Learning to Swim (23 page)

P
AUL WOKE US, POUNCING ON US, GIGGLING AT FINDING US
asleep in the library.
“Pourquoi dormez-vous dans la bibliothèque?”
he asked.

Philippe reacted quickly, pulling his arms from under the afghan and reaching for his son. “Because,” he said, pulling Paul up on the sofa and tickling him lightly, “we woke up s-o-o-o early there was no sunlight and it was chilly, so we made a nice fire to watch instead.”

I disentangled myself, stiff from sleeping in one position. “And the fire made us sleepy, so we fell back asleep,” I added.

“But it’s time to get you dressed, little one.” Philippe scooped Paul up and carried him down the hall, giggling, under his arm.

I headed to my room, grateful it was Paul who had found us and not Elise. I pulled on running clothes, called Tiger, and on the way out told Elise I’d be late for breakfast. Maybe it was just my conscience that made the look she gave me seem odd.

As my feet pounded rhythmically on the pavement, scenes from the past week cycled through my head. Me in Philippe’s arms. Madeleine’s emails downloading onto the screen. Jameson warning me about Philippe. The flicker of concern I’d seen from Simon when he’d first seen me with Philippe and Paul. The look Elise had just given me.

Of course I knew this was dangerous territory. Of course I knew I should leave before I let my heart get broken, by Paul or Philippe.

Of course I wasn’t going to.

When I got back I toweled off and pulled on a sweatshirt and shorts, then slid into my seat just before the others finished.

Philippe looked up with a smile, an errant lock of hair falling on his forehead. I could see a pulse thumping in his throat, a small patch on his chin not shaved quite as closely as the surrounding area. I could, without much effort, imagine his cheek against mine, his breath on my neck, my fingers in his hair.

But that wasn’t the way this script was written. I was his son’s temporary substitute mother; last night I had been a pair of comforting arms. I knew the type of woman Philippe liked—stylish, fashionable, sophisticated. Like Madeleine. There had been a spark between us, but one we couldn’t let ignite for many reasons, the most important of which was sitting at this breakfast table with messy hair, finishing his sausage.

“You went to run early,” Paul proclaimed.

“Yes, I did,” I said, patting my tummy. “I’ve been eating so much of Elise’s good food that I needed some exercise before breakfast.”

For some reason Paul found this very funny—I’ll admit I don’t always get six-year-old male humor.

Philippe smiled, and in this moment I could forget the ugly facts of kidnapping and murder and the looming threat of kidnappers. I could forget that this wasn’t my life and that all too soon I would have to begin the painful process of extricating myself from it.

Paul was happy. For now, that was all that mattered.

Philippe went off to work and I left Paul playing with his racetrack and joined him after my shower. Piles of his old clothing were still lying about, and I tentatively suggested boxing up some that were obviously too small. He surprised me by agreeing.

He took it seriously, as he did most things, trying on each piece of clothing and handing me the ones that didn’t fit. He had far more preppy clothing than I knew a small boy could possess, all fine quality and showing almost no wear. I wondered if his mother had picked them out, or if she and Philippe had done it together. Or maybe this was something a nanny did.

Paul watched me letter
PAUL’S OUTGROWN CLOTHES
on the boxes and fold down the lids.

“When you want,” I told him, “you can give these things away for someone else to wear, someone smaller than you.”

He nodded. “Pete,” he said, naming Baker’s youngest.

“You’re right.” I was surprised he had thought of it. “These would be great for Pete, or maybe Rick.” Of course Pete and Rick then would be the best-dressed kids in Saranac Lake, but it might be a welcome change from hand-me-downs. And it wouldn’t take long for them to make these clothes look lived-in. “When I go back I can take them to them.”

“When you go back,” he repeated, his dark eyes luminous, almost tearful. It was too easy to forget how fragile he was.

I reached out and touched his cheek. “I can’t stay here forever, sweetie. I have my house, remember, and Zach and Baker—and Tiger needs her lake to swim in. But we’ll be here awhile, and I can always visit. It’s only a few hours.” I translated into French as best I could.

He wasn’t quite happy with this, and I was annoyed with myself for upsetting him. I grabbed him up and tickled him lightly; then we heard Elise call us.

Zach was standing in the front foyer grinning, next to a beaming Elise.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, astonished.

“Philippe th-th-thought you’d like to have your bicycle, so he asked if I could bring it up. Dave let me take his car.”

I was almost speechless. Then I turned to Elise. “Elise, have you met my roommate Zach?” She nodded, and her smile told me she’d been in on this.

“Zach, Zach!” Paul squealed, grabbing Zach’s hands and launching into a burst of excited French.

I laughed at Zach’s expression. “Paul, he doesn’t understand French—
Il ne comprend pas le français
. Zach, Paul says he has a new room and lots of toys and is starting a new school and has clothes for Baker’s children and maybe you can take them.”

Zach blinked and nodded; this was way too fast for him.

Elise scurried to set out thick sandwiches for us while Paul chattered to Zach as if he were a long-lost brother. After lunch Paul showed Zach his room and his toys, and we talked Paul into a nap, a very, very short one, while Zach and I unloaded my bike and gear. He had brought along my toolbox, bike stand, the crate with my helmet, bike shoes, shorts, and gloves—plus an armful of clothes on hangers and some folded jeans from my closet. This wasn’t like Zach; I figured Philippe must have suggested it.

“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked.

“Sure. Fried chicken. Elise told me.”

After Paul got up we played endless computer games, and then Philippe was home, looking weary but pleased. I caught his eye and mouthed
Thank you
.

At dinner Zach ate so much that Paul watched in awe. Elise, bringing refills from the kitchen, began to look worried, and I kicked Zach under the table. Philippe asked Zach if he’d like to stay over, but he declined, saying he needed to get the car back to Dave. After dinner Elise packed a box with sandwiches and fruit for Zach, plus a bag of pastries he promised to share with Dave.

I tried to give Zach cash for gas and the bridge toll, but he said Philippe had taken care of it. Men apparently are more adroit about these things.

I eyed the carton of food on the seat beside Zach. “Think you have enough chow there?”

“I’m a growing boy,” he said, flashing his smile. He’d probably have half of it eaten before reaching the bridge to New York. He drove off, car sputtering.

I went to thank Philippe, and found him in the library.

“I hope you didn’t mind,” he said. “I wondered if you might want Zach to bring something specific, but I wanted to surprise you.”

“No, that was fine. And Zach did bring up some of my other
stuff.” I didn’t mention that I knew Zach wouldn’t have done it on his own.

We sipped coffee and nibbled shortbread cookies. The psychologist had okayed Claude visiting, Philippe said, as long as no one mentioned Paul’s mother and there were no emotional scenes. Which I thought would have been obvious. I also thought it obvious I didn’t fit in at a family reunion, and said so.

“No, no, I think it’s better for Paul that you’re there,” Philippe said.

And
kid-needs-you
trumps
you’re-going-to-be-miserable-meeting-mysterious-uncle
. How could it not be painfully awkward, with Paul, his father, and uncle—but no Madeleine, and me there instead?

“Does Claude know about the, uh, ferry and rescue?” I asked.

Philippe shook his head. “He knows you found Paul and that you came here to help him settle in, but I wasn’t comfortable telling him about Paul in the lake. Claude likes to dig at things, and can’t leave them alone.”

“But wouldn’t the police have told him?” Something along the lines of
Someone tried to drown your nephew
and
Do you have any idea who?

“Probably.” He paused, weighing his words. “But if I haven’t told him, then he won’t discuss it here.”

So if the host doesn’t acknowledge the pink elephant in the room, the other guests can’t either. I could see this being a useful standard—not that any of my friends would ever follow it.

At least Claude wouldn’t ask me questions about the ferry incident. I wished Philippe could have avoided telling him I was the one who had found Paul, but he had to explain my presence here. And maybe the police had told him anyway.

So Madeleine’s brother would be coming to dinner tomorrow night.

That night my thoughts tumbled together as I lay in bed: Paul and Philippe and kidnappers and Claude and Madeleine and Elise and Jameson. How quickly I was becoming entrenched here and
how these people were weaving themselves into my life, and I was weaving myself into theirs. But this wasn’t my world. I wasn’t used to not being in control, not living in my own space, not making all the decisions.

It was a sensation I didn’t particularly like.

T
HIS MORNING PHILIPPE WAS TAKING PAUL TO ANOTHER
psychologist’s appointment. I watched Elise cooking chocolate pudding—I’d been in college before I realized pudding could be prepared any way other than instant. To me cooked pudding still tastes oddly smooth and creamy.

I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to ask what Paul’s mother had been like and what kind of mother she had been. I wanted to know what her marriage to Philippe had been like. I wanted to know how and why Philippe had abandoned his old home and life and seemingly so readily blocked out everyone but Elise and his brother-in-law.

But of course I couldn’t.