ELEVEN

La Surprise

Annie enjoyed waking up alone at God House on these January mornings. She appreciated the stillness, the silence, not having to talk to anyone. She pulled her covers up around her neck. The room was chilly; it would be another cold bright day. She thought of winter mornings in Vermont when she could see her breath in the air as she got out of bed. Aunt Kate always lowered the thermostat for the night. By January, the gray landscape would have been securely blanketed by snow that grew deeper with each winter storm. Between storms, the skies would clear and the sun would sparkle against the bright blue. On clear nights, the moon would illuminate the cold, sleeping world in a kind of primeval light that felt like magic.

Spending this time with Daphne at God House had been an unexpected pleasure. She had let go of her usual worries, and she welcomed the freedom from her normal responsibilities. She had shed her hair along with old habits and the pattern of her life with Wesley. Her writing was going well.

This morning, sunlight washed across the pink walls of her God House bedroom. The color reminded her of the pink shirts Wesley used to wear when she first met him. Made of cotton oxford cloth, softened by repeated launderings, they smelled like him, clean and optimistic. She had found their scent and softness so reassuring the first time that he had drawn her into his arms. He had felt so different from Luke, whose black turtlenecks smelled of smoke and the stale odor of men’s dormitories. She had equated Luke’s smell with sexiness and the alien territory of the male species. She soon learned that sex and love itself could take on another, altogether different flavor, and one she had grown to love. She tried to remember when Wesley had stopped wearing the pink shirts.

Annie’s days at God House took on a pleasant routine, each day melting easily into the next. In the mornings she and Daphne moved about quietly in their separate worlds. Annie, usually the first one up, would come down to the kitchen in her nightgown and robe for coffee. Daphne set up the coffee machine the night before, and Annie would switch it on and go out to the glass room to look for signs of life in the garden. She didn’t know much about gardening, but like most Parisians, she tended window boxes and pots of plants on the windowsills of her apartment. But here an entire community of birds made their home among the hibernating plants. She watched them dine on seed pods and berries and dive into the bushes for cover. Soon there would be a few fresh green shoots peeking through the dark earth, the tips of spring bulbs.

When the coffee machine gave up its sputtering with a final wheeze, she’d go back to the kitchen to pour her first cup. On particularly cold mornings she’d carry her coffee back to bed, but today she went out to her favorite wicker chair at the far end of the glass room. She liked to start the day by reading something good, and this usually inspired her to start writing. She picked up a book she’d found yesterday in the library about the French writer Pierre Lotti, who wrote at the end of the nineteenth century about the lure of exotic places and his travels in North Africa. She looked at her white feet and wondered how they would feel on the smooth tiles of a Moroccan palace he described.

After a while, Annie would migrate back up to her room and run a hot bath. She might look in on Daphne briefly. Daphne preferred to spend the morning sitting in the middle of her large bed surrounded by piles of books and papers. She had her coffee on one tray and used another as a writing table. By ten-thirty or eleven Annie would hear her moving about and eventually the sound of her voice on the phone as she checked in with clients and antiques dealers. When Daphne set up a simple business appointment, her low, rich voice made it sound more like she was arranging an illicit rendezvous.

Usually by noon both women would meet in the kitchen hungry and ready for a snack or an early lunch. Today Annie found Daphne in the kitchen making a list.

“It’s market day.” She raised her bent head and put down her pencil. “Why don’t we go into the village for some shopping?”

“I’d love to.” Annie ran her fingers through her hair, still surprised at the feel of it. “Can you get fish at your market? I could cook mussels for dinner.”

“Lovely idea. They bring in a truck from Brittany.” Daphne seemed to be thinking something over and then added, “Let’s buy enough for three. I talked to your Valmont this morning. He’s bringing out some boxes of china late this afternoon, and we need to discuss what he wants to put in for an upcoming auction. I may invite him to stay on for dinner.” She bent to add a few more things to the list. “It’s okay with you, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Annie said. “Why would I mind?”

“He can’t get here until after five. I could hardly send him back to Paris on an empty stomach. And after all, he is your editor now and we have to keep him happy.”

“It’ll be fun. I don’t mind at all.” She thought of their last meeting, the pleasure of working with Paul in his office and the friendly dinner that followed. There had been that brief awkward moment of parting when he’d touched her face. What would it be like to see him here at God House, to share him with Daphne? “Your Valmont,” she had said.

The sign above the door said CHEZ GABBY. They had finished their shopping in the village, and Daphne suggested the slight detour to Morillon, another sleepy little town of houses with closed graying shutters hiding the private lives that hibernated within. A small pâtisserie on the main street was well lit, and Annie could see several elderly ladies bent over the counter studying an array of fruit tarts and dainty cakes. Just beyond, they came to the antiques shop where Daphne had wanted to check on some brass lanterns that the proprietor, Gabby, had found for her at a recent auction.

“Gabby hunts for me, keeps an eye out for things I’m trying to find for my clients,” Daphne explained. “It’s a two-way arrangement.” She pushed the door open into the shop. “I send her plenty of business too. You’ll like her things.”

Annie followed Daphne into the hushed, velvety gloom. She had never seen so many objects crowded into one space. She maneuvered carefully around aging upholstered sofas and chairs and in between elegant marqueterie tables with finely carved legs. Almost every surface was covered with bits and pieces: small bronze sculptures, vases, boxes, Chinese lamps, silver candlesticks, brass ornaments. Annie could imagine a story behind each carefully chosen object: a beloved grandmother’s sewing box; an aging spinster’s wedding linens; yellowing, lace-edged embroidered pillow slips, never used; a set of studs and cuff links worn by a turn-of-the-century dandy at the Paris Opéra. Annie could see the allure of collecting these items, rich in history, unique, and far more interesting than newly fabricated things.

“Have a look around. Gabby’s probably having her coffee and afternoon cigarette in the back. I’ll tell her we’re here.” Daphne disappeared behind a louvered door at the back of the shop. Annie detected the particular scent of a Gauloise, so unlike tame American tobacco.

Left on her own, Annie was drawn to the far wall of the shop, covered entirely in paintings. She immediately noticed a landscape of a wide, sun-washed field dotted with hay bales against a blue sky. Soft, puffy clouds lazed horizontally across the canvas. She could practically smell the newly mown hay and hear the blur of bees humming on a summer afternoon. The picture made her think of Wesley’s parents’ house in western Connecticut. The fields beyond the barn looked just like this. She remembered visiting there one August. The weather had been hot and dry, and the sound of the mowers came through the windows one morning while they sat at breakfast. Annie had expressed her regret in seeing the swaths of wildflowers cut down along with the hay.

She tried to recall the details of that visit. Was Sophie only seven or eight? It must have been the summer when Wesley made partner at Wilson & James. She remembered how excited he had been to tell his father. Wesley, still in his thirties, was proud of his blossoming career.

They had been so happy then, their lives uncomplicated and sweet. Despite the easy summer days, the pristine country air, and Wesley’s admiring parents during that visit, Annie remembered longing to return to Paris. She missed the life they were building there, missed the cafés, the busy streets, their apartment. In Paris she and Wesley were the grown-ups. They were adults creating their future. In Connecticut they remained the grown children, honoring their parents, still caught up in their past.

“You seem far away.”

Annie turned. “This is a wonderful painting. It reminds me of Connecticut.”

Daphne nodded. “Do you wish you were there?”

“No. Of course not. Not now, anyway.”

“It’s a lovely painting. Why does it make you look so sad?”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to look sad.” How could she explain the mood that came over her? “We spent our summers in Connecticut when we were younger, when Sophie was little. Sometimes I wish that I could merely snap my fingers and recapture those days.”

“I know what you mean,” Daphne murmured nostalgically. She turned away from the painting and surveyed the many objects on a nearby antique desk. She reached for a silver letter opener resting in a satin box.

“Look. It’s monogrammed.” She pointed to the elaborate swirling A at the base of the handle and handed it to Annie. The blade glinted briefly and Annie felt the smooth handle in her palm.

“It would be perfect on your desk in Paris.” She laughed. “It has your name on it.”

“It’s very handsome.”

“Then it’s yours.”

“Daphne—”

“I want to buy it for you.”

“No. Really you mustn’t.” She handed it back to Daphne. “You gave me a Christmas present, and it’s not my birthday.”

“Presents are best when you least expect them.”

“That’s so kind. But—”

“I’ll take it back to Gabby. She’s wrapping the lanterns.”

Before Annie could protest further, Daphne went through the door in the back of the shop. Annie listened to their voices, one melodic in a poetic French cadence, the other in crisp English vowels. Annie was touched by Daphne’s generosity, her gesture to cheer her up. It was as if Daphne understood what she barely understood herself. Annie knew that she must seize on all the good things in her life now, her writing and the challenges ahead, but she couldn’t stifle an elusive longing, something triggered by the artist’s landscape.

Later that afternoon when they returned from their shopping trip, Annie hurried straight to the kitchen to put away the groceries. She set the mussels to soak, and they clattered down into the old stone sink. Annie decided not to work in the library as Daphne had planned to meet there with Paul. Daphne had explained that she needed some time alone with him to discuss the final sale of his wife’s furniture. “You know the French—so private, so formal.” Annie assured Daphne that she understood and decided to work upstairs in her bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. Rather than write at the desk, she gathered her notebooks and pen and sat in the chaise longue by the windows.

The day had started to cloud over, but there was still plenty of natural light. Annie opened to the page where she’d left off and stared at the words. They looked empty and lifeless to her now. She closed the notebook and turned her attention to the darkening sky, trying to match color names to the imperceptible variations: pearl gray, dove, graphite, charcoal. The words sounded inadequate to her ears. All too soon she became aware of the sounds below—first the arrival of a car, then the jolt of the heavy knocker on the front door, and finally the murmur of voices.

She reached for her leather calendar book and looked at the date. It was already Wednesday. She’d been at God House for almost a week. She thought of the pile of transcripts sitting at home. They were due before the start of the new semester. Mary was counting on her. She had let the days slip by, ignoring all that needed to be done back in Paris. She let out a sigh. For the first time since her arrival at God House, Annie felt the intrusion of her other world.

Knowing that Paul was downstairs made her feel uneasy. Thankfully, she had completed several new poems. She was proud of this work and eager to show it to him. The new poems were stronger than the first ones, and she thought she had been able to keep the voice of the earlier section alive. There needed to be some kind of thread to weave the collection together. Hopefully, he would see it too. He and Daphne had been talking in the library for quite a while. Would he accept Daphne’s invitation to dinner? Annie touched her hair. What would he think?

Trying to gather some resolve, she went into the bathroom to wash her face and freshen up. She turned on the light and studied her appearance. This time she didn’t feel sexy; her short hair looked harsh and shaggy to her. She planned to have Raoul, her neighborhood hairdresser, give it a touch-up when she got home. She pulled on her nicer black trousers and a red sweater she hadn’t worn yet, wanting to make more of an effort and knowing that Paul might stay. Some makeup and a splash of perfume also helped to improve her spirits.

It was time to start dinner, so she headed down to the kitchen. She heard the faint sound of their voices coming from the library. Daphne must have shut the door to keep from disturbing her. Annie turned on the lamp in the hall and passed through the dining room to the kitchen. She saw that Daphne had arranged a bowl of daffodils, the flowers they’d brought back from the market. They glowed in the twilight on the long polished table.

Annie scooped the mussels out of the sink and put them in a pot, covering them with more cold water for another soak. She examined them carefully and pulled off any remaining beards with a sharp knife. The shimmering navy-black shells smelled of the sea, a pungent wet saltiness. She reached into the icy water, grabbed them by handfuls, and tossed them into an ancient enamelware colander, allowing the excess water to drain into the sink. There was something so elemental about food dug right out of the sand, a peaceful coexistence of land and sea.

“How’s the chef?” Daphne asked.

Annie jumped. “I didn’t hear you come in,” she explained. “You scared me.” She laughed uncertainly.

“You’re just off in your poetic world.” She grinned. “Listen, I’m going up to change my clothes before dinner. We just moved some boxes into the carriage house.” She pushed her hair back off her face. “Paul will be here in a minute. I put him in charge of fixing drinks. He decided to stay for dinner.”

Daphne hurried away, closing the door behind her. Annie reached back into the sink to give the mussels one more soak. Knowing Paul would be dining with them made this evening already feel different from the previous dinners when she and Daphne had been by themselves. They’d eaten in the village a few times, but mostly they’d enjoyed simple suppers in the kitchen or had eaten on trays in front of the fire.

“Bonsoir.” Now it was Paul’s voice interrupting her reverie. “Daphne promised me a surprise guest if I agreed to stay for dinner.” Annie turned. “I am happy it is you,” he said. “I see you are not only a writer. You are also a chef.” Paul smiled. He wore jeans, a light blue turtle-neck, and a tweed sport coat she recognized from a previous meeting.

“Hardly a chef,” she said, happy to see him. “A cook is more like it.” She extended a cold wet hand and quickly apologized. “Sorry, you caught me wet-handed.” God, what a stupid thing to say. She wondered if he understood her unexpected pun. She could feel her cheeks grow warm.

“Do not let me interrupt. Daphne says you are making moules.”

“Yes. I’m glad you’ll be joining us.” She looked around for a tea towel.

He handed her one from a nearby hook and watched as she dried her hands. It felt very strange to have him here in the kitchen. It took away the professional feel that marked their previous encounters.

“Your hair.” He lifted his hand as to reach out to touch it and then pulled back. “It is most charming.”

Annie was happy with the compliment. She fingered the neckline of her sweater and felt a blush creeping up her throat. Without the weight of her hair, her neck seemed exposed, vulnerable.

He seemed to sense her unease. “May I bring you a drink?”

“I’d love a white wine.” She paused. “No, make that a whiskey.”

“Shall I bring it in here, or do you want to join us in the library?”

“I’ll come and join you in a few minutes,” she said. “Thank you,” she added self-consciously. She turned back to the sink, relieved to have a few moments to compose herself. Somehow, having Paul here at God House changed everything. Annie drew her fingers through her hair. It still felt like the head of a stranger. She took a large soup pot from the cupboard next to the stove. She poured in half a bottle of white wine and added a handful of chopped shallots. From the fridge she took some greens for a salad as well as the cheeses that they would have for dessert. She put them on a plate near the stove to warm to room temperature. She wanted everything to be right.

“Bravo!” Paul exclaimed. “These moules, they are excellent.” His eyes in the candlelight appeared especially dark and lustrous. Annie smiled and agreed that she was pleased with the results. The enormous dish of mussels disappeared in no time.

Daphne sat between Paul and Annie at the head of the table and she talked with Paul about La Motte and some of the other towns in the hills above Saint-Tropez. “Have you been to Bistro Luna?”

He shook his head.

“They do an extraordinary soupe au pistou.” Daphne swished a hunk of bread through the remaining broth in her bowl. “Totally divine.” She licked her lips.

“Do you know this part of France?” Paul asked Annie. The bowl of discarded mussel shells lay between them.

“Not well. When we didn’t go home to Connecticut in the summer, we used to go to Brittany.”

“Those beaches are always freezing, even in August,” Daphne said. She turned to Paul. “We always went down to the beach at Sainte-Maxime. Less crowded than Saint-Tropez, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose you are right, but—”

“Is the peanut lady still there?”

Paul laughed with Daphne as she told Annie about the scantily dressed woman selling sugared peanuts on the beach, teasing the men by tucking a few nuts between her breasts and daring them to take a taste. Daphne lifted her hair onto her head, leaned toward Paul suggestively, and said in a silly high-pitched tone, “Cacahuètes? Mesdames, messieurs. Come, come let me offer you a little taste.”

When Annie got up to clear the table and bring the salad, Daphne launched into a story about people she knew on the French Riviera and a trip she’d taken one summer with Tim. Annie was growing weary of trying to look interested in Daphne’s tales of the south. She’d begun to wonder if it was all true. It seemed liked Daphne was doing everything she could to keep her out of the conversation. She stayed in the kitchen a few moments longer than necessary. She thought again of her apartment and felt she needed to go home.

She carried the freshly tossed greens back to the table. Paul looked glad to see her. “Tell me, how are the poems coming?” He smiled encouragingly.

“Please, have some salad,” Daphne said, pushing the bowl in his direction.

“I think I’ve finished two more,” Annie said.

“Which photographs did you choose?”

“Now now, we’re not going to talk about work,” Daphne said before Annie had time to answer. “Paul and I just spent several hours on business, and he needs to have a little fun this evening.”

Annie thought she saw a shadow of annoyance cross his face. “I don’t think Paul minds talking about the book.” She helped herself to salad and passed the bowl to Daphne.

“He’s far too nice to say anything,” Daphne said. “You can have your little literary chats another time.”

Literary chats? What sort of comment was that? “For heaven’s sake, Daphne, I just want to—”

“Annie, dear. You’re sounding like a sensitive whining poet. Let poor Paul have a little time off.”

“Why don’t you send me the poems?” Paul said, looking baffled. “We’ll meet soon in Paris. We can talk about them then.”

Annie was furious at Daphne. She tried to regain her composure. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

“I plan to keep Annie here for a while longer,” Daphne said. “She does her best work here at God House.”

Paul made no comment but looked quizzically at Annie.

“Excuse me,” she said, and stood up. “I forgot to bring out the cheese.”

Annie returned to the kitchen. She rearranged the cheeses on the platter, in no hurry to go back to the table. What had gotten into Daphne? It was like she was wound up about something, and she was treating her like some kind of temperamental younger sister. She couldn’t imagine what Paul must think. When she returned to the dining room Daphne was regaling Paul with stories about discovering a rare collection of small bronzes.

At last they went into the living room for coffee. Daphne had brewed a dark espresso in a glass plunger pot. She handed Paul a cup and motioned to him to sit beside her on the sofa.

“Will you be bringing other things out here for Daphne to sell?” Annie asked.

“No, this is the last of it,” he said. “Most of the furniture was sent to the auction house by lorry a few weeks ago.”

“I did persuade Paul to keep a few things,” Daphne said. “I don’t like my clients to have regrets.” She smiled at him.

“I thought I only wanted to keep the books, but I will keep an armoire and chest of drawers. I will have them moved to my new apartment.”

“I’m eager to see your new place,” Daphne said. “Moving to a new apartment was a good idea.”

“Everyone told me not to sell. They say it is better not to make decisions too soon, but staying in the old place was too depressing. I could not stand being there without Marie Laure.” He shook his head. “I am always thinking she would walk through a doorway or that I would find her when I returned home.”

“It must be so difficult,” Annie said, remembering the photograph of his lovely wife.

Paul took a final sip of coffee and went to stand closer to the fire. He put his hands deep in his pockets.

“Come now,” Daphne said, going over to join him. “I don’t want you looking sad again.” She put her arm around him and guided him back to the sofa. “I think a nightcap is in order.” She went to the tray of liquours she’d set out earlier in the evening. “Annie won’t approve, but a little brandy might do you good.” She removed the stopper from a crystal decanter.

“Daphne,” Annie said, horrified, “what do you mean I won’t approve?”

“Drinking and driving. These Americans do have their rules.”

“I never said—”

“I do have to drive back to Paris,” Paul said. “And it is late.” He looked ill at ease.

“Oh, nonsense.” Daphne looked annoyed.

He got to his feet. “I have several appointments tomorrow morning.”

Daphne shrugged. “Well then”—she drew one hand back through her hair—“we’ll save nightcaps for another time.” She put the stopper back into the bottle.

Daphne and Annie walked into the hall with Paul, who now seemed in a hurry to leave. Daphne helped him with his overcoat, and he repeated his thanks for dinner and kissed her on both cheeks. Then he took Annie’s hands in his and held them briefly. “I am so happy the work is going well. I will call you in Paris.”

“Well, well. Don’t we look glum.” Daphne poured herself a brandy.

Annie sat on the sofa where Paul had just been. Now what? she thought. She ignored Daphne’s comment.

“I hope you know you’re making a fool of yourself.” Daphne set down her drink and added a log to the fire. She kicked it farther back into the grate. Sparks flew up and a moment later new flames bounced to life.

“What on earth do you mean?”

Daphne stood in front of her and looked down. “Just because you’re doing the poems for his book doesn’t mean you have to fall at his feet like a lovesick adolescent.”

Annie felt like she’d had the air knocked out of her. “Daphne, you’re crazy.” She could no longer hide her anger. “You were the one falling at his feet. I never got a word in edgewise. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Very simply, my dear, I’m talking about your sipping whiskey, batting your eyes at him, and nearly falling into his lap before we even got to dinner.” She went to the far side of the room and turned her back to Annie.

“That’s ridiculous. I had one drink, and we talked about French poetry and—”

“You never would have acted like that if Wesley had been here.”

“Acted like what?” She thought madly back to the hour before dinner. She had sat beside Paul, she had laughed at a silly story he told. She certainly hadn’t done anything inappropriate. “What do you mean ‘if Wesley had been here’?”

“I know what you’re thinking about Paul.” Daphne smiled strangely and came to sit beside her. She raised her eyebrows.

“What?” Annie could hardly speak. “What I’m thinking about him?” She looked away, uncomfortable.

“Wesley wouldn’t like you having those thoughts.” Her manner was taunting.

“Daphne. Stop it. This is nuts.”

“Listen to me. I went out on a limb for you. I called Paul. I sang your praises. It’s thanks to me that you have this chance.”

“Please. You know I’m grateful to you for that.”

“Well then, don’t go acting like another lovestruck dithering female.” Daphne cupped Annie’s chin and drew her face toward her. Annie felt sick. Daphne’s eyes had taken on a funny color. “I won’t stand for it. Do you hear me?”

Annie pulled away. “This conversation is absurd. I’m going to bed.” She left Daphne by the fire, made her way up to her room, and closed the door behind her. She stood looking out the window, barely able to breathe. She didn’t turn on the lights. There was a full moon and the night was still; not even a whisper of wind marred the silence.

__________

The next morning Annie heard a tap on her door, and Daphne came in carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and two large cups. She wore soft knit lounge pants and a loose gray man’s robe tied with a scarlet tasseled sash, the kind of attire Annie imagined an actor wearing in his dressing room.

“Your coffee, madame.” She smiled and made a funny little bow. She set the tray down by Annie’s feet, crossed the room, and swept open the curtains. The large silk panels slid easily on the rod. She paused at the window to look over the gardens and the river beyond. Annie pulled herself up against the pillows. Daphne no longer seemed angry. For a moment Annie wondered if she had dreamed the entire thing: Daphne’s domineering behavior at dinner, her ridiculous assumptions about her own behavior with Paul, the unpleasant conversation before bed. In the clarity of morning, it seemed hard to believe.

“I like the garden best in winter,” Daphne said. “All the plant life is silently dreaming down in the frozen earth.” Daphne shivered and pulled the collar of her robe around her neck. “It’s also a lot less work.” She laughed. A few rays of weak winter sun fell across the carpet. Annie sat up further, taking care not to knock the coffee tray by her feet. Daphne picked up an extra pillow from the floor, propped it behind Annie’s back, then collected the tray at the foot of the bed and carried it to the other side. She set it down in the middle.

“I just turned up the heat. This room is freezing. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

Daphne got up onto the bed and sat cross-legged next to Annie. She lay the duvet across her lap and pulled the tray closer.

“Antoinette and Mummy always started the day with coffee in bed. When I was little, I sat at their feet.” She poured the coffee and hot milk into the cups and handed one to Annie.

Annie took a big sip from her cup. It tasted much better than the coffee she made at home.

“You look tired,” Daphne said. “Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

“I was awake for several hours, I’m afraid. Some of the things you said upset me. I hate arguments. I always have.”

“We’re going to forget about all that.” She drank from her cup and set it back on the tray. “I forgive you. Today’s a new day.”

“Forgive me?” Annie shook her head. “I felt that you—”

“I know you’re going through a lot. Haven’t you had a good time here?”

“Of course, but—”

“And you’ve gotten lots of writing done?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s been wonderful.”

“That’s all that matters then. You, me, this beautiful place. You can’t argue with that.” She lifted the covers and straightened her legs beneath the sheets.

“No. Of course not.”

“I want you to see the garden this spring.” Daphne leaned back into the pillows. “It’s amazing. You can practically smell the earth when the ground warms up. The tiny silent microbes bursting with life and ready to color the fields with new green. You’ve got to be in the country to really appreciate spring.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“See. You are happy here.” She reached across the covers and patted Annie’s hand. Her touch was cool.

Annie was relieved by Daphne’s change of mood, though she still felt wary. She didn’t want to talk about Paul. “Of course I’m happy. I’ve had the best time.” She looked toward the window and wondered if this winter world would ever turn green. “It’s just that I have to go home. I never finished the transcripts for Mary, and I have so much to do before classes begin. Also, pretty soon Sophie and Wesley will be getting back.”

“You’re thinking of leaving? Already?”

“Daphne, you’ve got things to do too.” She watched her face. “I heard you make appointments. You have clients to see.”

“It can all wait. I don’t want you to leave yet. This time together has made us so much closer. I’m sure you feel it too.”

The word us rang in Annie’s ears. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“For God’s sake, certainly you feel the attraction.” Daphne pulled her mouth into an unattractive pout and turned toward Annie. Her eyes, gray today, the color of her robe, had delicate violet circles under them. They were smudged from last night’s mascara. She reached over and smoothed Annie’s forehead. “Don’t look so worried. Just stay a few more days.” She ran her fingers through Annie’s tousled short hair. Her touch was soothing but unsettling as well. “I know you’re drawn to me. It started the first time you saw me. You watched me in the Métro.”

“Daphne, I—”

“Quite a coincidence when we both turned up at the Verniers’.” She laughed softly.

All this time and Daphne had said nothing. “I didn’t know that you’d noticed me.” Annie took another sip of coffee. It was growing cold. She set her cup on her nightstand. “Daphne, I did watch you. I’m always observing people. You were different. But it’s not like that. You must understand, Wesley and I—”

“You are so naïve. Sweet girl, I sometimes like men too.” She smiled coyly. “With women, though, it’s different.”

Annie shook her head. She had come to understand that Nora and Antoinette were lovers. Should she have seen this coming? There had been glances, touches, a lingering hand from time to time. Annie had told herself it was Daphne’s tactile nature, her sensuous side, the more relaxed attitude of Europeans toward their bodies. None of this had bothered her. “Daphne, I don’t have those kind of feelings.”

“You’re sure?” Daphne raised her eyebrows and grinned.

“I never have before and—” Daphne put her finger on Annie’s mouth as if to silence her.

“Don’t say anything. You’re an artist, a poet. You feel things deeply. I know you do. Just wait and see. I think you’ll surprise yourself.” She withdrew her hand from Annie’s lips and pulled gently at the sleeve of Annie’s nightgown. It slipped down off her shoulder, exposing her bare skin. Very gently, Daphne caressed her. Annie, stunned and confused, didn’t move. She sat perfectly still, unable to imagine what would happen next. “Close your eyes. Just let yourself go.”

Annie did as she was told. Was she capable of this? The boundaries of love had always blurred across the lines of poetry. She took a deep breath and tried to ignore her doubts.

Daphne touched Annie’s face. Her hand was warm. She drew her fingers down along her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone back to her bare shoulder. A moment later Annie felt Daphne’s lips pressed to her skin. The kisses, warm and soft, could have been those of a man, just kisses after all. Then she remembered seeing Daphne in the bath.

Annie pulled away. “No, Daphne. I’m sorry. This doesn’t feel right.” She threw back the covers and got out of bed. She put on her robe with trembling hands and tied the sash firmly around her waist. “I’m sorry. I think you’ve misunderstood. I want to be your friend. I do feel very close to you, but—”

“I know you feel something. Annie, you just need to let it happen. You shouldn’t deny what you’re feeling.” She shook her head and reluctantly got to her feet.

Shaking and bewildered, Annie drew her arms across her chest and looked out the window at the dormant garden below. “I’m going back to Paris. I need to get home.”

“Look, my sweet,” Annie could hear Daphne putting the cups on the tray, “just think about it. There’s so much you have yet to discover about yourself. Perhaps in time.” Daphne walked soundlessly from the room.