La Pluie
Tim Fortney did not look as handsome or as tanned in the morning. It was still early when Annie slipped out of bed and left Wesley in the depths of sleep. She had come downstairs and found Tim standing in the living room staring out the front windows at the slow, steady drizzle falling onto the drive.
“Are you leaving?” She’d seen a duffel bag and briefcase next to the bench in the hall.
“Did we wake you?” He sipped from a mug of coffee. “I’m afraid Daphne and I had a bit of a row.” He turned away from the window. He had deep circles under his eyes.
“I didn’t hear anything.” Annie shifted uneasily, not quite sure what was expected of her. “I’m sorry you had a disagreement.”
“History tends to repeat itself in this house,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Annie asked. She wished she had some coffee. Her head felt fuzzy, not quite clear of sleep.
“Daphne’s a lot like her mother.” He offered no movie-star grin today. “That’s not always a good thing.”
“You’ve known Daphne a long time,” she said.
“Her brother and I were at school together.”
“Roger?”
“Yes. He’s not the villain she’d have you believe, by the way. They’ve had their arguments over money, but it’s more complicated than that.”
“What do you mean?” Annie had a stale taste in her mouth. She hadn’t anticipated this kind of conversation so early in the day.
Tim studied her face as though trying to decide how much to tell her. He set his coffee down. “I met Daphne when she was sixteen.
I was twenty-one.” He closed his eyes for an instant, perhaps trying to see that moment all over again. “It was a sort of golden summer—long, endless fair days—there’s never been another like it, none that I can remember. I was besotted. There’s no other word for it.”
“This was in England?” Annie asked.
“Yes. Their country home in Devon. Roger was wonderful to Daphne. They did everything together. She adored him.” He paused and looked up at the portrait of Nora. “She was pretty wild.”
“You mean Daphne?”
“Both of them, really.” He exhaled, blowing his breath out through his teeth. “Nora wanted everyone to be happy. She gave Roger and Daphne free rein. It was the kind of summer when everyone let down their guard. One party flowed into the next. We migrated from house to house. At the end of the summer Nora hosted a group of young people, friends of Roger’s and mine from university. There was a girl.”
“A friend of Daphne’s?”
“No. That was part of the problem.” His face hardened. “Tessa Hardwick. She’d been part of the group all summer. For some reason Daphne never liked her. None of us knew then how serious Roger was, how important this girl had become to him. Except maybe Daphne.”
Tim went over to one of the sofas and sat down with the weariness of an old man. Someone had straightened the living room, and the down cushions, crushed from the weight of their bodies the night before, were plumped up, ready for a new day, a new year. The lingering wineglasses, blurred with sediment, had been taken away, the liquor bottles securely corked and placed neatly in a row on the drinks table. The fireplace gaped, cold and empty, the ashes swept back under the grate.
Tim remained silent for a moment, as if lacking the energy to go on. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. Annie felt the presence of the portrait. The artist had painted Nora so that her eyes watched you everywhere you went in the room. It was as if she were listening to Tim’s account years after some event.
“There was an accident.” Tim stood. “Everything changed after that.”
“There was the drinking; probably drugs too.” He walked back to the window.
The rain was heavy now, coursing down in sheets. Annie watched Tim, waiting for some sort of revelation. She folded her arms across her chest. The room was cold.
“You should ask Daphne,” he said. “You should ask her to tell the story.” He looked angry, the lines around his mouth tight. “Roger turned against his sister, naturally. Poor bloke. What would you expect? Then Daphne kind of went off the deep end. Depression, breakdown, whatever you want to call it. Nora brought Daphne here to recover. Daphne always made her escapes to God House. Just like Nora. I thought I could help her through it,” he said bitterly. “I loved her still.” He lowered his head.
“So you came to God House then?” Annie was now totally confused. “What sort of accident?”
“Jesus. Talk about cruelty. The way she treats people …”
“Surely Daphne had friends who cared about her? Other boyfriends?”
“Oh yeah. Boyfriends. Girlfriends too.” He stood up. He face was pinched and angry. “Maybe you should ask her about that.” His tone was sarcastic.
Annie couldn’t think why any of this would matter now. Whatever had upset Tim had happened years ago. He obviously cared for Daphne. But last night she’d made it pretty clear that she wasn’t interested, at least not in the way he’d hoped.
“Are you still in love with Daphne?” The question popped out.
“Let’s just say I can’t seem to stay away. I don’t think Daphne knows what she wants.” He shook his head. “Part of the problem is this house. She’d never give this up. I know it’s lovely. But don’t let it fool you,” he said with disgust. “This place is in a time warp.” He got up and walked back to the hall. Annie followed him.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said, leaning against the door frame, “I mean I’m sorry things didn’t work out as you’d hoped.” She watched him pull on his coat and carry his bags to the door. She wondered where Daphne was now.
He turned back and looked at Annie once more. “Are you in love with Wesley?”
“He’s my husband,” she said. She wished he would go. She’d had enough of his angry ranting.
“I’d be careful,” he said. “You seem like a nice person.” He hesitated, then spoke again. “You don’t want to get entangled in all this.” He pulled the heavy door shut behind him.
Annie stood still in the silent hall. Tim’s words hung in the air, sinister. What he’d described sounded terrible. Be careful of what? Tim made it sound like Daphne posed some kind of threat. Ridiculous. Thanks to Daphne, she had found someone who might publish her poems, and Daphne had done nothing but encourage Annie to do what she loved.
And how dare he question her about loving Wesley? What had given him that idea? Wesley hadn’t been easy to love lately, but that would change; she knew it would.
Annie buttoned her cardigan sweater and went into the kitchen toward the welcoming aroma of coffee. Her hands trembled when she poured the black liquid into a heavy porcelain cup. She added hot milk from a saucepan on the stove, drew her hands around the smooth warmth, and drank, determined to ignore Tim’s ugly words.
Daphne called the long conservatory that stretched across the back of the house the glass room. Another childhood name, like God House. Annie stood there watching the rain, still heavy, patter and splash onto the flagstone terrace outside the French doors. Some of the gutters backed up, causing the rain to gush in torrents off the corners of the roof, but the wide stone floor beneath her remained dry. God House felt like a sturdy ship that had seen rough weather before and was prepared for combat, come what may. She held a second cup of coffee and looked out at the river at the foot of the garden. Even at this distance, it looked threatening. It surged along with a mind of its own.
“I see you found the coffee.” Daphne’s voice jarred Annie out of her reverie.
“Thank you. It’s delicious. Just what I need.”
“I hope your head isn’t as bad as mine.” This morning Daphne’s face was strained, the skin below her eyes looked gently bruised and the lines around her wide mouth deeper. She looked older.
“The kitchen is totally cleaned up,” Annie said. “Your Berthe is like a fairy godmother.”
“It makes her happy to be helpful.” Daphne looked over at the iron garden table in the corner. “Have you eaten anything yet?”
“No, but I was about to.” She had only just thought about eating.
“Have you been up long?” Daphne asked.
Annie thought she saw a shadow of concern cross Daphne’s face. “No. Not long. Wesley is still asleep.” Annie followed Daphne over to the table where Berthe had set out the breakfast. Beside the basket of croissants, there were butter and jam and a platter of cheeses and fruit.
“See, she’s an angel,” Daphne said. “She gets these divine buttery croissants from the village, and it’s my idea to have cheese.”
“I saw Tim just before he left,” Annie said.
“He wanted to get an early start,” Daphne said. “With all this rain it’ll be rough going. I’m glad you aren’t leaving until tomorrow.” They sat down in the dark green wicker chairs that looked like they belonged in a garden. Daphne passed Annie the basket of croissants.
A lurking uncertainty made Annie persist. “I thought he was staying until tomorrow as well. He said you’d had an argument.”
“Oh, God.” Daphne leaned back in her chair. “To make a long story short, we’ve been together off and on. More off than on, really. I told him this morning that it just wasn’t going to work.” She rubbed her eyes. “He didn’t want to hear that, of course.”
Annie paused and considered whether or not she should continue. She thought again of Tim’s parting words. He’d spoken about Daphne as if she’d been some kind of mental case. “He told me about the summer when you met and that there had been some kind of accident—”
“What did he tell you?” Her voice was sharp.
“He said I should ask you about it.”
“Oh Christ. I can’t believe he started dredging all that up again—just because I won’t fall in love with him. A lot happened that summer, not all very happy. But it’s ancient history and doesn’t do any of us any good to talk about it. We’ve all managed to move on.” She shook her head. “He’s totally ridiculous. I am fond of Tim, but I’m not in love with him. I certainly don’t want to traipse around the globe watching him sell sailboats.” Daphne put her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. She stared out beyond the breakfast table toward the river. Her face, last night so beautiful and animated, was slack and void of expression, offering no clues, no hint of the truth.
“Look,” Annie said. “This is no way to start a new year. I’m sorry I brought it up.” She reached out and fingered a basket filled with forced narcissus in the center of the table. “The flowers are lovely. The scent fills the whole room.”
“You really are sweet,” Daphne said, and she reached across the table and squeezed Annie’s hand. “Look, what shall we do today? Lunch out, a walk, what do you think?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d love to spend some time today writing,” Annie said. “I sent Paul a few poems before we left Paris, but I need to finish the last two.”
“Well then, of course, that’s what you should do. I didn’t plan anything, thinking we’d sleep in this morning and maybe take another big walk later. You can have the entire day to write.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “We’ll finish our coffee and I’ll set you up in the library. There’s a small fireplace in there and a lovely big desk facing the window.” Daphne leaned back in her chair and seemed pleased with this plan. Annie was ready for some time to herself. She heard footsteps in the kitchen, and a moment later Wesley appeared.
“There you are. The poet and her muse?” Wesley carried a cup of coffee and came to join them. He looked boyishly happy in a rumpled shirt and baggy corduroy trousers. “Happy new year, Daphne.” He bowed in mock politeness. “How are you, Annie sweet?” He met her eyes, bent to kiss her cheek, and touched the back of her neck lightly as he slid into the chair across from them.
“You look like a contented man,” Daphne said.
“I think the year’s off to a good start.” He grinned and reached for a croissant. “More good things to eat. Does it ever end?”
“Not today anyway. Berthe’s making a wonderful bouillabaisse for supper. Her parents were from Marseilles. It’s an old family recipe.”
“I love bouillabaisse,” Annie said.
“Your wife is going to spend the day in the library. She has an editor she needs to impress.” She looked across at Wesley. “You appear to be in good form today. Maybe later you and I could hike over to the next village. There’s an old coach house that’s been turned into an inn. We could have a quick bite. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Annie?”
“You want to go out in this rain?” Annie asked.
“I think it’s going to let up,” Daphne said. The sky did appear lighter. “Right now I’m going to go check in with Berthe. The library’s ready when you are. Oh, and the matches are on the mantel if you want a fire.” She pushed her chair back and smiled at them. There was more color in her face. “I’ll see you later.”
Daphne left the glass room, and Wesley reached for Annie’s hand.
Annie put down her pen. She sat curled on the love seat next to the fire. The embers glowed. She’d already burned most of the logs in the basket near the grate. At first it felt strange to be sitting alone on that somber winter day, but then she’d become absorbed in her work. The small library, just beyond the living room, appealed to her more than any other room in the house. The writing desk felt welcoming, and while working there she would look up intermittently to watch the shifting weather. One entire wall was covered with bookshelves, and on the opposite wall, above a table laden with books and magazines, was a series of black-and-white drawings, genre scenes and quiet interiors, that begged further study.
After several hours at the desk, Annie carried her notebooks to the love seat and covered her legs with the paisley shawl she’d found draped over its back. She didn’t know what time it was, but the sky was darkening and it looked as if the rain that had let up that afternoon was spitting lightly onto the terrace in the garden.
Earlier that afternoon, she’d watched Daphne and Wesley layer up with sweaters and rain gear. Daphne found a pair of foul-weather boots large enough for Wesley. Their easy banter diminished as they walked down the drive. Annie didn’t mind seeing them go. The house itself offered a kind of solace. She didn’t feel lonely, and a curious detachment had settled over her when she sat down to work.
The final two poems were nearly finished, but now she was finding it difficult to concentrate. The leather volume of Verlaine’s poems was on the table beside her. She looked again at the inscription Daphne had written in black ink with a wide-nib pen. “To Annie, to inspire you in the days ahead … Daphne—” Indeed. The days ahead. Where would this new year lead?
The book fell open to her favorite poem, “Il pleure dans mon coeur.” The last two lines in the first stanza had been running through her head for days. “Quelle est cette longueur qui pénètre mon coeur?” What was this feeling making its way into her heart? Wesley had finally made love to her on that last cold night of the year, but she felt plagued by an uncertainty that wouldn’t go away. Some days she didn’t care if she ever recaptured the joy in her marriage; on others, she physically ached to have Wesley back the way he used to be.
“Now, there’s a serious face.” Daphne stood in the doorway to the library. She was flushed, and damp strands of hair clung to her cheeks.
Annie hadn’t heard her come in. “You’re back,” she said, consciously trying to look more cheerful.
“Did you finish?”
“Finished for now, anyway. Where’s Wesley?”
“I sent him to the kitchen to make tea. He’s soaked too. It started raining about a mile from the house. We should have carried umbrellas, but it didn’t matter.” She fingered her wet hair. “We’ll warm up.”
“Did you have a nice lunch?” Annie asked.
“Not great. The inn was closed, so we ended up in a nasty little café down the road. We each had a beer and a poor excuse for a cheese sandwich. What about you?”
“I had some cheese and fruit. I’m saving room for dinner.”
“Berthe will be over at about six. Listen, I’m going to run a tub. When Wesley brings the tea in here, would you bring a cup up to me?”
“I’d be glad to. How do you like it?”
“No sugar, just a splat of milk. Shall I put on another log?” Daphne moved about the room turning on a few lights.
“That’s okay,” Annie said. “I’ll do it.” She got up and took the last log from the basket.
“I’ll ask Wesley to bring in some more wood. I showed him where the firewood is kept.” Daphne stopped before leaving the room. “I thought you might like to look at this.” She pulled a leather-bound photo album from a low shelf. “These are photographs of my mother, Antoinette, and me when I was little. Also, the gardens in summer. Antoinette was an incredible gardener.” She handed Annie the maroon-covered book that was rimmed in a delicate border of fleur-de-lis tooled in gold leaf. “I hear the kettle whistling. See you in a bit.”
Annie sat down again close to the fire, the book in her lap. The log flamed heartily and crackled in the grate, sending out renewed warmth. She was glad that tea was on the way. She opened to the first page and studied the petite, dark-haired woman smiling into the camera. Feminine was the first word that came to mind. Her features were small and delicate, the eyes wide open as if she’d been suddenly caught unaware, her chin tilted up in a teasing pose. She wore a flowered print dress with a row of ruffles at the neck and a deeper ruffle at the hem. She stood on the front steps of God House, the shrubbery on either side in full bloom. It must be Antoinette.
This pretty woman looked almost fragile in the next photograph, where she stood next to Daphne’s mother, who looked exactly like the portrait in the living room. “Nora et moi 1958” was printed neatly below in faded block letters. Nora looked strong and glamorous in a simple white shirt and wide pleated trousers. Her glistening fair hair reached her shoulders and fell seductively across one eye. Her arm draped across Antoinette’s shoulder, and she looked very much at home. In fact, Nora looked more like the owner of the house than the young woman in her shadow. Annie turned the pages, watching them in the garden, on trips to the beach, and with a group of friends all in tennis whites at a fashionable club. Daphne appeared toward the end. First an enchanting robust baby and later a tomboyish schoolgirl with scuffed shoes and unruly hair escaping her barrettes. There were no photographs of Daphne’s brother. Annie wondered if he ever came to this house.
“How’s my poetess?” Wesley came in carrying a large tray. The cups and saucers clattered lightly as he set it down on the table behind the love seat where Annie sat. It looked like he’d put on dry clothes, and his hair was damp and neatly combed.
“Did you get very wet?” she asked.
His eyes sparkled appealingly and his entire demeanor said the world was all right. She had been drawn to this very quality when they’d first met.
“Not bad. I’ve dried off and this fire feels great. I want to get an early start tomorrow.” He lifted the pot of tea. “Shall I pour you a cup?”
“Thanks. What’s the rush?” Annie hated to think it was almost time to leave.
“Nothing really. I just want to get back. Where’s Daphne?”
“She’s gone up to have a bath. I’ll take her a cup in a few minutes.”
He handed Annie her tea, plain, the way she liked it, and poured his own, adding sugar and a generous amount of milk. He came and sat beside her on the tufted leather love seat. “What are you looking at?” He slid closer and leaned in to kiss the nape of her neck. This proprietary gesture annoyed her. He acted as if last night’s lovemaking was an immediate cure, as if sex could solve everything.
She opened the album onto his lap. “Who do you think this is?” She pointed to one of Nora seated on the bow of a boat, her legs hanging over, her toes skimming the water.
“Daphne looks so much like her,” he said. He turned the page and pointed to the petite woman at Nora’s side. “Antoinette?” She nodded. “She looks very sweet,” he said. “Not the sort of person suited for the hard-bargaining world of antiques.”
“Daphne told me she was very good that way. Quietly talking people out of old treasures they thought of as dust-catching junk.”
Wesley leafed through more pages. “I don’t feel like looking at these now.” He shut the book, stretched his legs, and leaned in close to Annie to rest his head on her shoulder. She could smell his skin, his clothes, his hair. There had been a time when just breathing in the scent of Wesley had made her feel safe, loved, as if all was well with the world. She felt the warmth of him against her while she sipped her tea. It all seemed more complicated now.
“I’d better take Daphne her tea,” she said. He withdrew his hand that rested on her thigh. “Don’t forget to bring in more logs.” She stood up, leaving him to gaze at the dwindling embers.
“Come in.” Daphne’s voice came from the bathroom off the bedroom. “Bring it in here, please. I’m having a wonderful soak.” Daphne’s room, decorated in shades of pale blue, was the same shape and size as the one she and Wesley shared across the hall. Annie noticed a dear little fruit-wood desk with a drop front over by the window. The desk was open, and Annie could see letter paper with Daphne’s emphatic bold script. Daphne had proudly told her that she always wrote everything by hand, even business correspondence.
Annie did as she was told and pushed open the bathroom door. Daphne sat in the enormous old tub filled almost to the brim with steaming water.
“Just put it here,” she said pointing to the rack that spanned both sides of the tub. “Please stay for a bit. We can have a little talk.”
Annie sat on the rush-seated stool at the foot of the tub. It felt strange to be in a bathroom with another woman, like being back in college again when the girls trooped in and out of the huge bathrooms in various degrees of undress, trying not to notice one another. Daphne smiled up at her through the steam. Her hair was piled on her head and fastened with the yellow clip.
“You look like one of those luscious bathers painted by Renoir,” Annie said. She looked at Daphne’s firm pink flesh, the lovely breasts only hinted at in her clothes.
“I hope that’s a compliment,” Daphne laughed loudly. “Ah yes, Renoir. He loved any excuse to paint naked ladies for rich old men to ogle in their leisure.”
How different this was from the austere old bathroom back in Vermont. Aunt Kate, ever frugal, allowed only three inches of water for a tub. Daphne sipped her tea and water dripped from her fingers.
Her expression became more serious when she spoke again. “Wesley wishes you were more enthusiastic about moving back to America.”
That was the one topic that Annie wished to avoid. She stood up to go back to Wesley downstairs by the fire.
“No, don’t leave. Look, I don’t blame you.” She picked up her washcloth and a fragrant bar of white soap. She rubbed the soap across the cloth, her hands pink from the hot water. “Would you be a dear?” She lifted the cloth toward Annie. “There’s usually no one here to wash my back. One disadvantage of living alone.”
Annie took the soapy cloth and knelt down beside the tub. She moved the cloth up and down Daphne’s long spine. She had a beautiful back, like the one in François’s photograph. Annie had the odd sensation that she was about to discover something forbidden, something she was not supposed to see. Annie knew European woman were more relaxed about their bodies; she was accustomed to Frenchwomen going topless at the beach, and she was used to breasts and buttocks of all contours displayed in magazine ads and on subway posters. But seeing Daphne alone in the steaming bath seemed different, making her feel stifled and uneasy.
“Wesley talked to me about the law firm in Washington,” Daphne said. “You know, I think he’s viewing this job as his last chance. Having his career cut short has been tough on him.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Annie said. “It sounds like he’s persuaded you and now I’m the selfish one who doesn’t understand.” Annie dipped the cloth back into the water and rinsed the soap from Daphne’s back. She pictured Daphne walking in the rain with Wesley, discussing this matter without her. She was furious with him, with both of them, for talking about something that was none of Daphne’s business. Still on her knees, she wrung out the cloth and handed it back.
“Annie. Annie, I’m on your side. I’m your friend.” Daphne put a moist hand on Annie’s arm.
“It sounds like you and Wesley see eye to eye.” She hated this stupid trite phrase as it flew from her mouth.
“He just needed to talk. I was there to listen. That’s all. I think I know how you feel. I need to be here, I need God House, so your needing to stay in Paris is somewhat the same.”
“But it’s different for you. You’re on your own, and how you live affects only you.”
“That’s not entirely true. I’m not always alone, and there’s Berthe. I take care of her now. She’s spent so much of her life taking care of me.”
Daphne spoke softly, with the tenderness of a dear friend. Annie looked into her eyes, the eyes that melted from gray to green and could darken with her mood, and thought she saw compassion.
“I know the job makes sense for him.” Annie’s voice came out resolutely. “It’s not easy for someone his age to find a job, much less one that would really utilize his experience, one that would challenge him. I also know it’s less likely in Paris, but not impossible.” Annie lowered her head. She didn’t care now what Daphne thought. “I guess I’m afraid of what would happen to us. I worry that we are who we are because of Paris.”
Daphne turned toward her, and with her other hand she stroked Annie’s hair, gently drawing it away from her face.
“I know I love Wesley, but is it enough?” Annie said. “Things aren’t the same as before. Do I want to give up everything and live where I don’t know anyone? There’s also my writing.” She closed her eyes. “It’s odd. It’s like I’m a piece in a puzzle whose shape has changed, a piece that no longer fits into the space it’s always occupied.” She felt Daphne’s fingers stroking her hair, the way Wesley used to when they first met. Annie opened her eyes, suddenly feeling disloyal. It was like she’d given Daphne a glance at something private, something she shouldn’t have shared.
“You need to take your time,” Daphne said. “There is nothing to decide now. Let him go. Just wait and see what happens.” She withdrew her hand. “Now, will you be a love and hand me my robe? I think it’s time for drinks by the fire.”
Later, at the kitchen table, eating the delicious fish stew, Annie faced Daphne and Wesley with a strange sense of calm. She felt like she was the photographer looking at them, at all of their lives, through a lens. This imagined distance provided an emotional calm.
“This is incredible,” Wesley said. “I’ve never had better.” He rested his spoon on the rim of the serving plate and reached for another hunk of bread. Berthe had carried in the yellow pottery tureen filled with the steaming fish soup as if presenting a father with his firstborn son. She had spent the afternoon cooking in her little apartment above the garage, preferring not to disturb them in the big house. Sweet pieces of white fish, shiny black mussels, and succulent morsels of lobster floated in the fragrant tomato-based broth. Wesley asked Berthe, a tiny but strong woman who had to be in her eighties, what the magic ingredient was.
“Oh, monsieur, it’s not just the ingredients, it’s where you get them, the freshness of the fish, mussels from a certain bay. These things take many years to know. And”—her black eyes crinkled in amusement—“you must also put your heart into the preparation. That I think, is the magic.” She spoke with the accent of someone from the south of France, slowly, with robust rolling r’s and a singsong fluidity. Daphne gave her a hug and walked her to the door with a protective arm around her. She looked so vibrant and young beside the bent older woman with steely gray hair.
When they finished the soup, Daphne brought the platter of cheeses to the table. “Try this one.” Daphne pointed to a small round cheese. “It’s a chevrot. One of my favorites.” She passed the platter to Wesley and turned to Annie. “I’m glad you found it so easy to write here.”
“Yes, I really did. I think it helps to get away; it gives you a fresh perspective.”
“Well then, you must come back, and I mean soon.”
“We’d love that,” Annie said.
“No, I mean it.” Daphne caught Annie’s eye. “Why don’t you come visit when Wesley’s in the States?”
“What, without me?” Wesley laughed and Annie thought he looked uneasy, even displeased.
“I’m sure I could find my way back without you, Wesley.”
Daphne nodded. “I’m certain of it,” she said.