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But who am I to encourage him? What kind of an example have I been? He should have divorced Francine years ago, no matter what the consequences. Then he and Dolly could have married.

“Papa, are you okay? You look pale. Would you like me to get you some brandy?” Gabrielle, leaning over, whispered in his ear. “I know where he keeps it … over behind those maroon books.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile.

Henri groped for his daughter’s hand and squeezed it. Dear Gabrielle, the child of his heart. Dark and smooth like her mother, but with none of Francine’s coldness. Still plump from the birth of her fourth child, a little girl, Gaby made him think of peaches and sunshine, the orchard behind the country house near Deauville, where a century ago he’d chased a fat, laughing toddler under the sundappled trees.

“I was thinking of peaches,” he whispered back.

Gaby shot him a puzzled look, and smoothed a crease in his jacket. Henri had a sudden image of himself as an old man, living alone in his small rue Murillo apartment, looked in on by his daughter from time to time, Gaby making sure he was eating enough, getting out for walks, taking his medicines. He shuddered, and thought how different it would be if he were with Dolly.

Henri focused on Amadou’s chapped lips, willing them to impart the words he so needed to hear.

” ‘… In the matter of Girod’s,’ ” the old man droned on. ” ‘To my grandson, JeanPaul Baptiste, and my granddaughter, Gabrielle Baptiste Rameau, I bequeath to each respectively ten percent of my stock. And to a trust for the benefit of my devoted son-in-law, Henri Baptiste, thirty-five percent …’ “

Henri’s heart lurched, and joy spread through him like a gasoline fire. He wanted to leap from his chair, hug

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Gaby, dance about the room. The old man had kept his promise! Thirty-five percent, in addition to the twenty he already owned, gave him an uncontested controlling interest. Now he could buy new machinery, hire more staff, upgrade the packaging, really run the place with no Augustin to pester him. And best of all, he could divorce Francine with nothing to fear.

But wait, more … Amadou was still reading.

” ‘… to be administered by the trustees on behalf of Henri and my daughter, Francine Girod Baptiste. In the event of either Francine or Henri’s death, said interest will revert to the surviving spouse, and the trust will be dissolved. However, if for any reason, Henri and Francine should divorce, said interest will revert in its entirety to Francine.”

Henri felt as if a brick had crashed down on his head. Had he heard correctly? He forced himself to look at Francine, saw her smug, self-satisfied expression, and knew then that it was true. They had planned it, the two of them; fashioned it link by link, like Marley’s chain-to shackle him to Francine for the rest of his life. For the Church, and for appearances. Stupid, insane. Merde!

How could he have allowed himself to be made such a fool of ! He should have made the old conniver turn the stock over to him before he died. Girod had liked and trusted him, more than anyone. Augustin was no actor. He could not have been pretending, but the ties of blood to his daughter meant more. Sacr้ Dieu, he should have known!

Henri, his head hurting, his gut knotted with anger, fought to keep from jumping to his feet and shouting that he would not accept this-it was monstrous! He wanted to strangle Francine, feel that skinny neck of hers snap between his hands.

I’ll fight it! he raged. He would find a lawyer, a ferocious lawyer, not like this bumbling dotard. He’d go to court. Show the original testament as evidence of how Girod, in his senility, had been manipulated by his viper of a daughter.

Then, feeling Gaby’s hand on his arm, the rage in

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him began to cool and die down, like a fierce wind quickly blowing itself out. No, he could not, would not, subject his children, his grandchildren, to such ugliness. A quiet divorce was one thing, but to battle in court, make a public spectacle, squabble like stupid peasants in the marketplace … the thought of it disgusted him. And, even if he were to fight this, there was always the chance he might lose.

“I believe that is all,” Amadou ended, peering over his half-rim spectacles like a Daumier caricature. “If you … ahem … have any questions … please-“

Henri rose to his feet and strolled over to the large rubber plant by the window. He fingered one of its goodsized leaves, and asked, “Tell me … what kind of fertilizer do you use to keep it so green? Some say horse manure is best, but others swear by guano … or bird shit, as we know it.” He glanced over at Francine, and saw her eyes narrow, her tight smile falter. “Which do you prefer, Monsieur Amadou?”

The aged lawyer colored and sputtered, “I have never given it much thought … horticulture is not one of my … ahem …” He cleared his throat with a phlegmy rattle. “Actually, I believe your father-in-law would have been the one to ask …”

“Of course,” Henri replied, nodding. “Augustin, I’m sure, will keep heaven exceptionally green.”

A flush rose up the sides of Francine’s neck, turning her ears pink. She shot him a murderous look. His barb clearly had struck home. But Henri felt little satisfaction. He was still too numb. His heart was racing. He needed to go somewhere quiet, and lie down.

“Monsieur, you must excuse me,” Henri said, “but I have an urgent appointment.” He turned to his son. “JeanPaul, would you mind dropping me off on your way back to the Sorbonne?”

JeanPaul shot him a startled look, then quickly cut his eyes away. “I … uh … actually, Papa, I’m going the other way …“he stammered.

No doubt yet another assignation, he thought sadly. But he merely nodded, and said, “Never mind. I can easily get a taxi.”

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EILEEN GOUDGE

Gaby stood up, clearly distressed, and looking more disheveled than before; tendrils of dark hair trailing from the pins holding them up, a stain on the shoulder of her lumpy brown suit that he hadn’t noticed before-baby spitup, from the looks of it. Francine, he saw, was frowning at Gaby with undisguised disapproval.

“I’ll drive you, Papa,” she offered timidly. “I’m going that way … I promised Marie I’d buy her a pair of ballet slippers. Did I tell you her ballet school is doing Giselle1? Well, parts of it, anyway.” Outside on the street, as he was folding himself into her tiny Citro๋n, she asked, “Is your appointment a long one? I thought maybe … if you have time … afterwards, we could take a coffee, or something to eat. My errand won’t be more than half an hour. And my au pair is with the baby until two.” He saw the tears shining in her eyes before she quickly looked down, digging in her purse for her keys.

“You don’t need to console me,” he told her gently.

“Oh, Papa.” With a sob, Gaby buried her face in her hands. “It’s so awful. I know how much you wanted … well, it’s not fair. Maman doesn’t know a thing about running Girod’s. She only wants it so she can use it against you.” She threw her arms about Henri, and sniffed into his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

“First, I am going to keep my appointment. Then” -he stroked the untidy bundle of hair at the nape of her pink neck-“I am going to take you to lunch at Fouquet’s.”

“You can have my shares,” she said fiercely. “I don’t want them.”

Henri hugged her and held her. A lovely gesture, but still not enough to make him the controlling shareholder.

He kissed his daughter’s damp cheek. “Merci, ma petite, but you have just given me something more precious than all the shares in the world.”

“Papa …”

“Hurry, or we’ll both be late.”

“Where?”

“The shop. Someone is meeting me there.”

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There was no appointment; he just needed to get away, to be alone, to think.

Wiping her nose on her sleeve, Gaby started the car, and pulled away from the curb, bumping over a small branch that had fallen from one of the plane trees lining the avenue.

She drove carefully, but Henri felt as if he were speeding, about to be hurled off some steep precipice. Could he walk away now, at his age, and start over from nothing?

But I don’t live with Francine. And I won’t even have to see her.

But without a divorce he would never be a truly free man. And he’d have no hope of winning Dolly back. He felt a sliver of ice wedge itself into his heart. As Gabrielle wove her way with surprising skill through the swarming madness of the place de la Concorde, Henri imagined Dolly’s soft, powdery flesh pressed against him, her mouth … oh God …

It might already be too late. But his dreams, his hopes, how could he give those up? How could he face himself in the mirror each morning, knowing he had chosen to be chained to Francine forever?

Two days, he thought. In two days, I will see Dolly. I will know then.

With a sigh, Henri eased back in his seat and tried to stretch his legs among the clutter of plastic toys and baby bottles at his feet. Bracing himself as the tiny car lurched and swayed, he closed his eyes and held tight to his last image of Dolly-boarding her plane in a polkadot dress and big straw hat, her tears almost, but not quite, disguised by a pair of huge sunglasses studded with rhinestones.

DC

LJol\y rang the doorbell and waited. No answer. But she sensed Laurel was home. She didn’t know how she knew … she just did. Was it the petunias and sweet william along the walkway looking so fresh, as if they’d just been watered? Or the drapes in the front window-open just a

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smidgen, as if Laurel wanted to be able to peep out and see who was at the door?

She rang the bell again, but this time didn’t wait for an answer. Stepping off the porch, she walked around the side of the house, her high heels sinking into grass still wet with morning dew, the hem of her full-skirted paisley dress snagging on a rosebush. In back, she tried the glass door to the sun porch. It wasn’t locked. Stepping inside, she tip-tapped her way over to the partially open sliding door that gave onto the living room.

“Laurel?” she called. “Honey, it’s me … Dolly.”

No answer. Could she still be in bed? Not likely. It was only a quarter to nine, but Dolly knew her niece got up early on weekdays to get Adam off to school. More than likely, she just didn’t want anyone to know she was here. After all, she wasn’t even answering her phone.

It wasn’t Laurel who’d told her about Joe-Dolly had had to hear the sorry news from Joe himself. After two days of calling their house and not getting any answer, she’d finally reached Joe at the restaurant. In a strained voice, he told her he’d moved out, but that he hoped it was just temporary. He hadn’t gone into any explanations, but for the one who had done the walking, he’d seemed pretty broken up.

Dolly had not been able to keep from driving over. Invitation or no, she had to see if she could somehow console her niece. “Honey … you there?” In the weak light trickling through the slightly parted drapes, she noted the clutter of toys strewn about the living room’s big braided rug, and felt oddly reassured. As long as she had Adam, Laurel would get through this okay.

“Hi, Aunt Dolly.” Laurel’s soft voice, seeming to come out of nowhere, startled Dolly into nearly dropping the large black patent-leather purse she carried.

She turned and found Laurel standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a rumpled chenille robe that looked as if it had been slept in. Her long hair was bound in a messy braid that also looked as if it had just come off a pillow, and even in this puny light Dolly could see how

f

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red and puffy her face was. She felt her heart swell in sympathy.

Don’t I know what it feels like … aching for a man who’s not there? Haven’t there been plenty of mornings I’ve woken up to a damp pillow and a load of heartache?

“I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear,” Dolly said, not wanting to embarrass her niece any more than she probably already had, barging in here like the FBI.

“I … I must’ve been in the bathroom,” Laurel told her with a feeble wave of her hand toward the back of the house.

“Well, right now you look as if you could use some coffee,” Dolly said, briskly walking over to her. “Why don’t you sit tight while I make you some?”

In the kitchen, Dolly yanked open the curtains, letting in a flood of sunlight. Laurel squinted and shrank down into one of the bentwood chairs scattered around the breakfast table. Dolly found coffee in the cupboard by the stove, and while it was brewing she went about hunting up eggs, bread, butter. She sniffed a carton of milk that smelled a tad sour but would do.

“When was the last time you had a decent meal?” Dolly asked.

•”๎‘ou don’t nave to go to so much trouble,” Laurel told her in a stuffed-up voice that sounded as if she had a head cold. “Really, I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not what I asked, is it?” Hands on hips, Dolly directed a stern look at her niece. “Bet you haven’t eaten a thing this morning … or the night before. Why, just look at you. You look like something the mailman stuck under the door.”

Laurel sighed. “I haven’t been feeling very good.”

“Well, I can see that.” Dolly sank into the chair opposite her niece. Gently, she asked, “You want to talk about it, sugar?”

Laurel shook her head, her eyes bright, her lips pinched tightly together, as if she feared that opening them would let loose a flood of tears. In the good sunlight pouring in thick as honey through the windows, Dolly could

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see the unkempt wisps standing up all over her head. Her slept-in braid had the look of a frayed rope.

“Joe told me he’d moved out.” Dolly spoke gently, taking Laurel’s limp hand and pressing it flat between both of hers.

She seemed to grow even paler, if that were possible. “What … what did he say?”

“Nothing much. All I know is, he seemed pretty miserable about the whole thing. Not like a man who’d walk out on his wife and son without some pretty strong reasons.”

“I asked him to leave.” Laurel’s voice caught, and she gulped in a deep breath, clearly fighting for control.