6 
Laura had always thought of herself as an observer. She would sit back and watch, saying very little but hearing everything. And there had been a great deal to see and hear, whether she was observing her brother, Dylan, the rebel; her father, the composer and conductor; or her mother, the artist.
Then there was her grandmother Megan, the once-great musical star, and her grandfather Owen, theatrical manager and professional Welshman. And Claire Benson —her heroine, role model, and her best friend.
Each one of them was highly individualistic, a complex personality, and therefore a fascinating study.
The two people she most enjoyed observing were her grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant. They were the greatest influence in her life, especially her grandmother; and, because she loved them so much, she saw them through eyes that were not in the least critical. So many of her values had come from them, and it was on her grandparents that she had, based her own notions of romantic love.
Grandfather Owen would boast, “Ours is one of the greatest love stories that ever happened. I fell in love with Megan when I first heard her singing in the chapel at Port Talbot, and I’ve loved her truly ever since.”
And whenever he said this, which was very frequently, her grandmother would blush prettily and smile at Owen with adoration. “It’s true, Laura. The day I set eyes on your grandfather I was kissed by the angels. It was the luckiest day of my life, meeting him.”
When she was young she was well aware that her parents loved each other too. But unlike Owen and Megan, who never quarreled, Richard and Margaret were often engaged in roaring battles.
“It’s a feast or a famine with your parents,” her grandmother would say. “They’re either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats. Goodness me, I’ve never before seen such goings-on in my life.”
Her parents’ way of making up after one of their regular tempestuous falling-outs was to go off on a trip for a week or two. “Another honeymoon,” Claire would say, and she would become a kind of surrogate mother to the two of them, aided and abetted by Mae, the housekeeper; Dylan’s nanny, Cissy; and Grandma Megan, who would swoop down in full force to take charge of the household.
Claire had been the other important influence in her life, and she had observed her dearest friend through loving eyes and hardly ever found fault.
“Always the observer, Laura,” her lovely gran had often said in those days, laughing lightly, and then Megan would go on to predict that her favorite grandchild would become a writer. She hadn’t, of course; nonetheless, she continued to be the observer, forever watching everyone, and assessing.
She was doing exactly that tonight as she sat on the stool in Claire’s kitchen, where Claire and Natasha were preparing dinner. As she looked from mother to daughter, she saw the enormous love and friendship flowing between them. It was so potent, such a palpable thing, Laura felt as though she could reach out and touch it. To see them in such harmony made Laura happy. Neither she nor Claire had been close to their own mothers, a situation that had often saddened Laura. But then, she’d had Grandma Megan, and so had Claire, for that matter. And they still had her, in fact.
Everything Claire had said about Natasha earlier in the week was true. Laura had not seen her goddaughter for almost five months, and in that time she had lost her baby fat and grown even taller. Like her mother, she had bright auburn hair, although hers was full and flowing, unlike Claire’s, which was cut short. Her resplendent locks gave her the look of a girl who had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. Her large eyes were a peculiar golden brown, a sort of amber color, which Laura had always found unusual, and there was a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her slender nose. Otherwise, her creamy skin was without blemish.
Natasha had a short torso and long legs, and, as Claire had pointed out, although she was only fourteen, she dwarfed them both these days. She’s growing up to be a real beauty, Laura thought, then turned her attention to Claire.
Contrary to what Hercule believed, Laura was quite convinced there was, nothing wrong with her friend. Tonight she was full of her usual bountiful energy; her face was flushed, her eyes were shining brightly, and her short auburn curls were like a burnished halo around her pretty face. No, there was nothing wrong with her, Laura decided, filled with a sudden sense of relief. Her dearest friend was the picture of good health.
Claire was wearing a red wool tunic over matching leggings, and she was full of laughter and gaiety as she skillfully prepared navarin of lamb, her famous lamb stew with vegetables. Simultaneously, she was putting finishing touches to another speciality of hers, strawberries Romanoff.
Claire had always been a marvelous cook. This was the one thing Laura envied, since she herself had little talent in that direction. Although Claire had been an enormous influence on her in other ways, she had never been able to teach her the simplest rudiments of gourmet cooking.
On the other hand, Claire had shown her such important things as how to put on makeup, pluck her eyebrows, and paint her toenails; it was also from Claire that she had learned how to walk properly in high heels when still too young to wear them, and most important, how to flirt with boys.
Flirt with boys. Laura smiled inwardly, thinking that before long, Natasha would be doing that. She almost laughed out loud; in all probability, Natasha was flirting already.
Shifting slightly on the stool, Laura said, “Please let me do something to help.” As she spoke she glanced across at Claire and Natasha and added, “I feel like a spare wheel.”
Claire laughed. “Everything’s under control, I promise you, so just relax and keep us company until Hercule gets here, then you can entertain him while we finish up.”
“All right, that’s a deal. But let me know if you need me to peel a potato, chop something, or whatever.”
“I’ve done all the whatevers for Mom,” Natasha said, laughing as she looked up. Then she returned to the task of dropping dollops of chocolate-chip cookie mixture on a metal cookie sheet.
“It certainly smells delicious, Claire,” Laura remarked. “I like your lamb stew better than Dina Zuckerberg’s famous specialities.”
Claire burst out laughing on hearing this, and Laura started to laugh with her; their peals of laughter rang out, echoed around the kitchen.
Puzzled by their sudden and unexpected hilarity, not understanding it at all, Natasha asked, “Who’s Zina Duckerberg?”
“It’s not Zina Duckerberg, it’s Dina Zuckerberg,” Laura corrected Natasha. “She used to live in the same building in New York when we were growing up, and she was always inviting us to dinner when her mother was out or away traveling.”
“And she always ‘cooked’ the same thing, pizza from Ray’s Pizza Parlor and Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream,” interjected Claire, who began laughing again, as did Laura.
Natasha shook her head wonderingly, smiled indulgently at the two women, who she thought were suddenly slightly crazy, and immediately changed the subject. “You could do one thing to help, Laura. Would you go and ask Doug if we need more ice?”
“Good idea,” Laura replied, and slid off the stool. She found Doug on a sofa in front of the fire, nursing a drink.
“Do we need more ice, Doug?”
“No, darling, there’s plenty in the bucket.”
Laura glanced around, once more admiring the room. Claire had decorated it with a great deal of style and flair, and a little help from Hercule. It was easy for Laura to spot his touches here and there, such as the bouffant taffeta curtains at the windows. “Dance dresses,” he called them, because they were narrow at the top and flared out like a skirt before they reached the floor. And the large silk lampshades, the urns of twigs and leaves, were also Hercule’s well-known imprints.
The room was old-fashioned, traditional, with spacious, rather grand proportions. A highly polished wood floor met crisp white walls, with bookshelves soaring up to the ceiling on the long wall facing the fireplace.
On the other walls were hung oversized framed posters, all of them colorful reproductions of Toulouse-Lautrec’s Moulin Rouge can-can girls. A cream Savonnerie rug patterned with red, black, and green covered part of the dark floor, and there were two large cream velvet sofas and several chairs arranged in an airy seating arrangement.
Claire had been collecting French country antiques for a number of years, and their ripe woods gleamed in the lambent light, adding a touch of elegance and warmth to the room. She had arranged lovely old pieces of porcelain on some of the antique chests and tables, and grouped together a large collection of silver-framed photographs on a provençal sideboard. Laura gazed back at all the Valiants, as well as herself. And Natasha, Claire, and her parents were also captured in different poses on celluloid.
The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, bowls of potpourri, and Rigaud candles, all of which were trademarks of Claire’s; she had hers just as Hercule had his. It was a lovely room at any time, but especially so at night, with the candles burning, the silk-shaded lamps glowing, and the fire blazing in the hearth. There was a welcoming warmth here, and a great deal of love.
Laura walked across to one of the tall windows, then stood looking down at the place de Furstemberg, which she considered to be one of the most picturesque Little squares in Paris. It was a cold night. The inky sky was clear, without cloud, and the stars were few. But a curving crescent moon was bright as it cast its silvery light across the shadowy square.
Directly below the apartment windows was the solitary, old-fashioned lamppost with its five globes that gave off the only other illumination except for the light streaming out from the windows of the adjacent apartments. Laura had always thought of the lamppost as a charming little sentinel standing next to the ancient Paulownia trees so treasured by every inhabitant of the square.
Laura knew the sixième, the sixth arrondissement, very well and especially this quaint square with its great charm and old-world atmosphere. It was she who had found the apartment for Claire seven years earlier, just after she had separated from her husband. It had belonged to Madame Solange Puy, grandmother of her old friend Marie-Louise Puy, who dated from her Sorbonne student days.
Marie-Louise had inherited the apartment from her grandmother and had just put it up for sale. Fortuitously for Claire, as it turned out, Laura had been in Paris at this particular time, and the moment she heard about the apartment going on the market she had told Marie-Louise that Claire might well be interested in buying it.
The three of them had met at the apartment and Claire instantly fell in love with it. Within a couple of months the sale was complete, with all the documents signed, and the place finally belonged to Claire. As soon as the deed was in her hands, she began to decorate. Hercule, as always, was the chief adviser and initiator of ideas, and together they created what Claire called “My first real home as a grown-up.” And it was beautiful, Laura was the first to acknowledge.
It had pleased Laura to see Claire so happy on the day her friend had shown her the finished apartment. Claire’s excitement about her new home had wiped the anger and pain off her face, for a little while at least.
“Laura.”
At the sound of Natasha’s voice Laura swung around. “Yes?”
“Your lipstick … well, it’s not right … not the right color. I’ve brought you this … one of mine. It’s much better for you.” Natasha hurried forward and handed the tube of lipstick to Laura.
Laura automatically took it, startled as usual by Natasha’s candor. The girl was breathtakingly honest, blunt even, but then, weren’t most fourteen-year-olds today? “What’s wrong with the color I’m wearing?” Laura asked after a moment.
“It’s too red for you. Anyway, bright red’s out. Old-fashioned. Look at the one I’ve given you. It’s sort of brownish with a hint of pink, and it’s much more in. Just ask Mom. She uses one of my browns now. Red is definitely gross.”
“Thanks for your beauty advice, darling. It used to be your mother passing on tips, now it’s you.”
“You’re not mad at me, are you, Laura?”
“No, of course not,” she answered with a light laugh, amused by the girl’s seriousness and look of concern about the lipstick.
The doorbell rang, and Natasha exclaimed, “That’s Hercule, he’s always on time!” She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Just two minutes past seven,” she added as she ran across the floor to the entrance hall.
Laura followed at a slower pace.
Doug jumped up and straightened his jacket.
Natasha wrenched open the door and cried, “Hercule, we were—” Her sentence was bitten off abruptly. Natasha stood stock-still, gaping at Hercule’s companion. It was Philippe Lavillard.
Laura was also suddenly riveted to the spot, staring at Philippe, as speechless as Natasha.
Philippe looked from Natasha to Laura, and then took a step forward, drawing a bit closer to the threshold. It was obvious that he was about to say something; he opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. The words remained unsaid.
The kitchen door had flown open with a clatter at that moment and Claire rushed into the living room; she was laughing. “There you are, Hercule, as punc—” She, too, instantly cut off her sentence midway when she saw Philippe Lavillard; she was flabbergasted at the sight of him. “What the hell are you doing here?” she exclaimed, but the words sounded more like a snarl than anything else.
“We met, he and I, on the doorstep,” Hercule began, already sensing trouble, wishing to keep things at least civilized; he knew they would never be amicable. That was an impossibility between these two antagonists. “We came up the stairs together,” he finished somewhat lamely, and shrugged.
Claire stared at her old friend without uttering a word, blinking rapidly, as if suddenly afflicted with a nervous tick. Then her eyes swung to Philippe. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice shrill.
It struck Laura that Claire was spoiling for a fight with Philippe, and she wondered how best to diffuse the situation before it spiraled out of hand, became a full-blown row. She glanced at Doug; he stared at her pointedly.
In answer to Claire, Philippe said quietly, “You know what I want.”
“What you want and what you’ll get are two entirely different things. You can’t just come here without warning and make demands on me. And you know that,” she snapped, her eyes icy.
“I’m entitled to see Natasha.”
“Huh! You! You don’t give a damn about Natasha. If you did, you wouldn’t bury yourself in darkest Africa, tending to the natives and their bubonic plagues and Black Deaths or whatever other horrendous diseases it is they have. You’d be here, living in Paris, and available to be with your daughter whenever she needs you. Instead, you’re thousands of miles away, half the time incommunicado because of your deadly viruses, and of no use to her or me when we might need you urgently.”
“You know if there were an emergency I’d be here as quickly as possible, if you asked me to come. And I do have a right to see my daughter,” he answered, cool and reasonable in his tone.
“You gave those, rights up when you ran off!”
“I didn’t run off, as you put it, Claire, and you know it. And don’t forget, I do have visitation rights.”
“If I say so. And don’t you forget that I have sole custody, and that I control your visitation rights. They’re at my discretion. The judge said so. And you accepted that stipulation without a murmur.”
“I don’t wish to fight with you, Claire,” he replied, sighing imperceptibly, holding his temper in check, knowing it was futile to squabble with Claire. Invariably her rage turned into a terrible verbal violence that frightened him because he never knew where it was going to lead. Again he said, “Look, I just want to see Natasha for a while.”
“But she doesn’t want to see you, do you, Natasha?” Claire turned her head, focused intently on their daughter.
At first Natasha did not answer, then she said softly, “No, Mom.”
“You see!” Claire cried triumphantly, and threw him a smug smile. “You’ve even antagonized your own daughter, not that she really knows you as a father. Basically, she never had a father. You were always away, and far too often, ever to be one of any consequence. In fact, you’re a stranger to her.”
“That is not true,” Philippe shot back swiftly. He shook his head and shifted slightly on his feet, wanting to be gone from her. “And let us not dredge up the past,” he went on, his control still tightly held, his voice steady. “I just thought we could spend a bit of time together, she and I. I’m here for only a few days.”
“Now? At this hour? Why did you come at this particular time? I’m not going to ask you to stay to dinner, if that was your intention.”
“I don’t want to stay to dinner. I want to see my daughter.”
“You can’t. Not now. You should have phoned me. That would have been the proper thing to do.”
“I knew you’d say no, or slam the phone down if I called you.”
“I’m slamming the phone down now. You’re not welcome here. Please leave.”
“Claire, be reasonable,” he begged, his tone now becoming even more conciliatory. “Please agree to—”
“No way,” she cut in swiftly. Her hatred for him flooded her eyes, washed over her face. He saw it and flinched inside.
He said, “Tomorrow, Claire. For a short while. For lunch?”
“No.”
“For coffee, then? In the morning. Here at the apartment. Or at a café. Whatever you say.”
“Please go, I don’t want you in my home,” Claire almost shouted, and she stamped her foot.
Laura was not only appalled but troubled. She had never seen Claire behave like this before.
Hercule said, “Perhaps it would be more appropriate to have this discussion inside the apartment rather than out here in the hallway.” He took a long stride into the foyer and carefully closed the front door of the apartment behind him. At the same time, he managed to give Philippe a gentle push into the room. Then he struggled out of his overcoat, which he hung in the coat closet.
Philippe spoke in a coaxing tone, making a last-ditch effort as he said, “Let me spend an hour with Natasha tomorrow. That’s all I ask.” Growing bolder suddenly, he took another step toward his former wife.
Claire backed away.
There was a sudden rush of immense dislike flowing between them like waves. It filled the room.
Hatred, Laura thought. They have only hatred for each other. How terrible that they should end up like this. Once they so loved each other, shared all their hopes and dreams, planned a future, a whole life together. Now they are embattled.
Natasha also felt the hostility flowing between her parents, and as always it dismayed and troubled her. But she managed to diffuse it to some extent by saying, “It’s okay, Mom. Coffee tomorrow is fine.”
“No!” Claire exclaimed. “I don’t want you to do this, Natasha, just to placate him.”
Natasha went and put her arm around her mother, who was so much smaller than she, and held her close, as if somehow protecting her. She couldn’t stand her mother’s pain. It broke her heart. “Mom, I don’t mind, honestly I don’t, and it’s better this way.”
Claire did not respond, simply leaned into her daughter, taking sudden comfort from her proximity, her warmth, and the love she exuded.
Looking across at her father, Natasha continued, “Ten o’clock. I’ll be ready. We can go to the café on the corner.”
Philippe nodded, and an unexpected smile struck his somber mouth. “Yes, that’s perfect, and thank you, Natasha. Thank you.” He cast a glance at Claire. “Is that all right with you? You’re not going to make problems tomorrow, are you?”
“Everything will be all right,” Natasha answered swiftly, suddenly in command here, in charge of this volatile situation. “I promise. No problems.”
Relieved, reassured by the oddly grown-up girl who was his daughter, Philippe relaxed a little. For a moment he gave his attention to Laura. “Nice seeing you the other day,” he murmured, and then nodded to Hercule. Knowing it was wise to disappear before Claire did indeed find a way to object to the date their daughter had made with him, he let himself out without further ado.
The moment he was gone, Claire pulled away from Natasha and swung her head to look at Laura. She frowned and said in a puzzled tone, “You saw him the other day?”
“I ran into him at the d’Orsay just before you arrived. He was looking at the Renoirs.”
“And you never told me when I got there … never told me he was in Paris. Why not?”
“I was going to, Claire darling, but then I decided against it. I realized you didn’t know Philippe was here, passing through, as he’d told me, otherwise you would have mentioned it to me. And to be honest, I didn’t want to upset you. Mentioning his name is like a red rag to a bull, you know that, and I was just … Well, I was waiting for you to tell me you’d had a phone call from him. But when you didn’t, I decided not to say anything. Obviously he hadn’t been in touch with you. Why open a can of worms?”
“Lying by omission,” Claire pronounced, her mouth drooping. “I can’t believe it,” she added in a low mutter.
“Oh, Claire, come on, don’t take exception like this,” Laura exclaimed. “It wasn’t lying by omission.” She cleared her throat. “Well, not really,” she now thought to say, remembering that she herself had come to the same conclusion two nights ago, when they were having dinner at the Relais Plaza. “Surely you understand, Claire?”
But Claire remained silent.
Laura continued. “Look, I didn’t want to bring up Philippe’s name, to say I’d run into him accidentally. What good would it have done? You’d only have been as mad as hell that he was in Paris and not calling you, not asking to see Natasha.”
“I’m mad now.”
“Mom, don’t take it out on Laura. She hasn’t done anything,” Natasha said gently, a worried expression clouding her eyes.
“Never a truer word spoken, my dear,” Hercule agreed. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’d like a drink.” He moved farther into the room and glanced at Laura. “Actually, I need one, don’t you?”
“Absolutely, Hercule. Go and sit down, I’ll fix them,” Laura answered, walking across to the bar. “Scotch and soda as usual?”
“Oui. Merci.”
“What about you, Claire?” Laura asked as she dropped ice into two glasses. “I’m fixing myself a vodka for a change.”
“I won’t have anything, thanks,” Claire responded, her voice suddenly back to normal. “I think I’d better go and look at the dinner.”
“I’ll come with you,” Natasha cried, rushing into the kitchen after her mother.
“And you, Doug? Do you want something?” Laura asked.
“Not right now, thanks. I’m finishing this glass of white wine.”
Laura carried the drinks over to the sofa in front of the fire, handed the scotch to Hercule, then sat down on a chair opposite. “Cheers,” she said, lifting her glass. Doug lifted his, and smiled at her.
“Santé,” Hercule replied, and took a sip. Leaning back against the cream velvet sofa, he stared at the fire for a brief moment, a look of abstraction on his face.
Laura sat observing him, giving him a few minutes to collect himself, to relax.
Eventually, she said in a low, concerned tone, “I’ve never seen Claire act in that way before, not in all the years I’ve known her.”
“A dreadful scene,” Hercule replied, shaking his great leonine white head. Turning to look at her, he went on. “I’ve not witnessed anything like it either. However, I must tell you, Laura, she now harbors the most terrible hatred for Philippe.”
“I’ve never been able to get to the bottom of that, Hercule. I mean, after all, a lot of marriages fail and people get divorced. But there isn’t always this hideous acrimony.”
“That is true, yes. I am rarely if ever with Claire and Philippe when they meet on occasion, but Natasha has told me that it is always stormy, and that Claire rages on and on at Philippe.” He shook his head; there was a hint of bafflement on his face. “It seems to me she has grown to hate him more and more as the years have passed. Extraordinary, I think.”
Laura made no comment; she was at a loss for words. But she knew deep down within herself that Hercule was correct. A sense of dismay suddenly lodged in her stomach, and she said slowly, “I hope this hasn’t ruined the evening. Claire was so lighthearted in the kitchen before Philippe showed up. But then—” She cut herself off and sipped the vodka.
“But then?” Hercule’s eyes rested on her quizzically. “What?”
“Philippe Lavillard has always spelled trouble, and I’ve never really liked him.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s such a bad fellow, Laura,” Doug interjected.
Hercule smiled at her and said, “Perhaps you see him through Claire’s eyes and not your own, my dear.”
“Perhaps,” Laura had the good grace to admit.
Hercule chuckled softly to himself and glanced into the fire, his face grown contemplative again.
“What is it? Why are you chuckling?”
“We can control so much in our own lives … except what other people say and do. And their actions and their words affect us tremendously. Therefore we do not have as much control as we think we do, Laura.”
“No, we don’t,” Laura agreed.
“You can say that again,” Doug said.