She almost cringed at the sound of his name. Ben leaned toward her again, kissed her quickly, then stood. “I think we’ve said enough for one morning.” He hated to think of what would happen at the end of the summer, but it was hard to believe that time would come. Their moments together had just begun. “Where will you be at five?” He looked at her over his shoulder from the door. “Here?”
She shook her head. “I’d better go home.”
“Shall I pick you up there?” He looked dubious for a moment.
“I’ll meet you here.”
He nodded, smiled, and was gone. She heard the little German car drive away a moment later, as she walked around the room, and then sat naked on the edge of the bed and crossed one leg. She was smiling to herself. She wanted to sing. She felt wonderful, and she was in love. What a lovely man he was, how gentle and how careful and how wise. And he amused her too; he loved to laugh, loved to tell silly stories and endless funny tales. He had spent hours the previous night telling her stories of his youth, showing her albums of photographs of himself as a child, and his parents and sister and their friends, many of them famous artists and actors and playwrights and writers. The albums still lay spread out on the floor.
He had a comfortable little house, very different from the cottage in Carmel. The place in Carmel was larger and wore the same bland, sandy colors as the beach, whites, beiges, grays, dust-colored woods, and soft off-white wools. The city house was a tiny “bijou” nestled high on Telegraph Hill and crammed full of paintings and books. There were two deep, red-leather couches in a living room walled with handsomely bound volumes, mostly about art. The walls were a soft beige that enhanced the two paintings he’d hung; the floors were of old burnished wood, and the rug was Oriental but not as fine as the ones Marc had brought back for her years before from Iran. Ben’s little home was not a showplace; it was warm and lovely and a place he clearly liked to be, to spend evenings with his artists or his friends. There was an often used fireplace with brass andirons he had found in France and a bass fiddle propped up in one corner. He had a small piano and a guitar, a handsome, old English desk and a bronze bust of Cezanne. Throughout, there was a kind of friendly scramble, a kind of elegant wear and tear. Some of the objects were of value, but most were only of value to him and the people who loved him. The living room was very Ben, as was the pretty little yellow bedroom that looked east over the bay, and that was as bright as the morning sun. It boasted a tiny terrace filled with an array of bright flowering plants, and two comfortable, faded canvas chairs. Other than that there was a kitchen and one extra room, in which Ben housed his work-a few rare paintings, many files, another desk. The additional room allowed him to work at home, and like his car, was useful but not luxurious. As Deanna looked around, she realized again that he was an odd mixture of comfort and style, and he always seemed to happily marry the two in a way that was uniquely his. Deanna slipped into his blue-and-black silk bathrobe and wandered out onto the terrace. She sat down on one of the faded canvas chairs. It had once been a bright parrot green, now sun-bleached to a very pale lime. She stretched her legs out for a moment, turning her face to the sun and thinking of him, wondering where he was-already at the gallery? Having lunch? Signing checks with Sally? Talking to Gustave? She liked the way he led his life, what he did, how he handled the people around him-how he handled her. She found that she even liked the idea of taking turns making breakfast-a democracy, he’d called it. It was just a very pleasant way to live. She let the robe fall slightly open, and smiled as she felt the bright warmth of the sun. In a while she would go home to her studio and paint. But not yet. She was too happy sitting in the sun like a cat, thinking of Ben.
Chantal was strangely quiet as they rode to the airport. At last Marc pulled his gaze from the windows and allowed himself to seek out her eyes.
“You’re sure that’s what you want to do?”
“Absolutely.”
But it worried him. She had never been this obstinate before. She had insisted that she was not going to hide in San Remo or some other town on the Riviera. She wanted to go back to Paris and wait for him there, while he visited his family in Cap d’Antibes. So that she could steal a weekend with her lover, the man who had asked her to marry him? The implied threat had not been lost on Marc. He felt a surge of murderous jealousy.
“Just what exactly are you planning to do with yourself all weekend?” There was a decided edge to his voice, but she returned his gaze evenly as the car raced through the traffic.
“I’ll go into the office. I can’t leave everything on Marie-Ange’s shoulders. It’s bad enough that whenever we travel I have to dump everything in her lap. As long as I have the time, I might as well go in and see what’s happening there.”
“I’m impressed by your devotion to your business. That’s new, isn’t it?” It was rare for him to be sarcastic with Chantal.
But her tone matched his. “No, it’s not. You’re just not around to see it very often. What exactly did you think I was going to do?”
“Your bit of news yesterday did not go unnoticed, Chantal.”
“I said someone asked me. I did not say I accepted.”
“How comforting. One would assume, however, that he didn’t ask you on the basis of two luncheons and a tea party. I would assume that you know each other rather well.”
Chantal didn’t answer. She merely looked out the window, as secretly Marc-Edouard raged. Dammit, what did she expect of him? He couldn’t be with her more than he already was, and he could hardly propose marriage. He had Deanna.
But Chantal’s voice was oddly soft as she answered him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you.” He sighed, and his shoulders seemed to sag as he took her hand. “I love you, darling. Please, please try to understand.”
“I do try. More than you know.”
“I know it’s difficult for you. It is for me too. But at least don’t establish a competition between you and Pilar and my mother. That just isn’t fair. I need to see them too.”
“Perhaps, so do I.” There was something so sad in her voice that he didn’t know what more to say. Had he been a less rational man, he might have decided to throw reason to the winds, and taken her with him, but he simply couldn’t.
“Darling, I’m sorry.” Gently, he slipped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her closer to him, and there was no resistance. “I’ll try to think this thing out. All right?” She nodded and said nothing, but a tear hovered on the end of her lashes, and he felt something tear at his heart. “It’s only for a few days, I’ll be home on Sunday night, and we can have dinner at Maxim’s, before we leave for Athens.”
“When are we leaving?”
“Monday or Tuesday.”
She nodded again. He held her close all the way to the airport.
Deanna turned her key in the door and stopped for a moment, listening for Margaret. There was no one at home. It was still Margaret’s day off. Could it be? Hadn’t weeks passed? Or months or even years? Had she only gone with Ben the night before to make love with him for the very first time? Had it only been eighteen hours since she’d left the house? Her heart pounded as she closed the door behind her. It had been so peaceful at his place as she bathed and got dressed. She had watched two little birds play on the terrace, and she had listened to one of his records while she made the bed. She’d grabbed a plum from a large basket of fruit in the kitchen as she left, feeling as though she had lived there for years, as though it were hers as well as his. Now, suddenly, she was here again. In Marc’s house, in the home of Monsieur and Madame Duras. She glanced at a photograph of them in a silver frame, taken during their first summer in Cap d’Antibes. Could that have been her? Standing awkwardly with a glass of white wine in her hand, while Marc chatted with his mother beneath her gigantic straw hat. How awkward she felt again just looking at it, how awkward she felt in his room. She stood at the entrance to the pale-green silk living room with the Aubusson rug, thinking that just looking at it made her feel cold. But this was her home. This was where she belonged, not in that tiny house on the hill where she had just spent the night with a strange man. What on earth was she doing?
She slipped her feet out of her sandals, walked barefoot into the chilly green room, and sat down carefully on the couch. What had she done? She had cheated on Marc for the first time in eighteen years, and it had all seemed
