Leonie (28 page)

“It’s you all right. One part of you, Léonie Bahri.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “When will I see you?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. Not for a week or two perhaps.”

“It’ll be finished by then. I’ll miss you.”

“And I you. But I’ll be back.”

They parted lightheartedly and she ran across the road to pay Monsieur Lucien before she made her way back to her wonderful house on the leafy square.

–
• 23 •

Was she different? She looked the same, sounded the same. She had welcomed him cautiously but warmly, and considering the way they had parted, he couldn’t have expected more.

The yacht was berthed at Antibes and each morning at dawn he stood at the wheel and personally guided her through the tangle of craft in the busy little harbor and out to sea, watching as the sun emerged from the haze.

He hadn’t made love to her yet. He slept alone in a cabin at the end of the deck, not trusting himself to touch her. He brooded silently at the wheel.

Léonie wondered what was wrong. Was he still angry because she had said that she wanted a child? Or was it that she had said she loved him? He hadn’t mentioned it, but there was a distance between them that wasn’t of her making. They were alone, except for the crew. He had invited no guests and after a week of silent dinners and long empty days when she had thought she might go crazy, she had begun to wonder if perhaps
he
was crazy.

She swam before lunch, cutting a solitary path through the swell, glancing up at the storm clouds scudding toward them.

He helped her from the ladder and put a towel around her shoulders. “I shall be leaving for Paris this afternoon,” he said curtly. “I have some business to take care of.”

“Am I going with you?”

“No need, amuse yourself here.” He put a hand on her shoulder and she bent her head suddenly and kissed it. She lunged for him, wanted his arms around her, wanted desperately to create the old magic between them. Monsieur said nothing, just removed his hand and walked away. “I’ll get changed then,” she said. It sounded like an offer, but he turned his back and leaned on the rail, staring at the villa-dotted coastline.

Was this his way of dismissing her, of saying he was tired of her? Would he come back? She smiled wryly. That’s the story of my life, she thought, always waiting, always wondering if some man will come back to me.

When he had finally gone, she and Bébé went to the inn. She’d been there once or twice in the past couple of years, but Monsieur hadn’t liked to let her out of his sight and she rarely had the time alone. Now she realized what she had been missing. It had the old magical quality of peace. The sun-warmed tiles of the terrace felt comfortably familiar to her bare feet, the hills still smelled of thyme, and her room was cool and simple and held memories of the girl she had once been, making her feel guilty as she thought of Monsieur and of Alain. She had told Caro the truth, that the affair had just been fun. She had liked being with Alain, but it was casual. They were friends.

Her relationship with Monsieur was complex and troublesome, and she lay on the bed wondering what she should do. He couldn’t possibly know about Alain, there was no way. She was sure of that. So, therefore, he had to be angry with her for saying she loved him. But
why?
Even though he may not love
her
. She felt sure now that he didn’t. He didn’t even touch her anymore. He hadn’t touched her once—oh, yes, just that one time on deck when he’d put his hand on her shoulder and she’d kissed it.

She refused to wait and worry, and instead put her energy into planning out the gardens, ordering shade trees and plants, and dashing between Nice and Monte Carlo in search of rare species, even managing to persuade Monsieur Blanc to let her have some of the wonderful tropical plants from his casino gardens.

Monsieur had been gone for ten days and she had given up expecting him, or rather she had not been waiting for him—she didn’t wait for anyone anymore. Those were her rules. When he was not there her time was her own and she’d fill it as she pleased.

She was sitting on the terrace, barefoot as usual, with her hair tied back in a scarf and her skirt hitched above her knees, shelling peas into a bowl in her lap. “The very picture of domesticity,” he said with a smile.

She looked up at the sound of his voice. He was smiling. What was it that Alphonse had once said to her? “He only smiles when he’s winning.” “Hello.” She went on shelling the peas.

“Are those for our dinner?”

“If you’re staying for dinner.”

“You once promised me you’d bake that Provençal dish with the eggplants … how about keeping that promise tonight?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Would you like that?”

He slipped off the canvas espadrilles he was wearing and sat next to her on the steps. Picking up a pod he shelled it, putting the tiny yellow-green peas into his mouth.

“You’re supposed to put them in the basin,” she told him.

He caught hold of her hand. “I know. Léonie?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s be friends. I missed you. That’s why I was so miserable … don’t ask me why, but I couldn’t say it—I wanted to. I’m saying it now. I missed you on that trip.”

She looked at him, suspicious of this sudden change. What could have happened in Paris? Had he made some fabulous business coup? Bought out a rival or taken over another company? It could be the only reason for such elation. Or was he trying to bribe her with words now, instead of diamonds? She felt a flutter of anticipation, wanting to believe that he meant it. He’d said it, hadn’t he? Said
he’d
missed
her!
Wasn’t that almost as good as saying he loved her? She put the basin on the step beside her and moved closer. “Why didn’t you say that before?”

“It’s not easy for me, Léonie.”

She stood up, shaking out her skirt, and he bent and kissed her ankle, holding it tightly in one hand, gripping it with his fingers until it hurt. “Ow,” she cried out, laughing as she limped away.

“That’s just to let you know you belong to me,” he called, “and, Léonie …”

“Yes.”

“I’ve brought the champagne.”

She smiled as she went into the house and her spirits rose. Maybe this time everything would be all right.

They ate on her terrace with just the light of the moon and a single candle that burned steadily in the breezeless night and he talked of his cars, passionate about the details of their engines and design, and of his travels, amusing her, entertaining her with all his old charm. So that she knew why she cared—she loved this side of him—and he was so attractive. They walked on the beach,
wading in the water that was colder than either of them had expected, and hidden by the curve of the Point, he finally made love to her, slowly and deliberately claiming her as his own, until at last she cried out that she loved him.

–
• 24 •

The man was almost invisible, he was so ordinary—one of a million who looked just like him—brown hair, small brown ragged mustache, brown clothes. It had taken weeks for Maroc to realize the fact that he saw this man almost every day, and although obviously not wealthy, he seemed to have no work. He idled away his days in the Café Saint-Georges at the corner of the square, or he sat on a bench in the gardens reading a newspaper, always just within view. And then next time Maroc looked, he’d be gone. And it was always when Léonie had left the house. Today he would find out why.

Dressed as inconspicuously as his prey, he sat four tables away and sipped his coffee, watching the man. He was reading his newspaper and yawning, apparently in no hurry to go anywhere. Maroc knew that Léonie would leave the house at ten o’clock and it was now five minutes before the hour. He folded his arms and waited. The waiter appeared with a plate of hot croissants and coffee, and putting his paper aside, the man began to butter his croissant just as Léonie emerged from the house. Cursing, he broke off a chunk of croissant, stuffing it in his mouth; throwing some money on the table he set off down the street after her. He signaled to a cab and climbed in as Léonie drove off around the corner of the square.

So that was it. Monsieur was having Léonie followed. With a pang of fear, Maroc remembered her visits to the artist. But no, Monsieur had been back several weeks now and everything seemed quite normal. He stared worriedly at his coffee. Naturally he must tell her, but what would they do?

Léonie ran light-footed up the familiar dusty stairs to the studio and tapped on the door. “Open up,” she called impatiently, “it’s
me.” There was no reply. “Alain.” She turned the handle, but the door was locked. She stared at it in surprise, it was never locked. She hurried back down the stairs and across the cobbled street to the Café Alsace.

It was exactly the same, the big glass windows were still steamed over and the old men in the corner still played dominoes, nodding a polite bon-jour as they recognized her. She glanced around quickly. Alain was not there, nor were any of his friends. It was early yet and they probably wouldn’t be there until after twelve. Monsieur Lucien hailed her from his usual place behind the zinc counter.

“Monsieur Lucien … have you seen Alain? I’ve been to his studio, but it’s locked.”

He looked at her in surprise. Could Alain have gone without telling her? That was very unfair, it was certainly no way to treat a girl as nice and as generous as this one. “I thought you would have known,” he said. “Alain left for London a few weeks ago.”

“London!”

“Alain had a stroke of luck … some visiting gallery owner from England saw a painting of his at Marechaux and came to the studio to buy. He was so impressed with his talent that he offered to take all Alain’s paintings and mount an exhibition in London. In fact, mademoiselle, he offered to become Alain’s patron: he will make sure that he has a studio, everything he needs, and his paintings will be sold through his gallery. But he insisted that Alain move to London for a year—it was the only way to have continuity of work, he said. Alain was thrilled by his good fortune and we had such a party in here that night, mademoiselle. I’m sorry you missed it.”

“But wasn’t it all rather sudden, Monsieur Lucien?” asked Léonie uncertainly.

He shrugged, throwing out his hands expressively. “But, mademoiselle—that’s the way fortunes can change in his business. One painting can alter the course of a man’s life.”

Léonie pushed aside the selfish feeling of regret at losing Alain and the happy times they’d shared. “I’m glad he had such a marvelous opportunity,” she said. “Maybe my portrait will be worth a lot of money one day. Did he leave it with you, Monsieur Lucien?”

“As far as I know, mademoiselle, he took everything with him—they just packed it all up the next day and he was gone. It was
fast—before he could change his mind.” Monsieur Lucien shrugged at the thought of such foolishness. “As if Alain would turn down an offer like that.”

Léonie slid from her stool at the counter. “Then I suppose he must have kept it.” Perhaps it’s as well he did, she thought, remembering Monsieur.

She walked slowly down the drab street that had ceased to be drab for her when she was part of it with Alain and his friends. Somehow they’d warmed it into color and life. Now it was gray again … a drab little street in a poor
quartier
. The inconspicuous little man in the brown suit blended so exactly into the drab background that she wasn’t even aware of his presence.

“Of course he’s capable of it, Léonie,” stormed Caro. “Didn’t I tell you that a long time ago? Monsieur is capable of
anything!
And he’s clever, he’ll never do the obvious thing, so you won’t know what to expect.”

“But to have me
followed
, Caro! How could he do that? Oh, I wish Maroc were wrong.” She didn’t want to believe it.

“He’s not wrong, Léonie. Of course, if you hadn’t had this stupid affair there would be nothing to worry about. The man would have found out nothing. The thing we don’t know is
when
he started following you—and
why
. Don’t you think there is something
odd
about Alain’s disappearance, Léonie? That he should have such a sudden stroke of good fortune, be discovered just by chance—a chance that was only offered if he went to London … out of the way.…”

Léonie stared at Caro in amazement. Could it be true? “I don’t believe it,” she protested.

“You don’t believe it because you don’t
want
to believe it. If Monsieur even
suspected
you were having an affair, don’t you think he would find a way to get rid of the man? He does it in business all the time. He finds out what they want and provides it and then he takes over. Alphonse told me his method. And it never fails.”

Léonie began to laugh. “Then I’m glad that at least Alain will benefit from my folly,” she said. “I always wanted to be a patron of the arts!”

“Léonie,” said Caro, exasperated, “you don’t seem to realize the position you’re in. I believe that if Monsieur had known for
sure that you were having an affair with Alain, he might have
killed
you, or
him, or both
of you.”

“He’d never do that.” Léonie was quite sure about it. “Do you know why? Not because of me, but because of his children. He has two sons, Caro, and they come first. Nothing will be allowed to sully
their
name, there’ll be no breath of scandal. Marie-France de Courmont will make sure of that. Anyway, if it amuses him to spy on me, then let him. My life is blameless from now on.”

“I hope so,” sighed Caro.

It was an odd sensation, knowing that she was being followed. Now that she was aware of it, she seemed always to be noticing the man, he was always there—just at the corner of her eye, hiding behind a newspaper, sitting in a cab, or loitering aimlessly along the street. Léonie felt sometimes that she ought to stop and tell him where she was going—it would make it all so much easier—but at other times, she became bitterly angry. She wanted to confront Monsieur with his spy, tell him how despicable it was, how underhanded and mean. But how could she? She was guilty. It might force a confrontation about Alain and she didn’t want that, not now when things were going so well.