added for good measure. “He died before I was born, in the war.”
“Consuelo!” Annabelle scolded her, startled. She had never heard her give out so much information, and she hoped she didn’t do it often. “I’m sorry,” she turned to the man who had retrieved her hat. “We didn’t mean to give you our death rolls.” She was smiling at him, and he smiled back.
“You must have known that I’m a journalist,” he said to Consuelo kindly.
“What’s that?” She was interested in what he had to say.
“I write for newspapers. Or actually, I publish one. The
“My mother is a doctor.” She was conducting the conversation with him entirely on her own, as Annabelle looked slightly embarrassed.
“Really?” he said with interest, and introduced himself, and said his name was Callam McAffrey, originally from Boston, and now Paris.
Annabelle introduced them as well, and Consuelo volunteered that they lived in Paris too, in the sixteenth arrondissement. He said that he lived on the rue de l’Universite, on the Left Bank. It was near the college of Beaux Arts, and Annabelle knew the area well.
He invited them both to tea, but Annabelle said they had to get back to their stateroom to dress for dinner. He smiled as they walked away. He thought the little girl was adorable, and the mother very pretty. She didn’t look like his vision of a doctor. He had interviewed Elsie Inglis several years before, and Annabelle didn’t look anything like her, to say the least. He was amused at how liberal her daughter had been with their family information, somewhat to her mother’s dismay.
He saw them in the dining room that night, but didn’t approach. He didn’t want to intrude. But he noticed Annabelle on deck alone the next day, walking quietly by herself. Consuelo had gone swimming with Brigitte. And this time Annabelle was wearing a hat that tied under her chin.
“I see you’ve anchored your hat on solidly,” he said, smiling at her, as he stopped for a moment to stand by the rail next to her. She turned to him with a smile.
“It’s breezier now than it was last month when we came over.” It was the end of July.
“I love these crossings,” he volunteered, “in spite of our respective losses at sea and family tragedies. It gives you a chance to catch your breath, between two lives and two worlds. It’s nice to have some time out to do that sometimes. Have you been in New York all this time?” he asked with interest. He was pleasant to talk to.
“Some of it. We’ve been in Newport for the past few weeks.”
He smiled. “I was in Cape Cod. I try to get back every summer. It takes me back to my childhood.”
“This was my daughter’s first visit.”
“How did she like it?”
“She loved it. She wants to come back every summer.” And then she volunteered a small piece of information about herself. “I hadn’t been back in ten years.”
“To Newport?” That didn’t surprise him.
“To the States.” That piece of information did.
“That’s a long time.” He was a tall, spare-looking man with salt and pepper hair, warm brown eyes, and a chiseled face, somewhere in his early forties. He appeared more intelligent than handsome, although his appearance was pleasant. “You must have been busy to stay away for so long. Or angry about something,” he added, in the spirit of good journalism, and she laughed.
“Not angry. Just finished. I made my life in France. I went over to volunteer at the front, in a hospital, and I never went back. I didn’t think I missed it. But I have to admit, it was nice to go home, and show old landmarks to my daughter.”
“You’re widowed?” he inquired. It was an easy assumption to make, since Consuelo had told him her father was dead, and had been for the whole seven years she’d been alive. Annabelle started to nod her head, and then stopped herself. She was tired of the lies, especially the ones she didn’t have to tell, to protect someone else, or even herself from the unkind.
“Divorced.” He didn’t react to it, but looked puzzled. To some, it would have been a startling admission. But he didn’t seem to care.
“I thought your daughter said that her father died.” Annabelle looked at him for a long moment, and decided to throw caution to the winds. She had nothing to lose. If he was shocked and walked away, she didn’t care if she never saw him again. She didn’t know the man.
“I wasn’t married to her father.” She said it quietly, but firmly. It was the first time she had said that to anyone. In the circles she had grown up in, it would have been cause to end the conversation immediately, and ignore her from then on.
He didn’t answer for a moment and then nodded, and looked at her with a smile. “If you’re expecting me to fall over in a faint, or jump overboard rather than talk to you, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I’m a reporter. I’ve heard a lot in my day. And I live in France. It seems to be a pretty common occurrence there, although they don’t admit it. They just have children with other people’s wives.” She laughed, and he wondered if that was the case and the cause of her divorce. She was an interesting woman. “I suspect it happens more often than we know or want to believe, even at home. People have children with people they love but don’t marry. As long as no one gets hurt, who am I to say they’re wrong? I’ve never been married myself.” He was a very open-minded man.
“I didn’t love him,” she added. “It’s a long story. But it turned out all right. Consuelo is the best thing in my life.” He didn’t comment, but seemed fine with what she’d said.
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“A good one,” she said with a smile, and he laughed in response.
“I would assume that. I meant what specialty.” She knew what he meant, but enjoyed playing with him. He was nice to talk to. He was open and warm and friendly.
“General medicine.”
“Did you practice at the front?” He didn’t think she was old enough to have done so.
“As a medic, after a year of medical school. I finished after the war.” It was interesting to him that she didn’t want to practice in the States, but he could see why. He loved Paris too. He had a much richer life there than he had had in New York or Boston.
“I went over to be a reporter for the British at the beginning of the war. And I’ve been in Europe ever since. I lived in London for two years after the war, and I’ve been in Paris now for five years. I don’t think I could ever go back to live in the States. My life is too good here in Europe.”
“I couldn’t go back either,” Annabelle agreed. And she had no reason to go back. Her life was in Paris now. Only her history was in the States, and the cottage.
They chatted for a little longer, and then she went to find Consuelo and Brigitte at the pool. They saw him again that night, as they left the dining room after an early dinner. He was just going in, and he asked Annabelle if she’d like to have a drink later on. She hesitated, as Consuelo watched them both, and then she agreed. They made a date at the Verandah Cafe for nine-thirty. Consuelo would be in bed by then, so she was free.
“He likes you,” Consuelo said matter-of-factly, as they walked back to their cabins. “He’s nice.”
Annabelle didn’t comment. She had thought that about Antoine too, and she’d been wrong. But Callam McAffrey was a different type, and they had more in common. She wondered why he’d never married, and he told her that night, as they sipped champagne at the Verandah Cafe, which was open to the sea air.
“I fell in love with a nurse in England during the war. She was killed a week before the armistice was signed. We were going to get married, but she didn’t want to until the war was over. It took me a long time to get over it.” It had been six and a half years. “She was a very special woman. From a very fancy family, but you’d never know it. She was very down to earth, and worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known. We had a good time together.” He didn’t sound maudlin about it, but as though he cherished the memory still. “I visit her family from time to time.”
“Consuelo’s father was British. But not a very nice man, I’m afraid. His mother is terrific though. We’ll probably visit her in August.”
“When the British are great, they’re fantastic,” he said generously. “I don’t always get along as well with the French.” Annabelle laughed ruefully, thinking of Antoine, but said nothing. “They’re not always as straightforward, and tend to be more complicated.”
“I think I’d agree with that, in some cases. They make wonderful friends and colleagues. Romantically, that’s
