Summer’s End

“I see.” There was a nasty tone of amusement in his voice, and for a moment she hated him. “We’re having a bohemian summer, are we? Well, maybe it will do you good.”

“Maybe it will.” Bastard… he never understood!

“Is it necessary to prove your point by having a show? Why not dispense with that? You can work in your other studio, and let it go at that.”

Thank you, Daddy. “The show is important to me.”

“Then it can wait. We’ll discuss it when I get back.”

“Marc…” I’m in love with another man…. “I’m going to do the show.”

“Fine. Just let it wait till the fall.”

“Why? So you can talk me out of it when you come home?”

“I won’t do that. We’ll talk about it then.”

“It won’t wait. I’ve already waited too long.”

“You know, darling, You’re too old for tantrums and too young for menopause. I think you’re being very unreasonable.”

She wanted to hit him, except that for a moment she also wanted to laugh. It was a ridiculous conversation, and she realized that she sounded a great deal like Pilar. She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. Tell you what: You win your case in Athens; I’ll do what I need to do with my art, and I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Is that your way of telling me to mind my own business?”

“Maybe so.” She was suddenly braver than she had been in years. “Maybe we both just have to do what we need to do right now.” Oh God, what are you doing? You’re telling him.… She held her breath.

“Well, in any case, you need to listen to your husband, and your husband needs to go to bed, so why don’t we just relax about all this for a while? We’ll talk again in a few days. All right? Meanwhile, no art show. C’est compris? Capisce? Understood?”

She wanted to grit her teeth. She wasn’t a child, and he was always the same. Pilar got the motorcycle, Deanna did not get the art show, and we’ll all discuss it “when I have time.” His way, always his way. But not anymore. “I understand, Marc, but I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

It wasn’t like him to be so obvious. Deanna realized that he must be very tired. He must have noticed it too. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk another time.”

“Fine.” She stood silently in her studio, waiting, wondering what he would say.

He said, “Bonsoir.”

And he was gone. Good night. And this time she hadn’t bothered to tell him she loved him. “No art show.” The words rang in her head. No art show. She sighed heavily and sank into her chair. What if she defied him? What if she had the show anyway? Could she do that to him? To herself? Was she brave enough to just go ahead and do what she wanted? Why not? He was away. And she had Ben. But it wasn’t for Ben. It was for herself. She looked around the room for a long moment, knowing that her lifetime was facing those walls, hidden on canvases no one had seen and would never see unless she did what she knew she had to do now. Marc couldn’t stop her, and Ben couldn’t make her do it. She had to do it now. Had to. For herself.

As Marc set down the phone, he looked at his watch again. It was almost ten, and the call to Deanna had done nothing to soothe his nerves. Dammit. He had told her about the motorcycle, and he hadn’t meant to. And her bloody art show. Why the hell didn’t she give up on that nonsense? And where the hell was Chantal? Jealousy was beginning to gnaw at his insides again as he poured himself a Scotch. When he heard the bell, he went to the door and opened it an inch. It was the little old man from next door. Monsieur Moutier. He was sweet, Chantal said, and he was taken care of by a daughter and a maid. He too had once been a lawyer, but now he was eighty years old. He had a soft spot for Chantal. Once he had sent her flowers.

“Oui?” Marc looked at him questioningly, wondering if the old man was ill. Why would he come to their door at this hour? “Is something wrong?”

“I… no. I… je regrette. I wanted to ask you the same thing. How is mademoiselle?”

“Very well, thank you, except that as far as I can see she’s a little bit late getting home.” He smiled at the elderly gentleman wearing the black smoking jacket and needlepoint slippers doubtless made by his daughter. “Would you like to come in?” Marc stepped aside, wanting to get back to his Scotch, but the old man shook his head.

“No, no…” He looked sorrowfully at Marc. He understood only too well. The man who always traveled, who was never there. He had been that way too. His wife had died, and he had learned too late. “She is not late, monsieur. They took her to the hospital last night.” He gazed at Marc as the shock registered on his face.

“Chantal? My God! Where?”

“The American Hospital, monsieur. She was in some kind of shock. The ambulance driver said-”

“Oh, my God!” Marc glanced at the old man in terror and then ran inside to grab his jacket from a chair. He returned instantly and slammed the door to the apartment, as the old man stepped aside. “I have to go.” Oh, my God… Oh, Chantal… Oh, no… Then she wasn’t out with another man. Having raced down the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest, Marc ran into the street and hailed a cab.

11

The taxi pulled up at 92 Boulevard Victor Hugo in Neuilly in the quiet outskirts of Paris. Marc thrust some franc notes into the driver’s hand and raced inside. It was well past visiting hours, but he walked purposefully toward the information desk and inquired for Mademoiselle Chantal Martin. Room 401, admitted with diabetic coma, present condition satisfactory. She can go home in two days. Marc stared at the nurse, dismayed. Without discussing the matter further, he took the elevator to the fourth floor. A nurse sat sternly at her station and observed him as he disembarked from the elevator.

“Oui, monsieur?”

“Mademoiselle Martin.” He tried to sound commanding but he felt suddenly frightened. How had it happened and why? He felt a sudden surge of guilt for having gone to Antibes. “I must see her.”

The nurse shook her head. “Tomorrow.”

“Is she asleep?”

“You may see her tomorrow.”

“Please. I-I came all the way from-” He was about to say the South of France, then had a better idea. He flipped open his wallet. “From San Francisco, in the United States. I caught the first plane after I heard.” There was a long pause.

“Very well. Two minutes. And then you go. You are… her father?” Marc only shook his head. It was the final blow.

The nurse led him to a room not far away. Inside, a dim light burned. She left Marc-Edouard at the door. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold before stepping softly inside.

“Chantal?” His voice was a whisper in the dark room. She was lying in her bed, looking very pale and very young. In her arm there was an intravenous tube, attached to an ominous-looking bottle. “Darling…” He approached, wondering what he had done. He had taken on this girl and only given her half his life. He had to hide her from his mother, his child, his wife, sometimes even from himself. What right did he have to do this to her? His eyes were too bright as he stood at her side and gently took her free hand. “Darling, what happened?” A sixth sense had already told him that the diabetic coma was no accident. Chantal had the kind of diabetes one didn’t fool around with. But as long as she took her insulin, ate well, slept enough, and didn’t get pregnant, she’d be all right.

Her eyes closed and tears filtered through her lashes. “Je m’excuse. I’m so sorry…” Then after a pause: “I stopped taking my insulin.”

“On purpose?” As he watched her nod, he felt as though someone had delivered a blow to his heart. “Oh, my God. Chantal, darling… how could you?” He watched her in sudden terror. What if she had died? What if…? He