La Rentrée
“Dépoussierant meubles,” the can read. “Nettoie et fait briller.” This is exactly what she wanted to accomplish: clean and shine. Annie had arrived home a few days before to stale air, dust, and the hush of an empty apartment, barely an echo of life. All that soon would change. Wesley and Sophie were arriving the next morning, and she wanted to restore some semblance of the way things used to be on the rue des Archives. While at God House, she’d become almost a different person: a woman with short hair, a woman who drank whiskey, a poet who couldn’t stop thinking about her work. She’d also become involved in a complicated friendship, a friendship that had taken on unexpected dimensions. The thought still amazed her.
She pressed the top of the spray can. A cloying mix of floral fragrance and chemicals wafted up. She pushed the soft flannel cloth loaded with gray residue across the top of her desk. The sprigs of ivy that she kept by her mother’s picture hung limply in the vase. The water had dried up completely during her absence, leaving the fine web of roots brittle and dry, impossible to save.
Feeling the need for air, she pushed open the tall windows and stood for a moment holding the railing on the narrow balcony. The ornate black wrought-iron grill sent a stream of cold from her hands to her elbows. Daphne, she thought. Would there be more surprises? Looking back on the days at God House, she realized that Daphne had the ability to yank her from one feeling to another; one moment Daphne bolstered her and gave her confidence, and the next she told her she had been a fool. Annie couldn’t forget the way she had mysteriously turned on her the night Paul had come to dinner. Tim’s warning had begun to haunt her. Daphne offered so much. But what kind of strings were attached? Annie drew her arms across her chest and looked up.
The buff-colored sky was velvety and still, the air damp. François Naudin had captured this same light in one of the photographs. Was it the one of the booksellers along the Seine? She wanted to work on her poems this afternoon. One last quiet afternoon before her family came back. Taking in a final deep breath of winter air, she watched pedestrians hurry along the sidewalk below. Sophie’s voice, her laughter, her youthful enthusiasm, would soon fill the apartment. Annie could hardly wait to see her, to hold her in her arms. She smiled, glad to be home in Paris, and stepped back inside, closing the doors tightly behind her.
Once every surface gleamed, she dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet and tackled the floors. She threw herself gladly into all her neglected chores, enjoying the simple physical work. The sturdy hum of the motor helped to drown the voices in her head. She didn’t want to think about Daphne. How incredible it all seemed now.
When the apartment was clean, she made up the daybed in Wesley’s study, changing it back to Sophie’s bedroom. She pulled the pale blue sheet taut over the mattress, removed the duvet from the closet, shook it, and put on the freshly pressed cover. Next she found the pillows and slipped on the white ruffled shams. Last of all, she set Olly Ours, Sophie’s childhood bear, in the center of the bed. Missing one button eye and having a limp ear, he looked like the adored childhood toy that he was. Annie kept him in her bottom dresser drawer and brought him out each time her daughter returned.
Despite Wesley’s desk and computer table in the corner, the room began to look more like her daughter’s old bedroom. She had polished Sophie’s silver baby cup and filled it with pink roses that were already opening in the indoor warmth. She set it on top of the chest of drawers and picked up the framed picture of baby Sophie held securely in the crook of Aunt Kate’s arm. Aunt Kate, with the wisps of white hair escaping the bun at the back of her head, stared down with such loving acceptance at the baby, a little girl she would never know as she was now, all grown up, an adult. Annie was struck by the importance of continuity in a family, one generation looking to the next.
Aunt Kate had always given Annie that kind of love, generous and unquestioning. She had provided the cozy warmth of childhood cuddles, attention to her school-age games and imaginary play, a patient ear during the fragmented moods of adolescence. Annie hoped that Sophie felt that way about her own upbringing. Right now she focused on making Sophie’s homecoming just right. She would cook her favorite dinners and they would go out to the places she loved. Most of all she wanted to re-create the atmosphere they used to have, all three of them, tucked safely into their home on the rue des Archives. Indeed, maybe Sophie’s visit would restore balance to their lives.
“À la famille.” Wesley raised his glass and toasted his family in the clatter and smoke of the Bistro Miravile. Lunch at Miravile was an important part of the Reed family routine to conquer jet lag. After they stumbled off the plane from the United States, groggy and disoriented, Monsieur Vartin, the taxi driver they had used for years, would maneuver them home through the morning rush hour. First a hot shower and some time to unpack, then a visit to their favorite neighborhood bistro for lunch to get them on “tummy time,” and finally the reward of a big nap.
Today they’d walked together through a mild drizzle the few blocks to the restaurant and were seated at their regular table along the wall, Annie and Sophie on the banquette. “At last I get my two girls back,” Wesley said. He looked weary this afternoon, showing all of his fifty-one years, but there was something endearing and familiar in his dimpled smile. His hair was longer than he usually wore it. Annie found it attractive. She ran her tongue over her lips while reading the menu and thought back to the way he’d kissed her when he got home, awkward and uncertain. He’d looked at her almost as if he no longer recognized her.
“I know you don’t like my hair,” she’d said.
“It’s just a surprise. That’s all. It doesn’t seem like you. I’ll get used to it.” And he stood back and studied her as if trying to decide.
“Moms, I think it’s absolutely beautiful. Really hip, and it makes you look so young.” Sophie had flashed her sweet lopsided grin and then hugged her mother again. Annie loved the feel of Sophie’s arms around her. It made her feel like her old self.
Now, in the crowded bistro, they listened to Sophie chatter on about her time in California.
“It was so great to get out of New York for a bit. It’s always sunny in L.A. I bought new sunglasses.” She reached into her bag and pulled them out. “What do you think?”
“Very glamorous. You look great.” Annie couldn’t remember the last time she had worn sunglasses, could barely remember a time when it wasn’t winter. The last time she saw Sophie it had been the beginning of summer, but also the onset of Wesley’s troubles—what she thought of now as the big chill that had made its way into their marriage.
Sophie looked so fresh and pretty beside her. While jet-lagged and tired from too much work, she had the moist bloom of youth and the optimism of so much life ahead of her. Her hair was the same pale blond as Wesley’s before his had grayed, but her features looked like Annie’s, the wide eyes and narrow nose, the long slender neck, a face still free of lines.
“You certainly seem to love your job.” Annie leaned closer to her daughter and studied her face. “Did you have time for some fun too?”
“We had fun working, if you can believe that. Two of the guys in the office are very cute. I really like one.”
“Aha. I thought there might be someone special.”
“Mom.” Sophie grinned. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“What’s his name?” Annie asked.
“Daniel. But I’m not really seeing him.” She cocked her head. “Not yet anyway.”
“Any young man would be lucky to go out with you,” Wesley said. “I can imagine them lining up to try to get a date.”
“Daddy, you’re sweet, but it doesn’t work that way.” She grinned at her father. “Let’s talk about your news. Have you told Mom yet?”
Before Wesley could speak, the waiter arrived with lunch: two steaming plates of poulet frites, and steak au poivre for Wesley. “Eh, voilà,” he announced. “Bon appétit.” He told them how pleased he was to see the whole family together and left them to enjoy their meal.
“Tell her, Dad.” Sophie cut into her chicken, her favorite dish at the Miravile, and Annie held her fork and knife poised above her own plate, waiting for Wesley’s inevitable announcement.
“Well, it’s official. I’ve been offered the job at Duncan Payne. They’ll take me on as a full partner, and they want me to start right away.” He looked confident and relieved. It was settled.
“And you accepted?”
“Of course I did.”
“There’s no way you could do the work for them and still live here?”
“Annie, the firm is there. You’ll love Washington. Parts of it even feel kind of French. The Potomac River has wonderful big bridges leading to Virginia, and there are wide avenues planted with trees.” He began to eat his steak and became more animated. “I rented a little studio apartment near the office for now. I thought you could come back with me and help look for a house.”
“Well, I guess that’s that,” Annie said. She noticed the red juices from his steak running across the plate.
“Mother, can’t you be happy for Dad?” Sophie looked at Annie with an accusatory expression.
“Of course I’m pleased for him.” She regarded Wesley thoughtfully. “You deserve it, Wesley. That firm is lucky to have you.”
Wesley took this as encouragement and told them more about the partners and the work he’d be doing. Annie listened politely. His plans were evolving without her. He’d accepted the job, made arrangements for a place to live, and assumed she’d willingly follow along and help pick out a house. It was like watching a movie on fast-forward. The question was, did she want to be in it?
“Moms, New York is only three hours away on the train. Dad’s right. If you find a house now, you could move in the spring when the cherry blossoms are in bloom.”
“It sounds very exciting.” Annie didn’t want to argue with either of them. She didn’t want to spoil their time with Sophie and hoped they could hang on to their old world a little bit longer. “There’s lots to talk about.” She cut into her chicken, determined not to dwell on all that was ahead.
When they got home from the restaurant, Sophie went into her room for a nap. Wesley decided to have a look at the basket of mail that Annie had sorted for him.
“Don’t you want to get a little rest too?” she asked.
“Maybe later. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” He carried the mail to the sofa in the living room. “Annie, we really need to talk about this.”
“What do we need to talk about? You seem to have planned everything.” She went into the living room with him but did not sit down. “What about my job here? What about my book?” She heard the rising pitch of her own voice. “You and Sophie are so caught up in your own important jobs that we haven’t talked about that.”
“Of course we care about your book.” He got up from the sofa and came over to where she stood. He took her by the shoulders. “Annie, the winter is a quiet time for you at work. You can come back to the States with me. I know Mary can manage without you for a few weeks, and she can find a replacement for you later this spring. You can work on the book anywhere. Fax the poems back and forth.”
She pulled away from him. “It’s not as simple as that,” she said.
“Annie, you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”
She shook her head. “Look, I need to go out for a bit.” She went to her desk and got her notebook. “When I get back, we’ll all have a nice dinner together. Sophie’s only here for a week. Let’s make our plans after she goes back to New York.”
“Annie, my flight to Washington is the day after hers. That doesn’t leave us any time. I want to get you a seat on the same plane as mine.”
“I can’t leave then.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Wesley, I want to have one nice week while Sophie is here. I don’t want to have to think about moving, or any of this yet.” She clutched her notebook to her chest. “You’re asking an awful lot. I just need a little time.”
He threw up his hands and turned away from her. “Whatever you say.”
Annie heard the chill in his voice. She had gained a little time. It was at best a small victory.
_____________
The Cimetière de Passy was on a raised embankment above the place du Trocadéro. Annie decided to take the bus. It had become colder when she went out again, but she was heartened by a few rays of winter sun that emerged after the earlier drizzle. She loved riding the bus, so much less crowded than the Métro, and it was nicer to be above ground to enjoy the passing sights. The bus took much longer than the Métro, but the passengers were more likely to be older people, housewives, and those not in a hurry, a more courteous crowd.
It was a relief to get out of the house. Wesley’s arrival had added a new kind of pressure to her life. The imminent move weighed on her. He expected so much, and now that he was home she wondered if she would be able to write; she felt her creative energy starting to seep away.
Sophie would be asleep all afternoon, and she had a feeling that Wesley would succumb to a nap as well; so she had made her escape. She had never visited the Passy cemetery before. François’s photograph of it was mysterious, otherworldly. Annie hoped that visiting the place itself would unlock the imagery that eluded her.
The bus passed the elegant shops along the Fauberg Saint-Honoré, where wealthy women in furs lined up at the counters of Hermès to buy silk scarves, leather goods, and perfume. Then onto the vast open place de la Concorde punctuated with the Egyptian obelisk in the center and the wide avenue of the Champs-élysées with the monumental Arc de Triomphe that spoke of the spirited conquering heroes, the glorious past. Eventually, the bus eased into the Sixteenth Arrondissement with its quieter residential neighborhoods of wide, tree-lined avenues. Hélène Rocher lived in the Sixteenth, and Annie thought wistfully for a moment of her peaceful, ordered life. She hoped they could meet again soon. For now, the poems would have to come first.
She pressed the buzzer and the red arrêt demande sign lit up on the panel above the driver. The bus drew to a halt, and she got off at the place du Trocadéro with its breathtaking vista of the Eiffel Tower and the surrounding park. She took a small side street in the opposite direction and entered the Cimetière de Passy. A fraction the size of the famous Père Lachaise cemetery, which suffered from continual bouts of vandalism, the monuments scarred and spoiled by graffiti, this was an enchanting place and she understood what had led François here with his camera. This cemetery was like a village of tombs and mausoleums nestled closely together along pebbled paths.
The mausoleums seemed to Annie like miniature cathedrals, the size of phone booths. She stopped in front of one whose elaborate iron gates sat ajar. Inside was an altarlike structure with a statue of the virgin. Below it, a pot of chrysanthemums all withered and brown, about to turn to dust. Whoever had brought them might be in the grave as well. Reading the stones, most from the nineteenth century, Annie got a feeling not of sadness but of community. The remains of these people were together in a beautiful, quiet spot exactly where they were supposed to be, a community of souls with a view of the Eiffel Tower.
And where did she belong? It made her sad to think about leaving Paris. If she were to stay behind forever, it could only lead to divorce. She tried to imagine herself living in some small apartment, something she could afford, where she would write, do her job, and manage on her own. She turned and pushed this thought aside.
Annie’s feet crunched on the gravel path. She sat on a bench in the sunshine and began to write. It felt good to start a new poem. Soon she was able to play with the images and let the powerful mystery of language take over.
Sleeping souls blanketed in winter sun
share their stories, while those wandering above in waning light
search in vain for answers, hearing not the sound
of murmured truths, nor melodies of wisdom
cradled in the frozen ground.
Annie let the words flow freely, knowing that the real work, the real satisfaction, came with the endless moving of phrases, the combinations of sounds that shaped the poem and brought it to life. As her pen glided over the page, she trusted that some part of what appeared there would be right, and that it would capture what François’s images were telling her. It was astonishing really, the way her writing made her feel better. After an hour or so she could feel the cold creeping in from her seat, so she stood and gathered her things. The poem had begun to take form, and she was ready to go home.
“So, Moms, what’s going on between you and Dad?”
Annie and Sophie sat on the sofa in their living room drinking tea. Sophie was leaving in the morning. It was late afternoon, and they’d come back earlier from the monthly lunch at the Verniers’. Wesley, wanting some exercise, had gone out for a walk.
“What do you mean?” Annie couldn’t bring herself to look into Sophie’s eyes. They were the same color as Wesley’s, that clear, honest blue.
“What I mean is, you were both happy and cheerful talking with the Verniers about moving to Washington, but you never talk about it at home. It’s like it’s some kind of forbidden topic.”
“Haven’t you had a good week? We’ve loved having you at home.”
“Mother, I’ve had a wonderful week. What’s not to love? We’ve done everything, all my favorite things.”
Sophie’s short week at home had flown by. With Wesley, they’d gone to restaurants, seen a Molière play at the Comédie-Française, and braved the long lines for the Gauguin show at the Grand Palais. Annie had taken Sophie shopping, and she’d found a new handbag, blue denim with BEAU SAC written in sequins across the front.
Sophie reached over and put her hand on Annie’s arm. “You’re not answering my question. You don’t seem the same anymore, and you hardly talk to Dad.” She stared at her mother with her lucid, intelligent gaze.
“Sophie, sweetie, it’s complicated. I’m not sure I understand it myself.” Annie kicked off her shoes and drew her feet up under her on the cushion.
“Understand what?” Sophie tilted her head. She wore an unaccustomed worried expression.
“It’s been a difficult year. It was hard for Dad when Wilson & James closed. He tried working at home, but that didn’t work out.”
“So? He’s got a job now. I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Well, I wanted him to look for a job here,” Annie said. “I’m not sure that moving is the best thing for us.” She wouldn’t tell Sophie how cold and self-absorbed Wesley had been all those months, or how he’d shut her out and acted as if she didn’t exist when it came to determining their future. “You know I’ve gotten very involved working on this book, and it’s thanks to Daphne that my own career is finally taking off.”
“Just what is the deal with that woman?” Sophie now sounded angry.
“What do you mean?” Annie asked.
“Dad thinks you’re spending too much time with her.”
“He said that?”
“Yes, and I don’t get it. She’s supposed to be your friend, and she spent the entire lunch today flirting with Dad, laughing and flipping that mop of hair out of her eyes.”
Annie cringed. Sophie was right. She thought back to the lunch. In the beginning everything had gone well. Céleste and Georges had made a fuss over Wesley and were thrilled to celebrate his new job. Céleste had admired her new haircut, “Oh, mais ça fait jeune,” as if looking young was what mattered most.
Annie had been pleased to see Sophie talking animatedly with Céleste’s two nieces, whom Sophie had known from childhood, and Wesley had their parents and the other guests listening to his opinions on what was going on in Washington, as if actually living there and breathing the air gave you more insight than tuning in to CNN.
Céleste had invited Daphne to join them, and Annie wondered if she would become a regular Sunday-lunch guest. She’d arrived in the blue velvet cape, a poignant reminder of that first lunch, when she’d breezed so unexpectedly into their lives. Annie was initially uncomfortable seeing Daphne at the Verniers’, and the memories of their awkward morning in bed reared up in her mind. She thought of the kisses, Daphne’s touch. Daphne acted as if nothing had happened between them as she talked to all the guests with her usual charm.
After lunch, when they’d settled in the salon for coffee, Annie slipped out to get more sugar, and Daphne followed her to the kitchen. She closed the door behind them. “I wondered if you’d disappeared from my life completely,” she said. “I thought you’d at least call.”
Annie breathed in the faint scent of lilacs. Daphne’s mouth was drawn into a hard line. She looked less pretty, less the dramatic stranger now that Annie knew her well.
“It’s been a crazy week.” Annie’s explanation sounded hollow in her own ears. “I’ve been so busy with Wesley and Sophie. She’s only here a week.” Annie knew she should have called Daphne to thank her for her visit, but getting through the last few days had consumed all her energy. A leaden sense of guilt weighed on her, yet she’d done nothing terribly wrong.
“So, you’re moving to Washington?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing. You know I don’t want to leave. There’s my book and working with Paul. It’s still a long way from being finished.”
“It sounds like you’re going to give it all up.”
“I’m not giving up anything.”
“I wonder now why I bothered encouraging you, why I ever took your poems to Paul.” She sounded bitter.
“Daphne, don’t say that. You know I appreciate all you’ve done.” Annie held the sugar bowl like a weight in her hand. “I’m so grateful to you, and I’ve been writing every day in spite of everything.” She set the bowl down on the table. She hated this feeling of indebtedness. Where would she be without Daphne? She felt close to tears.
“You’ve been so wonderful to me, so encouraging about my work and letting me stay, but—”
“You mustn’t be afraid of your feelings for me.” Daphne’s tone was cajoling. She stepped closer and gently ruffled Annie’s hair.
“Daphne, I have thought about you. I really don’t have those kinds of feelings.” She didn’t know what else she could say. She felt a rush of heat coming to her face and turned away.
“My instincts are rarely wrong,” Daphne said.
“I don’t want it to be like that.” Annie bowed her head.
“It doesn’t have to be like anything. We just need to stay friends.”
Annie felt the weight of Daphne’s arm around her shoulders and the pressure of her body pressing gently into hers. Then the soft breath on her cheek as Daphne whispered, “Sweet friend, you spend far too much time thinking.”
“What’s this, a party in the kitchen, dans la cuisine?” Georges’s voice boomed behind them. “Come back to the salon. We’re having a little Cognac. Best thing on a winter afternoon.”
“You’re a darling, Georges,” Daphne said brightly, withdrawing her arm and stepping away. “You know just what a girl needs.” Daphne took his arm and they made their way back to join the others. After that Daphne had ignored Annie and turned her attentions to Wesley.
Now, sitting beside Sophie, Annie found it impossible to explain any of this.
“You know, Moms, she called Dad twice this week, and he took her to lunch when we went shopping on Friday.”
“I know that. He’s helping her get a shipment of antique quilts from Madeleine. He told me about that.” Annie smiled at Sophie and took her chin in her hand. What would she ever do without this precious daughter? Loving a child, she thought, is so pure and simple, the kind of love that never wavers. “You don’t need to worry about us, sweetie.” She wrapped her arms around her daughter and gave her a hug. Her most precious antique quilt hung on the wall behind them. Annie glanced up at it and wondered what Daphne and Wesley had talked about besides the quilts.
“Aren’t you coming to bed?”
Annie looked up at Wesley from her chair in the alcove off the living room. She’d pulled the afghan over her legs, and her poetry notebook sat on her lap. Sophie was already in bed, her clothes packed for her trip to New York the next day. Wesley’s flight was booked for the day after that. Annie knew they needed to talk. He sat down by her feet, and she moved them over, giving him more room.
“Annie?” His hair was mussed. His blue button-down shirt was open at the neck. He looked vulnerable and sweet. She didn’t want to hurt him.
“Wesley, not now. I’m working.”
“I love you.” He put his hand on her bent knee and rubbed gently. “I’ve missed you. You know that, don’t you?” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired and defeated. She could see the purple veins in his pale hands. He put the glasses back on as if needing to bring her into focus. “I want you with me, Annie.”
“I know that. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She looked down at her notebook. She was trying to bring back the image of the carved stonework from the mausoleum in the Passy cemetery.
He stood up, bent down, and kissed her forehead. He drew his hand across the top of her head. “Tomorrow, then.” He stood and lingered a few moments longer.
She kept her eyes on the page and wrote. When she said nothing more, he left her alone.
She didn’t want to write anymore, but she didn’t want to go to bed.