Summer’s End

11

The taxi pulled up at 92 Boulevard Victor Hugo in Neuilly in the quiet outskirts of Paris. Marc thrust some franc notes into the driver’s hand and raced inside. It was well past visiting hours, but he walked purposefully toward the information desk and inquired for Mademoiselle Chantal Martin. Room 401, admitted with diabetic coma, present condition satisfactory. She can go home in two days. Marc stared at the nurse, dismayed. Without discussing the matter further, he took the elevator to the fourth floor. A nurse sat sternly at her station and observed him as he disembarked from the elevator.

“Oui, monsieur?”

“Mademoiselle Martin.” He tried to sound commanding but he felt suddenly frightened. How had it happened and why? He felt a sudden surge of guilt for having gone to Antibes. “I must see her.”

The nurse shook her head. “Tomorrow.”

“Is she asleep?”

“You may see her tomorrow.”

“Please. I-I came all the way from-” He was about to say the South of France, then had a better idea. He flipped open his wallet. “From San Francisco, in the United States. I caught the first plane after I heard.” There was a long pause.

“Very well. Two minutes. And then you go. You are… her father?” Marc only shook his head. It was the final blow.

The nurse led him to a room not far away. Inside, a dim light burned. She left Marc-Edouard at the door. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold before stepping softly inside.

“Chantal?” His voice was a whisper in the dark room. She was lying in her bed, looking very pale and very young. In her arm there was an intravenous tube, attached to an ominous-looking bottle. “Darling…” He approached, wondering what he had done. He had taken on this girl and only given her half his life. He had to hide her from his mother, his child, his wife, sometimes even from himself. What right did he have to do this to her? His eyes were too bright as he stood at her side and gently took her free hand. “Darling, what happened?” A sixth sense had already told him that the diabetic coma was no accident. Chantal had the kind of diabetes one didn’t fool around with. But as long as she took her insulin, ate well, slept enough, and didn’t get pregnant, she’d be all right.

Her eyes closed and tears filtered through her lashes. “Je m’excuse. I’m so sorry…” Then after a pause: “I stopped taking my insulin.”

“On purpose?” As he watched her nod, he felt as though someone had delivered a blow to his heart. “Oh, my God. Chantal, darling… how could you?” He watched her in sudden terror. What if she had died? What if…? He couldn’t bear losing her, couldn’t bear it. Suddenly, the full force of it struck home. He reached for her unencumbered hand and pressed it hard. “Don’t ever, ever do that again!” His voice rose desperately. “Do you hear me?” She nodded again. And then there were tears pouring down his face as well. He sat down at her side. “I would die without you. Don’t you know that?”

There was no answer in her eyes. No, she didn’t know it. But it was true. He himself knew it for the first time. Now there were two of them. Deanna and Chantal. Two of them he owed a lifetime to, and he was only one man. He couldn’t live with himself if he put Deanna out of his life. And he couldn’t live without Chantal. The weight of it struck him like an axe. He saw her watching him. He was almost gray. “I love you, Chantal. Please, please don’t ever do anything like this again. Promise me!” He squeezed harder on the delicate hand.

“I promise.” It was a whisper in the sudden electricity of the room. Fighting the sobs that were rising in his chest, Marc-Edouard folded her gently into his arms.

By the end of the day, Deanna had chosen eleven paintings. It was going to be hard work selecting the rest. She set the eleven to one side and then walked back to the main part of the house. She was still thinking of her talk with Marc. She wondered if she would have defied him about the show if he hadn’t let Pilar buy the motorcycle. It was strange how those things worked. Their marriage was filled with petty revenges. She walked up the stairs to her bedroom and peered into the closet. What would she need? Another bathrobe, some jeans, the champagne-colored suede skirt that she was sure Ben would like. What was she doing here, in Marc’s bedroom planning her life with another man? Was she being menopausal or childish, as he’d suggested, or merely crazy? The phone rang as she stared into her closet, wondering. She didn’t even feel guilty anymore, except when she talked to Marc. The rest of the time she felt as though she belonged with Ben. The phone rang again and again. There was no one she wanted to talk to. She felt as though she had already moved out. But reluctantly, she picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Can I come get you? Are you ready to come home?” It was Ben. And it was only four-thirty.

“So early?” She smiled into the phone.

“You want some more time to work?” As though her work mattered, as though it were important, as though he understood.

But she shook her head. “Nope. I’m all through. I picked out eleven today. For the show.”

Her voice was strong, and he smiled. “I’m so proud of you I can hardly stand it. I told Sally today, about the show. We’re going to run a beautiful ad.”

Oh, Jesus, not an ad. What about Kim? She felt as though she were gasping for air when she spoke again. “Do you have to do an ad?”

“You let me handle my business, and you handle yours. Speaking of which, I’d like to handle…” His voice was very soft in the phone, and Deanna blushed.

“Stop that!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re in your office, and I’m-I’m here.”

“Well, if that’s all that’s stopping you, let’s both get the hell out of those repressive places. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Are you ready?”

“Desperately.” She couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Every moment she spent in it was oppressive.

“Desperate enough to go all the way to Carmel?”

“I’d love it.” Then: “What about your housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Meacham? She’ll be off.” It was disagreeable to be hiding like that, but he knew Deanna felt that she had no choice. She still wasn’t free. “Anyway, never mind Mrs. Meacham. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. And by the way, Deanna,” he paused while she waited, wondering what he would say; he sounded very solemn. Then his voice dropped again, and she almost could see him smile. “I love you.”

She smiled happily and closed her eyes. “So do I.”

The weekend in Carmel was heavenly. The Fourth of July. They spent all three days wandering on the beach, lying in the sun, looking for shells, and collecting driftwood, and once or twice braving the still-icy ocean for a quick swim.

She was already smiling to herself as he lay down next to her on the blanket, shivering from the sea. She had been soaking up the sun and improving her deep-honey tan.

“What are you smiling about, sleeping beauty?” His body was cool and damp next to hers, and his skin felt delicious as she turned and ran her fingers down his arm.

“I was just thinking that this is all rather like a honeymoon. Or a very good marriage.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had either one.”

“Didn’t you have a honeymoon?”

“Not really. We spent it in New York. She was an actress and she was in something off Broadway, so we spent a night at the Plaza in New York. When the play folded, we went up to New England.”

“Did the play have a long run?” She looked admiring, with her big, innocent, green eyes. Ben smiled.

“Three days.” They both laughed, and Ben moved onto his side, so he could look at Deanna. “Were you happy with Marc before I came along?”

“I thought I was. Sometimes. Sometimes I was terribly lonely. We don’t have a relationship like this. In a way we’re not really friends. We love each other, but… it’s very different.” She remembered their last conversation when he had told her not to show her work. He was still the voice of authority. “He doesn’t respect me the way you do- my work, my time, my ideas. But he needs me. He cares. In his own way he loves me.”

“And you love him?” His eyes searched her face. She didn’t answer immediately.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about things like that. This is our summer.” There was reproach in her voice.

“But it’s also our life. There are some things I need to know.” He was strangely serious.

“You already know them, Ben.”

“What are you saying?”

“That he’s my husband.”

“That you won’t leave him?”

“I don’t know. Do you have to ask me that now?” Her eyes held an autumnal sorrow. “Can’t we just have what we know we can have, and then-”

“And then, what?”

“I don’t know yet, Ben.”

“And I promised I wouldn’t ask. But I find that increasingly difficult.”

“Believe it or not, so do I. My mind drifts to the end of the summer, and I ask myself questions I can’t answer. I keep hoping for an act of God, a miracle, something that will take the answers out of our hands.”

“So do I.” He smiled at her then and leaned over to kiss her lips again and again. “So do I.”