himself, and Deanna found that she enjoyed sharing those things with him. They went marketing, cooked dinners, polished the brass, and pulled weeds from among the flowers on the terrace. She watched him pore over catalogues of upcoming auctions, and he watched her sketch, or work in pastels or oils. He was the first person she had allowed to see her work in progress. They read mystery books and watched television and went for drives; they walked on the beach once at midnight, and twice went down for the night to his house in Carmel. She went to another opening at his gallery and on a visit to a new artist, masquerading as his wife. It was as though nothing had come before and nothing would come after-they had only the time and the life that they shared.

Deanna set down the tray with his breakfast and the paper. “You know something? I like you. I really do.”

“You sound surprised. Were you afraid democracy would wear you out?”

“Maybe.” She sat down with a small, happy shrug. “I haven’t taken care of myself or anyone else, in a practical way, in a long time. I’m responsible for everyone, but I don’t think I’ve made breakfast in years. Or done any of the things that we’ve done.”

“I don’t like being dependent on other people, like maids. Basically, I like a very simple life.”

She grinned to herself, remembering the three lavishly expensive paintings he had bought the day before in L.A., but she knew that what he was saying was true. Opulence wasn’t his style. He had seen too much of it as a child, in the home of his grandparents and then his father. He was happier with the little house on the hill in San Francisco and the unpretentious cottage in Carmel.

He leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose, then sat back against his pillows again with the breakfast she had made still waiting on the tray. “I love you, Deanna.” He was smiling wickedly. “Now when are you going to sign with the gallery?”

“Are you back at that again? That is what this is all about. You just want me to sign with the gallery. I knew it! I knew it!” She laughed as he ducked the pillow she aimed at his head. “The things some people will do to sign new artists!”

“Well? Did it work?”

“Of course not! You’ll have to do better than that!”

“Better?” He looked at her ominously and put aside the breakfast tray. “What exactly do you mean by ‘better,’ why I…” He closed his mouth over hers and reached for her body with his hands. “Better…?” They were both laughing now. It was half an hour later before they had untangled themselves and caught their breath. “Well, was that better?” Ben asked.

“Much.”

“Good.” He looked up at her happily from where he lay on the bed. “Now will you sign?”

“Well…” She lay her head on his chest and looked at him with a small yawn. “Maybe if you’d just run through that again…”

“Deanna!” He rolled over and covered her body with his own, holding her throat menacingly in both hands. “I want you to sign with me!” His voice boomed.

She smiled sweetly, “O.K.”

“What?” He sat up, a look of astonishment on his face.

“I said O.K. O.K.?”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes. Do you still want me? For the gallery, I mean.” She grinned, and looked at him questioningly. Maybe it had been only a game all along.

But he was looking at her as though she were crazy. “Of course I still want you, you lunatic! You’re the best new artist I’ve gotten my hands on in fifteen years!”

She rolled over again and looked at him with a feline little smile. “And just whom have you ‘gotten your hands on’ in the last fifteen years?”

“You know what I mean. I mean like Gustave.” They both laughed at the thought. “Are you serious, Deanna? Will you sign?” She nodded. “You don’t have to, you know. I love you even if you never let me show your work.”

“I know. But I’ve been watching you work for weeks, and I can’t stand it. I want to be part of it too. I want my own show.”

He laughed. “Your own, eh? No other artists. All right, you’ve got it. When?”

“Whenever it works for you.”

“I’ll check the calendar with Sally. Maybe in a few weeks.” He dug into his breakfast with a broad smile. He looked as though she had just given birth to his son.

“Should I make you something else?” She was watching him devour the ice-cold French toast.

“All you have to do is bring me your paintings and let me show them. From now on I’ll make breakfast. Every day. No…five times a week. You do weekends. How’s that?”

“Wonderful. I knew there were benefits to giving in.” She pulled the covers back to her chin. “Ben? Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

He knew what was coming. The doubts were written all over her face. But he was not going to let her back away. “Shut up. If you start that, we’ll do the show next week. You’re good enough. You’re terrific. You’re fabulous. For God’s sake, Deanna, you’re the best young artist in this town, probably in L.A. too. Just shut up and let me do the show. All right?”

“All right.”

For a time she was very quiet, thinking about Marc. How could she tell him she had finally decided to show? Or did he even have to know? He had told her years ago to put her dreams about art away, that Madame Duras could not be some kind of “hippie painter.” But she wasn’t, dammit, and what right did he have to…

“What are you thinking?” Ben was still watching her.

“Nothing much.” She smiled. “I was just thinking about the show.”

“Are you sure? You looked as though you were about to be beaten up.”

She sighed, then looked at him again. “I felt as though I was. I was trying to think of… of what to tell Marc.”

“Do you have to?” Ben sounded momentarily strained.

“I probably should. I suppose it sounds crazy to you now, but I don’t want to be dishonest with him. No more than I have to.”

“It does sound crazy, but I understand what you mean. He won’t be pleased about a show, will he?”

“No, he won’t. But I think I ought to tell him.”

“And if he says no?” Ben looked hurt and Deanna lowered her eyes.

“He won’t.”

But they both knew he would.

Marc quietly let himself into the apartment. It was the second weekend he had gone away without Chantal. But his weekends in the South of France with his family were sacred. She had always understood that before. Why was she giving him problems about it now? She had barely been speaking to him on Friday when he had left. He set his bag down in the hall and looked around. She wasn’t home. But it was already after nine o’clock. Where the hell was she? Out? Out with whom? He sighed a long tired sigh as he sat down on the couch. He glanced around. She hadn’t left him a note. He looked at his watch again, and this time he reached for the phone. It would be noon in San Francisco, a good time to report to Deanna about Pilar. He dialed the call direct and waited for the phone to ring. He hadn’t spoken to her in a week. He had been too busy to call, and the one time he had, Margaret had told him she was out.

“Hello?” Deanna answered the phone breathlessly as she came up the studio stairs. Ben had just dropped her off. She had promised to come home and pick out twenty-five of her favorite paintings. That would keep her busy for days. “Yes?” She still hadn’t caught her breath and at first she hadn’t even noticed the whir of a long-distance call.

“Deanna?”

“Marc!” She stared at the phone in astonishment, as though he were a ghost from the past.

“You needn’t sound that surprised. It hasn’t been that long since we’ve spoken.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I just… I was thinking of something else.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“No, of course not. How’s Pilar?” She sounded vague to him as though she were at a loss for what to say. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Just today. I just got back from Antibes. She’s fine. She sends you her love.” It was a lie, but one he told often. “And my mother sends her love too.”

Deanna smiled at this last. “Pilar’s all right?” Suddenly, speaking to Marc again reminded her of her duties. With Ben, she only thought of him and herself. She thought of her paintings and his galleries, their nights together, their good times. She was a woman again, a girl. But Marc’s voice returned her to her role as mother. It was as though for a time she had forgotten.

“Yes, Pilar is fine.”

“She didn’t buy the motorcycle, did she?”

There was a long moment of silence. Too long. “Deanna…”

“Marc, did she?” Deanna’s voice rose. “Dammit, she did! I know it.”

“It’s not really a motorcycle, Deanna. It’s more, more a…” He looked for the words, but he was tired, and where the hell was Chantal? It was nine forty-five. “Really, you have no need to worry. She’ll be fine. I saw her drive it. She is extremely careful. Mother wouldn’t allow her to ride it if she were not.”

“Your mother doesn’t see her drive it away from the house. She has no more control over her than I do, or you. Marc, I told you explicitly…” Tears began to sting her eyes. She had lost to them again. She always lost. And this time it was something dangerous, something that might… “Goddammit, Marc, why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Calm yourself. She’ll be fine. What have you been up to?”

There wasn’t a damn thing she could do. And she knew it. The subject of Pilar and the motorcycle was closed. “Not much.” Deanna’s voice was like ice.

“I called once; you were out.”

“I’ve started painting in a studio.”

“Can’t you work at home?” Marc sounded irritated and confused.

Deanna closed her eyes. “I found a place where it’s easier for me to work.” Her heart started to race as she thought of Ben. What if Marc could read her mind? What if he knew? What if someone had seen them together? What if…

“With both of us gone, I can’t understand why you don’t paint at home. And what is this sudden new frenzy for your work?”

“What ‘frenzy’? I’m painting as much as ever.”

“Deanna, I really don’t understand.” But the tone in which he said the words suddenly hit her like a slap in the face.

“I enjoy my work.” She was goading him and she knew it.

“I don’t really think you need call it ‘work.’” He sighed into the phone and looked at his watch.

“I call it work because it is. I’m having a show at a gallery next month.” Her voice rang with defiance, and she felt her heart race faster and faster. He didn’t answer.

Then: “You’re what?”

“Having a show at a gallery.”

“I see.” There was a nasty tone of amusement in his voice, and for a moment she hated him. “We’re having a bohemian summer, are we? Well, maybe it will do you good.”

“Maybe it will.” Bastard… he never understood!

“Is it necessary to prove your point by having a show? Why not dispense with that? You can work in your other studio, and let it go at that.”

Thank you, Daddy. “The show is important to me.”

“Then it can wait. We’ll discuss it when I get back.”

“Marc…” I’m in love with another man…. “I’m going to do the show.”

“Fine. Just let it wait till the fall.”

“Why? So you can talk me out of it when you come home?”

“I won’t do that. We’ll talk about it then.”

“It won’t wait. I’ve already waited too long.”

“You know, darling, You’re too old for tantrums and too young for menopause. I think you’re being very unreasonable.”

She wanted to hit him, except that for a moment she also wanted to laugh. It was a ridiculous conversation, and she realized that she sounded a great deal like Pilar. She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. Tell you what: You win your case in Athens; I’ll do what I need to do with my art, and I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Is that your way of telling me to mind my own business?”

“Maybe so.” She was suddenly braver than she had been in years. “Maybe we both just have to do what we need to do right now.” Oh God, what are you doing? You’re telling him.… She held her breath.

“Well, in any case, you need to listen to your husband, and your husband needs to go to bed, so why don’t we just relax about all this for a while? We’ll talk again in a few days. All right? Meanwhile, no art show. C’est compris? Capisce? Understood?”

She wanted to grit her teeth. She wasn’t a child, and he was always the same. Pilar got the motorcycle, Deanna did not get the art show, and we’ll all discuss it “when I have time.” His way, always his way. But not anymore. “I understand, Marc, but I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

It wasn’t like him to be so obvious. Deanna realized that he must be very tired. He must have noticed it too. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk another time.”

“Fine.” She stood silently in her studio, waiting, wondering what he would say.

He said, “Bonsoir.”

And he was gone. Good night. And this time she hadn’t bothered to tell him she loved him. “No art show.” The words rang in her head. No art show. She sighed heavily and sank into her chair. What if she defied him? What if she had the show anyway? Could she do that to him? To herself? Was she brave enough to just go ahead and do what she wanted? Why not? He was away. And she had Ben. But it wasn’t for Ben. It was for herself. She looked around the room for a long moment, knowing that her lifetime was facing those walls, hidden on canvases no one had seen and would never see unless she did what she knew she had to do now. Marc couldn’t stop her, and Ben couldn’t make her do it. She had to do it now. Had to. For herself.

As Marc set down the phone, he looked at his watch again. It was almost ten, and the call to Deanna had done nothing to soothe his nerves. Dammit. He had told her about the motorcycle, and he hadn’t meant to. And her bloody art show. Why the hell didn’t she give up on that nonsense? And where the hell was Chantal? Jealousy was beginning to gnaw at his insides again as he poured himself a Scotch. When he heard the bell, he went to the door and opened it an inch. It was the little old man from next door. Monsieur Moutier. He was sweet, Chantal said, and he was taken care of by a daughter and a maid. He too had once been a lawyer, but now he was eighty years old. He had a soft spot for Chantal. Once he had sent her flowers.

“Oui?” Marc looked at him questioningly, wondering if the old man was ill. Why would he come to their door at this hour? “Is something wrong?”

“I… no. I… je regrette. I wanted to ask you the same thing. How is mademoiselle?”

“Very well, thank you, except that as far as I can see she’s a little bit late getting home.” He smiled at the elderly gentleman wearing the black smoking jacket and needlepoint slippers doubtless made by his daughter. “Would you like to come in?” Marc stepped aside, wanting to get back to his Scotch, but the old man shook his head.

“No, no…” He looked sorrowfully at Marc. He understood only too well. The man who always traveled, who was never there. He had been that way too. His wife had died, and he had learned too late. “She is not late, monsieur. They took her to the hospital last night.” He gazed at Marc as the shock registered on his face.

“Chantal? My God! Where?”

“The American Hospital, monsieur. She was in some kind of shock. The ambulance driver said-”

“Oh, my God!” Marc glanced at the old man in terror and then ran inside to grab his jacket from a chair. He returned instantly and slammed the door to the apartment, as the old man stepped aside. “I have to go.” Oh, my God… Oh, Chantal… Oh, no… Then she wasn’t out with another man. Having raced down the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest, Marc ran into the street and hailed a cab.