“I'd say,” she said, stepping back to evaluate them in a better light, “that they match very well-assuming that's the color you're painting your walls and you're looking for curtains.”
“Right first time,” he said with an amiable, slightly self-deprecating grin. He had a nice face, she thought: intelligent, like someone you could talk to.
“While we're on the subject, would you call this a yellow or an ocher?” He pointed to a stripe in the fabric. “Silly, isn't it? I know they're different, but I never know where you draw the line between them. I think it's the visual equivalent of being tone deaf.”
“Definitely ocher,” she said firmly. “Far too rich for yellow.”
“Okay,” he said, “if you've got this in something plain, no pattern, I'm going to need quite a lot. I'm not sure how much, but maybe you can figure it out if I tell you…” He broke off because he could see she was waiting to interrupt him with an amused look on her face.
“I'm afraid I don't work here,” she said. “I'd be very happy to help you, Clare's a friend of mine, but I don't know what they happen to have right now.”
Coloring slightly from an embarrassment she found oddly endearing, he stuttered an apology. “I'm sorry…silly of me…I don't know what made me think…”
“It's all right. I wish I could help.”
“Oh, you have. At least now I know what color I'm looking for.”
“Where's the house you're doing up? Somewhere out here?”
“No. I rent a place out here, just a cabin really. But I've just bought a house in Manhattan, a brownstone. Far too big, really, but it's the first place I've owned and I'm kind of enjoying myself.”
Looking past his shoulder she saw that the girl at the desk was free. Also, seeing the clock on the wall, she realized she would have to hurry if she was to meet her mother. “I have to go,” she said. “I hope you find what you're looking for.”
“Thanks, I'm sure I will. By the way, I'm Ralph Cazaubon.”
“Joanna Cross.”
They shook hands automatically.
“Cazaubon? Is that a French name?”
“Huguenot.”
He thanked her again for her advice, then she hurried to the desk before anybody else got there. Her mother's cushions were ready, and in a moment they were wrapped in tissue and slipped into dark green plastic bags. Clare came over just as Joanna turned to go. They kissed cheeks and exchanged greetings.
“It sounds like your parents had a fabulous time in Europe-how I envy them!”
“You're not the only one-but we can't all work for an airline.”
“Promise you'll call me before you come out next time-I want to arrange a dinner party.”
“I will. Got to rush now-Mom's waiting. By the way, there's a rather nice man over there, needs help with his curtains.”
“Oh, where?” Clare turned to look, bright with anticipation.
But the man Joanna had been talking to was no longer there.
“He was just…” She looked around among the shifting groups of shoppers, but there was no sign of him.
“I guess he slipped out when my back was turned. You must've seen me with him-woolen jacket with a shawl collar, dark hair.”
Clare shook her head. “Of course, on mornings like this it's all a blur.” A woman across the shop fingering a silvery brocade caught her eye. “Got to go. Don't forget-call me.”
“I will.”
As Joanna reached the car her mother finished packing things into the trunk. They drove home chatting happily about nothing in particular. In the kitchen Joanna made another pot of coffee while her mother prepared a salad. Bob Cross returned from a game of golf full of stories about old friends he hadn't seen in a while. Lunch was pleasant and relaxed, after which Elizabeth Cross disappeared to a committee meeting for a fund-raising event she was involved with. Joanna left her father puttering in the garden and went over to see Sally Bishop, whom she'd gone to school with and who'd just had her third baby.
Shortly after seven-thirty that evening she and her parents arrived for dinner at Isabel and Ned Carlisle's house, which was only a short drive down quiet lanes. Two other couples were already there, which made Joanna the odd one out, ninth in the party. The idea didn't trouble her at all, though when she glanced into the dining room she saw that the table was set for ten.
It crossed her mind that it would be an extraordinary coincidence if the tenth guest turned out to be Ralph Cazaubon. The thought had barely flashed through her consciousness before she dismissed it as absurd, and then reproached herself for entertaining the idea at all. Why had she thought of him? She didn't know him, and probably never would. And even if she did, there would almost certainly turn out to be something about him that she couldn't bear.
She remembered with an uneasy sense of deja vu that she had thought the same way about Sam before getting involved-with him. Was it some kind of mental process she went through before admitting to herself that she found someone attractive? Had it always been like that? She thought back to previous affairs, and couldn't find a pattern.
Anyway, why was she even thinking like this? In spite of all that had happened, she knew it wasn't over with Sam. The thought of him brought a fond smile to her lips. It had done her good to get away from everything, but she realized now how much she missed him and wanted to see him again.
It was a relief when the doorbell rang and Ned showed the tenth guest into the room, a retired interior decorator called Algernon, a sweet gay man she had known for years.
All the same, she found herself asking Isabel Carlisle if she had ever met a man called Ralph Cazaubon in the neighborhood. Ned and Isabel were very sociable and knew practically everyone. Isabel frowned.
“Cazaubon? No, I'm sure I'd have remembered an unusual name like that. Are you sure he lives here?”
“He rents a place. I don't know how much time he spends here.”
Isabel thought a moment more, then shook her head. “I'm afraid it doesn't ring a bell at all.”
36
Sunday morning was as crisp and bright as the previous day, but with a few tufts of white cloud drifting high across the sky.
Joanna called up her old friends Annie and Bruce Murdock, who ran the riding school, to see if they could fix her up with a horse for a couple of hours. It was no problem. She pulled on jeans and a couple of sweaters and drove over in her mother's car. Twenty minutes later, after cantering up through forest, she broke into a gallop on the long grassy ridge that led toward a dramatic outcrop of rock that seemed about to swoop out over the valley, and which was aptly named Eagle Rock.
It was there, still at full gallop, that she became aware of another rider converging at an angle. It was obvious that they were both headed for the same spot. Then, as they drew closer together, he waved. She recognized Ralph Cazaubon. They slowed to a trot and rode side by side.
“Fine horse,” she said, with a nod toward the impressive stallion he was riding. “Is he yours?”
“Yep!” He patted the gleaming chestnut neck. “This is Duke.”
“Where do you keep him?”
“Oh, he's taken care of on a farm near me. Has a fine, easy life, don't you, Duke, old boy?”
The horse tossed his head as though in acknowledgment.
“What farm?” she said. “Maybe I know them.”
“I doubt it. Family called Waterford?”
She shook her head. “You know, you're something of a mystery man,” she said. “First of all you disappear yesterday morning just as I wanted to introduce you to my friend Clare Sexton-who'll find you all the yellow ocher you want, and more. Then last night I asked Isabel Carlisle if she knew you, and she didn't-and Isabel knows everybody within a twenty-mile radius of this place, and their family histories.”
