The Rossetti Letter (v5) (40 page)

E
DWARD AND
H
ELEN
F
RY
waited at the end of the Alitalia wing of the Charles de Gaulle airport, just beyond the crush of people streaming out of the gates into the main terminal.

Gwen was the first to see them. “Dad!” she squealed and for a second Claire worried that Gwen’s mad dash would end much like her sprint across the Ca’ Foscari patio that morning, but she managed to pass through the crowds without mishap. She embraced Ed Fry with such force that he wobbled unsteadily, regaining his balance only after planting his cane firmly on the floor.

The newlyweds appeared tanned and relaxed. In their casual yet conservative attire, they looked every bit the Bostonians, as if they’d just come from Sunday brunch, or a boat ride on the Charles. Helen had a natural, unadorned attractiveness that, after Gwen’s tales of her designer-clad mother, took Claire by surprise. She’d fallen victim to stereotype, thinking that a man as wealthy as Ed Fry would have married a trophy wife, but Helen struck her as clear-eyed and commonsensical. They exuded a calm happiness.

Gwen was already talking a mile a minute by the time Claire joined them and introduced herself to Helen.

“We took a gondola all over Venice and we went by the courtesan’s house and the prison and the place where they hang people and this really awesome canal that was full of dead bodies and bones and stuff,” Gwen rattled on.

“I’m so glad you had a good time, honey,” Ed replied, patting her shoulder. “So everything went fine, then?” he asked Claire.

“Fine,” Claire nodded briskly. “Absolutely fine.” She saw a look of relief on Gwen’s face. Helen briefly wore just the slightest expression of amazement, one that was quickly and politely suppressed.

“Dad, Claire told me about some really cool places to go in Paris. I was thinking that maybe tomorrow—”

Ed and Helen exchanged a look.

“I’ve got a ten o’clock tee time tomorrow at this course called St. Quentin something or other,” Ed Fry said.

“Yvesline,” Helen added.

“It’s one of the top-rated courses in France,” he explained.

“Dad!”

“Just this once. I won’t be playing again while we’re here, I promise. It was the only time available.”

“Did he play golf every day when you were in Nice?” Gwen asked Helen.

“Only twice,” Helen said. “You owe me ten dollars.”

“Oh, man,” Gwen moaned, but she didn’t seem unhappy.

“We had a bet,” Helen explained to Claire. “Gwen thought he’d be on a golf course every day. Anyway,” she said, turning to Gwen, “save your ten dollars for tomorrow. It looks like it’s going to be just you and me, during the day, at any rate. What do you want to do? Go shopping, I suppose?”

Claire got the impression that Helen would rather spend the day having oral surgery.

“Well…actually…Claire told me about some places, like from the revolution,” said Gwen, glancing at Claire to make sure she got it right.

“Oh?” Helen seemed surprised, but intrigued.

“Yeah, like where they had the guillotine—what’s that called?”

“The Place de la Concorde,” Claire said.

“And there’s this prison, where they kept people before they cut their heads off.”

“It’s the Conciergerie, on the Île de la Cité,” Claire filled in.

“And this underground place; I
have
to go there.”

“The Catacombs.” Claire took a sheet of paper from her bag and gave it to Helen. “I’ve written everything down. I’m sure you can find the details in any guidebook.”

“How interesting,” Helen said sincerely, smiling as she looked over the list. “Sort of a ‘reign of terror’ tour. Certainly more fun than pawing through racks in the junior department at Galeries Lafayette.” She caught Claire’s eye. “Thanks.”

Claire took a few more items from her bag. “Here’re some things you left behind in the hotel room,” she said, handing a small sack to Gwen. “And some postcards you bought, that lipstick I borrowed, and a little gift.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Gwen, unrolling the velvet scarf Claire had found in a shop on the Merceria. “But I didn’t buy anything for you.”

“You didn’t have to. Well…” She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Why were good-byes so awkward? “I should check in for my next flight.” She shook Edward Fry’s hand, offered a heartfelt “Nice to meet you” to Helen, and smiled at Gwen one last time before she headed back in the direction they’d come from.

“Claire!” Gwen ran after her. Claire stopped and turned around. Gwen threw her arms around her and hugged her tight. “Thanks.” Gwen released her, but stood there, silent and thoughtful, for a moment longer. “Don’t go home,” she said.

“You mean back to my boring life?”

“Giancarlo really likes you. I know he does, Stefania told me. You’re going to call him, right?”

“Yes.”

“When you get back, you have to tell me what happened.”

“Sure,” Claire said, smiling.

“And don’t forget to send those photos. I can’t
wait
till September. Well…ciao!”

“Ciao,” Claire called after her. Instead of the relief she’d expected to feel upon returning Gwen to her father, she felt a pang of regret, even a little envy, as she watched the three of them walk away and blend into the crowds. She suddenly felt too aware of everything she’d lost when Michael left.

Claire turned and began walking back to the Alitalia wing. She didn’t know much about Helen, but she guessed that her age was closer to Ed Fry’s than to her own—late thirties, maybe forty. Chances were that Helen was divorced, but she obviously hadn’t given up; here she was, newly married, moving on, moving forward, trying again. What was the advice she’d given Gwen? Live life, meet more people? Advice she hadn’t taken herself. No, she’d retreated from everything, had become…that description still nagged at her…
secret and self-contained, as solitary as an oyster.

Claire stopped in her tracks as she remembered where she’d read that line: in
A Christmas Carol.
It didn’t refer to a romantic heroine wandering around on the moors, or something equally poetic; it was a description of Ebenezer Scrooge, she realized with wry dismay, and laughed out loud. She should have known that comparing herself to an oyster wasn’t good. Gwen was right, Meredith was right: it was time to get out of her little house and get on with her life. But where exactly, and with whom?

In the center of the hallway, two rows of seats flanked a bank of telephones. Opposite the phones, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the tarmac and a line of jets parked at the gates. Claire sat down in one of the chairs and mulled over her options as she watched an Alitalia 727 taxi into place.

Don’t go home, Gwen had said. No one’s waiting for you there, Giancarlo had reminded her. It wouldn’t be so difficult, would it, to rebook her ticket and go back to Venice? Claire had never done anything so impulsive in her life, and although she was fairly convinced that it was time to start, she wasn’t finding it easy. She fervently wished that she could be one of those people who simply shrugged off lingering doubt, but she never had been, and probably never would be.

Too many things nagged at her conscience. She wouldn’t be able to finish her dissertation in Venice, not without her computer and the notes and files and books she had at home. She’d worked on it for so long, and she was finally so close to completing it. It was foolish to let herself get sidetracked, even for a week or two, especially by someone as distracting as Giancarlo. But that wasn’t the only thing holding her back. She suspected that, in spite of his protests to the contrary, Giancarlo’s relationship with Natalie was unresolved, and she was certain that Renata would not be welcoming.

None of these things would have mattered too much if she were in love with Giancarlo, but she wasn’t. It was an admission that caused her considerable discomfort. He was intelligent, handsome, rich, gainfully employed in a profession he seemed to be passionate about, and from all indications he was a sincere and sincerely nice person. If she couldn’t fall in love with Giancarlo Baldessari, what hope was there for her? Like Deirdre Fry, had her belief in love been so destroyed that she couldn’t fall in love again? If she didn’t want Giancarlo, what was it she really wanted?

She knew that she would have to call Giancarlo and tell him she wasn’t coming back, but what would she say? She supposed she could use the pressing demands of her work as an excuse. While it was true, it was also true that she could delay a week or so without much consequence. A novel idea occurred to her: what if she were honest and said that she thought they would be better friends than lovers? Why did a relationship between a man and a woman have to be all or nothing? Wouldn’t it be nice, if she returned to Venice next year, for them to meet again as friends?

She went to the phone, took a credit card from her wallet, and then, with growing dismay, set about reading the instructions for the telephone’s use. Numerous minutes later, she finally had Giancarlo’s business card in one hand and was dialing with the other when she saw a familiar face among the crowd. She blinked a few times: surely her imagination was playing tricks. But as he walked closer, she saw that it was him. Unmistakably him. She slowly hung up the phone and waited. He didn’t recognize her until he was about ten feet away. Still not wearing his glasses, she noticed.

He stopped as soon as he saw her, and the most amazing sequence of emotions animated his face: utter surprise followed by astonishment and then a subdued delight.

“Hello,” Andrew said.

“Hello,” Claire replied.

“Hello,” he said again.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“I thought you didn’t like it when I didn’t say hello.”

“That’s true, but most people quickly follow it up with something else.”

“I’m just so surprised to see you. This is so odd. I was just thinking about you.”

His confession caused a strange palpitation in her chest. Andrew Kent was thinking about her? She waited, curious to hear his innermost thoughts.

“So…Gwendolyn’s back with her parents?” Andrew asked, shifting his satchel from one hand to the other. “All safe and sound?”

Not quite the sentiments she was expecting to hear. “Yes.”

“And you? You’re not staying in Paris, are you?”

Good lord. Were they going to make small talk until it was time for her to board the plane? Funny, but earlier that day she’d been thinking it was important to see him again, and now she couldn’t remember the reason. “No, my flight for Boston is leaving soon.”

“I rather thought you’d be going back to Venice.”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Was she imagining it, or did he seem relieved? She could have sworn that when he’d said, “going back to Venice,” there’d been a twinge of regret, even jealousy, in his voice.

“You see, I was thinking…,” Andrew said hesitantly, “just wondering, really…”

Oh, go on, get on with it, Claire thought impatiently. If you’re going to ask me something, then
ask
—

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of other offers, but I thought…you see, we have a spot open for a guest lecturer this fall, and I was wondering if you’d consider it.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Her thoughts had been traveling on a completely different track. “You’re offering me a teaching position? At Cambridge?” she asked incredulously.

“The pay isn’t fabulous, and it’s only for a year, but…”

“You’re offering me a job.”

“Did I say something that you didn’t understand?”

“You’re offering me a job?”

“I am speaking English, yes?”

“You can do that, just like that?”

“You’ll have to be approved by the hiring committee, but as I’m the head of the committee, and there are only three of us, I think I can swing the votes.” Andrew waited for her reply, but Claire was speechless. “I’m sure you’ll want some time to think it over…”

“No. I mean yes.”

“Which is it?”

“No, I don’t need to think it over, and yes, of course I’d love to teach at Cambridge.” She decided so quickly that she surprised herself, but it was everything she’d ever wanted, and more. “So you would recommend me?”

“With confidence.”

Claire wondered if Andrew’s reasons for offering her a job were strictly professional. She couldn’t tell, not with that English reserve of his. As he gave her his card and explained that she should get in touch with him in a few weeks, he was all business. And then she remembered why she’d wanted to see him again: to thank him for going to such lengths to get her out of trouble, and to ask why. Did he habitually cough up thousands of dollars to save women in need, or had he made a special effort for her?

“This afternoon,” Claire began, “Gwen told me about what happened while I was in the police station, and she said—”

“Darling,” Gabriella purred as she strolled up to Andrew and slipped her arm through his. She carried a shopping bag from the Chanel duty-free store. “Well,” she said, smiling coolly at Claire, “I should have known we’d run into you again. Andrew, I’m beginning to think you’re being stalked.”