Chapter Thirty One
Ever hurried to the study to catch the phone before the machine picked up. A voice, any human voice would be welcome. This house had become such a mausoleum.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Ever! I’m so glad I caught you there! There was no answer on your line.”
“Stroud, what is it?”
“Ever, I think I’ve found a publisher!”
“A publisher?”
“For your book!”
“In... Paris?”
“London, actually.”
“But I always thought... I’d publish here.”
“Nicole got me this number.”
“Nicole, you say?”
“She’s in PR, you know.”
No. Ever didn’t know.
“I just spoke to him and he’s interested – very interested in seeing your work. Is the manuscript ready?”
“A... yes. Well, I mean it’s finished. I don’t know about ready…”
“It doesn’t matter at this point if it isn’t completely polished. Knowing what a perfectionist you are, you’d probably never feel it was ready.”
Perfectionist? Is that how he saw her?
“Ever?”
“I’m here.”
“This could be a wonderful opportunity for you. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Right,” she muttered, still trying to catch up.
“His name is Charles Merchant. Let me give you his number. Put the call on my account.”
Ever was searching the surface of the desk for the pencil. Damn, it wasn’t here! She must have inadvertently walked off with it during one of her writing frenzies.
“Ever?”
“Yes, yes. Just a minute…”
She jerked open the middle drawer of the desk, madly shifting things about in search of something that would write. Cards, notes, paper clips, pencil!
“Okay, got it. What’s the number?” She wrote it on Stroud’s blotter.
“Call him,” Stroud urged. “He’s very anxious to hear from you.”
Ever’s mind was spinning.
“Have you got it?”
“Yes. Stroud, you’re sure about this?”
“If I didn’t believe the offer was genuine, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s a very reputable house.”
“Alright.”
“Call him, then package up the manuscript and send it.”
“Alright,” Ever said, her eye caught by something in the open drawer. “I will...”
It was a picture. When she hung up with Stroud, Ever picked it out of the drawer.
A snapshot of a woman. Younger than Ever. Pretty, pert. Shining auburn hair cut just so. Very chic. Smiling with the warmth of summer sunshine.
Ever flipped the photo. ‘Monaco. Last Spring. Love, Nicole.’ Love, Nicole. Ever’s hand flexed with the desire to crush the photograph. She dropped it back in the drawer. Closed the drawer. Love, Nicole.
She should leave the study. Just get out. It was unthinkable that she should consider going through Stroud’s desk. But she didn’t leave. There was something else. In the drawer. An envelope. Hand addressed. She’d caught a glimpse of it when she put the photo away.
Ever slowly slid the drawer open. Stared at the half of the envelope that was visible. It was way back in the drawer. Way back beyond her privilege, but not beyond reach. With two fingers she slid the envelope closer to the end of the drawer. Yes. Addressed to Stroud. James Stroud. A return address. Paris. Sender: Nicole Arier.
Ever swallowed. This was personal. Someone else’s mail. One does not read someone else’s personal mail. Never, never. This is what she was telling herself as she picked the letter out of the drawer, along with the photograph, which she set on the desk top.
She lowered herself into Stroud’s chair, took the letter out of the envelope, unfolded two neatly creased handwritten pages. Pink stationery, but very pale pink. Nothing flashy. Nothing gauche. Not from Mademoiselle Nicole. Oh, so Parisian! Arier. Ever started to read.
‘Dear James,
It is definitely too long since I have written but things have been hectic...’
Yadda Yadda Yadda ‘I was sorry to have missed your call, but I was out of town. Business. You know how it is! I didn’t know if you’d heard, Maurice was terribly ill last fall. Poor thing, walking around for weeks with...’ Yadda Yadda Yadda ‘Of course, it’s been so long since we have SEEN you! Naturally, everyone understands, but we wonder when the Wandering Boy will return from the wild frontier! We all miss you and I, especially, when I see the fresh éclairs lined up in the window of Mme Loret’s patisserie. You remember-’ ÉCLAIRS!? ‘Heal, darling, and come back to us soon. Your city awaits...’ Ah, yes. All of Paris has been holding its breath for your return, darling! ‘(What do you think of my English writing? I have had to practice because of my extended duties.)
Write soon!’
Then some closing in French. Damn it. The only part of the letter of any importance and she had to write it in French!
Ever had wanted to take Spanish in school and what did they give her? FRENCH. And had she paid attention? As if she’d been able to predict that twenty-seven years down the road her entire emotional life would hang in the balance over one lousy little phrase she could not interpret!
She stared and stared at the phrase, not really thinking. Not really able to see it that well through the tears threatening to spill over and make muddy pools of Nicole’s precise penmanship. Fountain pen. The little snot. A fountain pen for heaven’s sake!
‘Votre.’ That was ‘your’, wasn’t it? Your loving... adoring... devoted... ‘c-o-u-s-i-n-e’. Ending in an “e”. Feminine, of course. C-o-u- Shit. Nicole was a cousin. Stroud’s COUSIN.
You fool. You twit. You most relieved of all lonely, loony women! His cousin.
Ever picked up the receiver and started to dial. A very English voice answered the call half a world away and Ever said, “May I please speak to Charles Merchant?”