Summer’s End

“She-she’s gone. At four o’clock this morning.”

He sat down heavily in a chair in the living room, and Chantal came to him quickly, pulling a pale-pink robe off a hook on the bathroom wall.

“Oh, Marc-Edouard… oh, darling, I’m so sorry.” She knelt beside him and pulled him gently into her arms, encircling his shoulders and holding him tight like a child. “Oh, mon pauvre cheri, Marc- Edouard. Quelle horreur…”

This time he didn’t cry, he only sat with his eyes closed, feeling relieved to be there.

She wanted to ask him if something else was wrong. It was an insanely stupid question, given what had happened that morning, but he seemed odd to her, different, strange. Perhaps it was only exhaustion and the shock. She let go of him only long enough to pour him a cup of coffee, and then sat down again at his feet, her body curled on the white rug, the pink bathrobe concealing only the essentials and leaving long silky legs bare. He was staring at her as she lit a cigarette. “Is there anything I can do?”

He shook his head. “Chantal, Deanna saw us last night. She came to the airport to pick me up, and she saw us both get off the plane. And she knew. Everything. Women are uncanny that way. She said she knew by the way we moved that we had known each other for a long time.”

“She must be a very intelligent woman.” Chantal studied him, wondering what he would say next.

“She is, in her own quiet way.”

“And? What did she say?”

“Not too much. Yet. Too much has been happening, but she’s an American. She doesn’t take this kind of thing well. None of them do. They believe in eternal fidelity, the perfect marriage, husbands who wash the dishes, children who wash the car, and everyone goes to church together on Sunday and lives happily ever after until they’re all a hundred and nine.” He sounded bitter and tired.

“And you? Do you believe that?”

“It’s a nice dream anyway. But not very real. You know that as well as I do.”

“Alors, what do we do? Or, more exactly, what do you do?” She didn’t want to ask, “her or me,” but it amounted to that and they both knew it.

“It’s too soon to know, Chantal. Look at what has just happened. And she is in terrible condition; it’s all bottled up inside.”

“It’s still fresh.”

He nodded agreement and looked away. He had come here to say good-bye to Chantal, to end it, to explain that he couldn’t do this to Deanna-they had just lost their only child. But as he looked at her, as he sat next to her, all he wanted was to reach out and pull her into his arms, to run his hands over her body, to hold her close, now and forever, again and again. How could he let go of what he loved and needed so much?

“What are you thinking about, Marc-Edouard?” She could see the look of torment on his face.

“About you.” He said it very softly, looking down at his hands.

“In what way?”

“I was thinking,” he looked up into her eyes again, “that I love you, and that right now I want more than anything to make love to you.”

She sat watching him for a long moment, then she stood up and held out a hand. He took it and followed her silently into the bedroom. She smiled as he slipped the pink robe off her shoulders.

“Chantal, you will never know how much I love you.”

For the next two hours he showed her in every way he knew how.

19

The funeral was brief and formal and agonizing. Deanna wore a plain black woolen dress and a little black hat with a veil. Marc’s mother was dressed all in black with black stockings. Marc himself wore a dark suit and black tie. It was all done in the most formal of French traditions in a pretty little church in the seizieme arrondissement, and the “Ave Maria” was sung by the parish-school choir. It was heartbreaking as the children’s voices soared over the notes, and Deanna desperately tried not to hear. But there was no avoiding any of it. Marc had done it all a la francaise-the service, the music, the eulogy, the little country cemetery with yet another priest, and then the gathering of friends and relatives at the house. It was an all-day enterprise, with endless rounds of handshaking and regrets, explanations and shared sorrows. To some it was undoubtedly a relief to mourn that way, to Deanna it was not. Once more she felt that Pilar had been stolen from her, only now it really didn’t matter anymore. This was the very last time. She even called Ben collect from the house.

“I’m sorry. I won’t stay on long. I just needed to talk to you. I’m at the house.”

“Are you holding up?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m numb. It’s all like a circus. I even had to fight them about an open coffin. Thank God, at least that battle I won.”

He didn’t like the sound of her voice. She sounded nervous, tired, and strained. But it was hardly surprising under the circumstances. “When are you coming back?”

“Sometime in the next two days, I hope. But I’m not sure. We’ll discuss it tonight.”

“Just send me a wire when you know.”

She heaved a small sigh. “I will. I guess I’d better get back to the ghoulish festivities now.”

“I love you, Deanna.”

“So do I.” She was afraid to say the words, lest someone walk into the room, but she knew he’d understand.

She went back to the fifty or sixty guests who were milling around her mother-in-law’s rooms, chatting, gossiping, discussing Pilar, consoling Marc. Deanna had never felt as much a stranger as now. It seemed hours since she had seen Marc. He found her at last in the kitchen, staring out a window, at a wall.

“Deanna? What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing.” Her big sorrowful eyes looked into his. He was actually looking better. And day by day she seemed to look worse. She wasn’t feeling well either, but she hadn’t mentioned that to Marc, or the fact that she had fainted twice in the past four days. “I’m just out here catching my breath.”

“I’m sorry it’s been such a long day. My mother wouldn’t have understood if we’d done it differently.”

“I know. I understand.”

Suddenly, looking at him, she realized that he understood too, and that he could see what a toll it was taking on her. “Marc, when are we going home?”

“To San Francisco?” he asked. She nodded. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it any thought. Are you in a hurry?”

“I just want to get back. It’s… harder for me here.”

“Bon. But I have work I must complete here. I need at least another two weeks.”

Oh, God, no. She couldn’t survive two more weeks there under her mother-in-law’s roof-and without Ben. “There’s no reason why I should stay, is there?”

“What do you mean? You want to go home alone?” He looked distressed. “I don’t want you to do that. I want you to go home with me.” He had already thought about it. It would be too hard for her to face the house alone: Pilar’s room, all her things. He didn’t want that. She’d have to wait for him.

“I can’t wait two weeks.” She looked frantic at the idea, and he noticed again how exhausted and overwrought she was.

“Let’s just see.”

“Marc, I have to go home.” Her voice trembled as it rose.

“All right. But first, would you do something for me?”

“What?” She looked at him strangely. What did he want? All she wanted was to get away.

“Will you go away with me for two days? Anywhere, for a weekend. Some place quiet, where we both can rest. We need to talk. We haven’t been able to here, and I don’t want you to go back until we do talk. Quietly. Alone. Will