A Tangled Web (4 page)

Almost done. I can call in a few minutes. But . . . not from here. I'll call from home.

Of course it wasn't urgent, so she methodically worked through the pile of papers on her desk, then stood and fastened her cape with its single ebony button. “I'll be in tomorrow, Brian, but I don't know what time. I may stop in at Blackford's on the way.”

Outside, beneath the streetlights that had come on in the early dark, she merged again with the crowds, this time office workers rushing to their tube stations to go home. She would stroll home, she thought, and call Gabrielle. Not the minute she got there; there was no reason to do it immediately, since it wasn't urgent. She would hang up her cape, put her hat in its box in the cloakroom, pour a glass of wine, climb the stairs to her fourth-floor sitting room, perhaps make a fire in the fireplace, settle herself on the chaise, then reach for the telephone.

But as she walked, her steps grew faster until she was out of breath when she reached her front door, and as soon as she was inside, she sat down at the telephone, still wearing her hat and cape, and called Gaby.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Andersen,” the secretary said, “Mr. and Mrs. Westermarck are driving through Italy; I can't even tell you how to reach them. They should be calling in, but I don't know when.”

“Ask Mrs. Westermarck to call me,” Sabrina said. “I'll be here for a few days; at least until Thursday or Friday.”

She hung up, frustrated and more disappointed than she
would have expected.
What do I think she'll tell me?
She removed her gloves and hat and took them to the cloakroom, nestling them in their tissue-lined boxes, then hung up her cape. It doesn't matter, she told herself, it's just a day or two; I'm sure she'll call in a day or two.

She was sharply aware, as she was each time she came to London, of the emptiness of the house without Mrs. Thirkell bustling about to make her comfortable. Four floors of large, perfectly proportioned rooms filled with the finest antiques from England and the Continent: the walls covered with silk, the floors with Oriental rugs, the furniture with shantung and velvet and loose cashmere throws. A warm, sensual house, but empty, with a chill in the air. Mrs. Thirkell would have banished the chill. Mrs. Thirkell would have stored Sabrina's gloves and hat and hung up her cape; she would have said, “You look tired, my lady, why don't you go upstairs and I'll bring you a good tea in a little while. I'll wager you had no lunch: you don't take proper care of yourself.”

But Mrs. Thirkell was now taking proper care of Sabrina's family, so Sabrina gathered up the mail she'd found scattered on the floor inside the front door, poured a glass of wine, and climbed the stairs to her sitting room. The velvet drapes were closed and the room had a hushed stillness that made her feel alone. She settled herself on the chaise and looked at her watch. Five-thirty. Eleven-thirty in the morning in Evanston. Maybe, she thought, and dialed Garth's office number.

In a minute she heard his voice. “Andersen,” he said absently, absorbed in whatever he was doing, barely aware of the telephone, faintly annoyed at being interrupted.

“Are you too busy?” Sabrina asked, smiling, knowing the answer. “Shall I call back?”

“Never too busy, you know that. How are you? God, it's wonderful to hear your voice. I was thinking about you.”

“You were thinking about science. At least I hope you were; I'd hate to hear about other scientists forging ahead
while Professor Andersen daydreams about dalliances with his wife.”

“Ah, but I wasn't daydreaming; I was thinking scientifically. I calculated the percentage of space that you occupy in our house, the space that's empty right now. It turns out to be one hundred percent. The house is empty, no matter how much we dash from room to room to create the impression of purposeful activity and therefore of occupancy. I miss you. We all miss you.”

“There's a lot of empty space here, too.” Sabrina could feel his arms around her, his body fitting itself to hers in bed. “What have you been doing?”

“We went to Nick's Fishmarket for dinner; I thought it was the only restaurant in Chicago that would be a match for Cliff's appetite. But I was wrong; he cut a swath through his plate like a tornado and asked for more. Penny ate like a lady, and made conversation like one. She's a good companion. Almost as good as her mother. And almost as beautiful. Did you find everything all right at Ambassadors?”

“So far. They sold a desk and a commode for good prices, even though the economy here is slow, and they've bought a few new pieces that are very fine. And the shop looks lovely, warm and attractive and inviting. I felt very good about it.”

There was a pause. “Like coming home.”

“Oh.” She was still taken by surprise at how well he knew her: better than anyone ever had, except Stephanie. “No, not home, it can't be that, ever again, for me; not the shop or my house. But they're more than just a shop and a house; I've got a lot invested in them in time and energy and emotions; it's not as if I'm a tourist.”

“They were home to you, for a long time. So they have familiarity. And freedom.”

Sabrina winced slightly.
If I hadn't thought it this morning, he wouldn't have picked up on it.
“If you mean freedom from you, I don't want it. I want to be with you, I want to live with you and be part of you and make love
to you. I miss your arms around me and your eyes smiling at me and the way we laugh together—”

“Wait a minute.” Sabrina heard him put down the telephone; she heard a door close, and then he was back. “I don't want anyone to see the distinguished professor looking lovelorn, woebegone and awash in tears.”

“Oh, my love.” She caught her breath at the note in his voice and blinked back her own tears.

“Well.” She could hear his voice change; he was settling back in his chair. “Tell me more about London. Have you seen any of your friends?”

“No. I may not even try; I'd just like to be quiet. I did call Gaby, but she and Brooks are driving through Italy. Did Penny get her art project in this morning? She didn't like it; she said the assignment was too restrictive . . . my fierce little free spirit—” Her breath caught again.

“She showed it to me; it was fine. Not her best, but she's learning that she can paint what someone tells her to paint and still be herself, with her own style, and that's not a bad lesson. And Cliff actually wrote a longer book report than he was assigned; he got energized when I suggested he compare one character's crisis to a game of soccer.”

“Oh, wonderful; what a good idea. If it's soccer, it has to be interesting and important. Oh, Garth, I miss them. I miss you. You sound so close, as if you're around the corner.”

“I wish I were.” There was a pause. “When are you coming home?”

He was always reluctant to ask, but he always did. “As soon as I can.”
As soon as I talk to Gaby. I know it's crazy, but I can't leave until I talk to her.
“There are a few things I have to do; I'll let you know. I hope in a couple of days. Garth, don't you have a class about now?”

“My God, what a memory. Yes, but I can be late.”

“You hate to be late. You think professors have an obligation to give their students the full hour of class and all their attention.”

“This woman forgets nothing. That's why I can never
lie to you; I'd forget which lie I told when, and with what degree of fervor, but you never would. Goodbye, my love; shall I call you next?”

“I'd like to talk to Penny and Cliff; I'll call tomorrow around breakfast time if that's all right.”

“Hectic, as you know, but very much all right. Until then. I love you.”

“I love you. Garth.”

She sat very still after they hung up. as if, by not moving, she could freeze the moment and prolong the spell of their talking: the warmth of Garth's voice, the palpable feeling of his arms around her. I could go home tomorrow, she thought. There's nothing to keep me here.

Nothing but Gaby. And if I don't talk to her, I'll never get that phone call out of my mind: it will jump around inside me and keep me from thinking of more serious things. Just the way it is now.

But Tuesday and Wednesday came and went and Gaby did not call. “I haven't heard from them. Mrs. Andersen,” the secretary said when Sabrina called on Thursday morning. “I'm sure Mrs. Westermarck will call as soon as she knows you're waiting to hear from her.”

By Thursday noon she was so impatient she could barely sit still in her office. She thought of Garth and the children, and the three breakfast conversations they had had.
I want to go home. I want to be with my family.

Well, then, forget it, she told herself. It was exactly what I told Garth: Gaby saw someone who looked like me. That's all it was. It was crazy for me to come to London, to try to talk to her . . . there's nothing she has to tell me.

She gazed at the yellow leaves swirling around the entrance to Ambassadors and, beyond them, gardens of russet and gold chrysanthemums across the street. A year ago she had watched the leaves turn in Evanston; it had been a glorious week of crisp fall days and she had moved smoothly through them, thinking it would be her only time there before returning to London. That was before she broke her wrist, before she knew Stephanie was having an
affair with Max, before Stephanie wanted one last fling with him on his yacht. Before Stephanie was killed.

I know what I saw, and it was you or her. Or a ghost.

But it wasn't any of those. Not Sabrina, of course not Stephanie, and they all knew there were no ghosts.

You could tell me you're Lady Longworth, back from the dead, and I'd believe you.

“Stop it!” she said aloud. Ridiculous, crazy imaginings; what was wrong with her?

Something was driving her, something that would not leave her alone.
Jumping around inside me, keeping me from thinking of more serious things.

I could go look, she thought.

Look for what?

I don't know. Someone who looks like me. A ghost.

And then she knew that all week she had been moving to this point; that it might be ridiculous and crazy—of course it was ridiculous and crazy—but she was going to try to find out for herself whom Gaby had seen.

She was going to Avignon.

T
here was a plane to Marseilles early the next morning, and then the TGV to Avignon. Sitting on the upholstered seat of the high-speed train, Sabrina barely saw the landscape; she was telling herself how foolish she was. But even as she repeated it, she knew there was nothing else she could do. And when she stood in front of the small brick train station fronting on a circular drive jammed with cars and taxis, she knew exactly what her schedule would be. The hotel first, she thought. And then a tour.

The old walls of Avignon encircle the city, the huge stones worn by centuries of rain and wind to an indeterminate brown. Broad gates that had seen processions of Roman legionnaires, popes and their retinues, favor seekers, bandits, marauders, farmers, merchants, refugees and settlers now look down on traffic jams and strolling tourists, their heads tilted back to see the watchtowers spaced along the walls and, in the distance, the great towers of the Palace of the Popes. The narrow, twisting streets open onto small, intimate squares or large public ones; the stone
buildings hide their secrets behind shutters of wrought iron or wood mottled with flaking paint.

Sabrina left her small bag in her room at L'Europe, barely glancing at the antiques with which it was furnished, or at the view, beyond paned windows, of the square that could be glimpsed through huge trees in the hotel courtyard. She walked out onto the Place Crillon, then stood in place, getting her bearings. She had never been to Avignon, but she had studied maps and books on the plane, and now, in search of a hat, she turned toward the Place de I'Horloge.
You took off your hat, one of those wide-brimmed straw ones with a long scarf tied around the crown, red and orange, and you were brushing back your hair
 . . .

She had searched for such a hat in London, but no shops had summer hats in October and so, beneath the blazing Avignon sun, she walked to the shopping enclave, free of autos, just off the Place de I'Horloge and found Mouret, where every wall, floor to ceiling, was filled with every kind of hat ever dreamed of, from fur hats and hunting hats to opera hats and walking hats, summer hats, winter hats, and hats for every holiday.

Sabrina took three wide-brimmed ones and tried them on, angling them differently while the shopkeeper made admiring comments and adjusted the mirror for her. “Fine,” she said, choosing one, “but I need a scarf as well.”

“Alas, Mouret has no scarves,” the shopkeeper said, “but DJ Boutique on Rue Joseph-Vernet . . .”