Three Weeks in Paris (24 page)

————

HONORINE HAD COME OUTSIDE
to tell Anya she had a phone call, and Anya had gone inside to take it. Kay was alone in the garden.

Her tears had ceased and she sat calmly in the chair, looking at her face in a small silver compact. There were a few mascara smudges around her eyes, and she removed these with a tissue, powdered the area lightly, and refreshed her lipstick. Then she put the compact and other items back in her handbag, and relaxed.

When Anya returned, she glanced at her and exclaimed, “As good as new, my dear. Are you feeling better?”

Kay smiled. “Yes, and thank you for listening, for being so patient and understanding, Anya. It’s helped me.” She paused, shook her head. “You see, I’ve never spoken about
that part of my childhood to anyone except my mother. I think I buried it all so deep, it was hard to dredge up. Also, I didn’t want to tell anyone my secret.”

“There’s just one thing I’d like to say. When you see Dr. Boujon again, he might ask you if you had an abortion, so be prepared for that. And frankly, Kay, I do believe you should tell him the truth.”

Kay recoiled slightly, and stared at her. “That would be a bit hard for me—”

“You don’t have to give him any of the intimate details,” Anya interrupted. “I mean about the childhood abuse. Just the bare facts. If you
do
have some internal problem, he must be told your medical history in order to make a judgment.”

“I suppose so,” Kay reluctantly agreed.

“Of course, it’s more than likely he’ll have good news for you, tell you there’s nothing wrong with you, no reason why you can’t conceive.” Anya peered at her. “Then you’ll have to try to relax about getting pregnant. I suppose it goes without saying that adoption is out of the question?”

Kay nodded.

Anya went on. “So often, when a couple adopts a child, the wife immediately gets pregnant. The pressure is off, and I think that’s what does it, helps a woman to conceive.”

“Ian would want only a biological child to inherit the title.”

Anya sat back, thinking Kay was probably right about this, but on the other hand, you never really knew about people. Also, it might not be Kay at all. There was the distinct possibility that Ian might be to blame; he could be sterile, or deficient in some way. She wondered if she dare suggest that he, too, should be tested, and then decided she had better not.

Instead, she reached across the table and took hold of

Kay’s hand. “You’ve been very brave and strong all of your life, Kay, and I’m so proud of you. And I want you to know I am always here for you, whatever you might need.”

Kay was touched, and she responded, “Thank you for those words, Anya, and for being my friend, my one
true
friend.”

This remark made Anya frown, and she exclaimed, “I hope I’m not your only friend, my dear.”

“Well, sort of … I’m close to my assistant, Sophie, and also Fiona, Ian’s sister, but, well, yes, you are my only really intimate friend.”

How sad that is, Anya thought. She said, “It’s such a pity your little quartet fell apart. You were all
so close
for three years, and then
puff
! Suddenly everything went up in smoke. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. And I do sincerely hope the four of you are going to come to terms with the situation, make an effort to set aside your differences and be friends again.” Anya gave Kay a long and pointed look, and finished, “Take it from an old lady, life is too short to bear grudges, to carry animosity inside, so that it gnaws away like a canker.”

“I agree,” Kay answered, thinking that of the four of them, she was the least to blame. It was the others who had created the problems, not her.

ALEXA LOOKED AT HER WATCH AS THE PHONE BEGAN TO
ring.

It was exactly six-thirty. Snatching up the receiver, she said “Hello?” in a tight voice that didn’t sound like her own, clutching the phone so hard, her knuckles shone whitely in the lamplight.

“It’s Tom. I’m in the lobby.”

“I’ll be right down,” she managed to answer, dropped the phone into the cradle, picked up her bag and shawl from a chair, and left the room.

As she waited for the elevator, she glanced at herself in a nearby mirror. Her hair was sleek, her makeup perfect; she wore a tailored black linen dress that would go anywhere, her only jewelry her watch and pearl earrings.

She took a deep breath as she stepped into the elevator. She was taut, so eager to see him she could hardly wait as the elevator slid downward. She saw him immediately, the moment she stepped out. He stood off to one side, near the entrance to the Jardin d’Hiver, but something had obviously distracted him and he was looking toward the main lobby and the concierge’s desk.

Stupidly, ridiculously, she found she was unable to move. She stood, rooted to the spot, staring at him, shaking inside.

His face was in profile, but she saw at once that he was as handsome as ever, and immaculately dressed. He wore a dark blue blazer, gray trousers, and a blue shirt. His tie was silk, a blue-and-silver-gray stripe; his brown loafers gleamed.

She swallowed, trying to get a grip on herself, and then started in surprise as he suddenly turned his head abruptly and saw her at once.

His face was serious, unsmiling, as he walked toward her, his step and his demeanor full of confidence. But then he smiled suddenly, showing his perfect white teeth. His eyes were very blue. She saw, too, that his hair was now gray at the sides.

“Alexa,” he said, taking hold of her arm, leaning toward her, kissing her cheek.

She pulled away almost at once, afraid he would hear the pounding of her heart. Swallowing, her mouth dry, she said, “Hello, Tom.”

His vivid blue eyes searched her face for a split second, and he frowned. Taking hold of her arm, he said, “Let’s have a drink, shall we?” He didn’t wait for her answer, and in command, as he always was, he led her forward. They went into the Bar Fontainebleau that faced out through bay windows onto the Rivoli arches, positioned in front of the hotel’s main entrance.

He guided her to a small table near a window in a corner, where they both sat down. A waiter was with them in an instant.

Tom looked across at her and raised a dark brow. “The usual?”

She nodded.

“
Deux coupes, s’il vous plaît.
”

As the waiter disappeared in the direction of the long mahogany bar on the other side of the room, Tom looked at her intently, nodding his head, obviously in approval. “You haven’t changed. You look exactly the same, except for your hair.”

“I cut it.”

“I can see that. It suits you.
Très chic.
”

She said nothing.

After a slight pause, Tom went on. “I’ve read a lot about you, Alexa. In the show business trades. You’ve been having a great success with your theatrical sets.”

“Yes, but I’ve been lucky in many ways.”

“I would say it has much more to do with talent.”

She smiled at him weakly, wishing her heart would stop clattering in the way it was. She also wished she didn’t have the overwhelming urge to clutch his hand resting on the small table between them. It took all of her self-control not to touch him.

The waiter was back at the table, depositing the two flutes of champagne in front of them.

Once they were alone, Tom picked up his glass and clinked it to hers. “
Santé.
”

“
Santé,
” she said, and gave him a wide smile.

He put down his drink. “At last,” he murmured. “I thought that grim look was never going to disappear.”

“I didn’t know I was looking grim.”

“Take it from me, you were.” He leaned across the table, focused on her, the expression in his eyes more intense than ever. “I’m glad you called … I’m glad to see you, Alexa.” When she remained silent, he asked, “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Such a poor little
yes
. So timid.”

“Not at all. I
am
happy to see you, Tom. I wanted to see you, otherwise I wouldn’t have called.”

He reached out, took hold of her hand, held it tightly in his, scrutinizing her carefully. Then he glanced down at her hands. “Not married or engaged or otherwise taken?”

Alexa shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“There must be someone,” he probed. “Or is every man blind where you live?”

She began to laugh—he had always managed to make her do that—and she shared his sense of humor. She was about to tell him there was no one special, but changed her mind. Instead, she said, “I have one friend. An artist. He’s very nice. English.” The words came out in a staccato delivery.

“Is it serious?”

“I—I—don’t know,” she began, and hesitated. “Well, perhaps he is serious.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m … uncertain.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Is there someone special in your life?”

“No,” he answered laconically.

“I can’t imagine you haven’t had, don’t have, a girlfriend around.”

“Of course. But make that plural. And none of them mean much to me.”

She experienced such a surge of relief, her whole body went slack. She hoped he hadn’t noticed this, said quickly, “I saw Nicky Sedgwick at Anya’s the other day. He mentioned in passing that you’d bought a place in Provence. At least, that’s what he’d heard.”

“It is true. My French grandmother died. She left me a little money. I bought a small farm outside Aix-en-Provence, an olive farm.”

“How great! Is it actually operating?”

“Limping.” He grinned at her. “But I’m going to put a
bit of money into it, hire extra help for the manager who runs it for me. But it will be a hobby, nothing more serious,
naturellement
.”

“So you’re not giving up your law practice? Or leaving the city permanently?”

“Now, who could leave Paris? Certainly not I. And surely you know I’m not cut out to be a country boy.”

“I do.”

He took a sip of his champagne, and continued, “I booked a table at L’Ambroisie. In the Place des Vosges. But first I thought we could take a drive around Paris. It’s such a beautiful evening, and you haven’t been here for a long time. Three years.”

————

A SHORT WHILE LATER
he was leading her down the front steps of the hotel, his hand under her elbow, guiding her. As they moved along the sidewalk, he raised a hand, signaling to a driver a little farther along who was standing next to a car.

A moment later, Tom was helping her into the backseat of a maroon Mercedes and climbing in after her. Alexa slid along the seat, positioned herself in the corner; Tom took the other corner, and she placed her shawl and bag in between them, as if building a barrier.

She noticed him glance down at them, saw his mouth twitch as he attempted to swallow a smile. She suddenly felt slightly foolish, and racked her brain for some kind of suitable small talk, but without success. Once more she was shaking inside and felt as though she couldn’t breathe. But this was not unusual. He had always had an extraordinary effect on her, and right from the beginning.

He was talking to the driver in rapid French, explaining where he should drive them … around the Place de
la Concorde, up the Champs-Elysées, back down to the Seine, over to the Left Bank. She knew the latter was one of Tom’s favorite parts of the city, an area where he had often driven her himself in the old days.

Once he had finished giving the driver these detailed instructions, he settled back in the corner, looked at her, and began to talk in an easy and effortless manner. “So, how is Nicky? I haven’t run into him for a long time.”

“He looks great, and he and Larry are more successful than ever.”

“So I hear. And you’re going to be working with them? Or is it just with Nick?”

“Nicky only. We had our first meeting today over lunch. And, of course, he always loves to rope me in when it’s a costume picture … he knows I don’t mind the historical research involved.”

“And what’s the movie?”

“It’s about Mary Queen of Scots.”

“To be made in France?”

“Well, yes, and in England and Ireland.” Alexa broke off, exclaimed, “Oh, Tom, how beautiful the Place de la Concorde looks tonight … under this perfect sky.”

He glanced out the window and murmured, “Yes, it
is
a perfect sky, and there is such a marvelous clarity of light this evening. The city looks magnificent at this hour.”

“A little bit later than the Magic Hour, but nothing to complain about,” she said.

“You and your Magic Hour! Dreamed up when you were a child,” Tom laughed.

“You remember?”

“I remember everything.”

He reached for her hand, but she quickly put it on her lap, glanced out of the window again, pretending she had not realized he wanted to hold hers in his. She knew if he
touched her, she would fall apart or leap on him. She didn’t want to do either, and certainly nothing foolish.

“So, tell me more about your movie,” he suddenly said, turning toward her.

“Well, as you know, Mary grew up here at the French court, under the patronage of her Guise uncles—”

“Ah, yes, those somewhat ambitious princes of the blood,” he cut in.

“Then she married the Dauphin, became Queen of France when his father died, and then was widowed rather soon when very young.”

“And then she was sent back to Scotland to be their rightful queen. How much of her life does the movie cover, Alexa?”

“From what Nicky said, the early years … her time at the French court, marriage, becoming the French queen, and then her move to Scotland, marriage to Lord Darnley, and her love affair and marriage with the Earl of Bothwell. I believe the script ends when they have to part.”

“A romantic story in many ways.”

“Yes.” Stay away from the subject of romance, a small voice cautioned. She went on swiftly. “I always complain to Nicky when he offers me a costume picture, but actually I do quite enjoy doing historicals. They’re very challenging, and I admit it, I like digging into the research, coming up with some authentic houses as well as my own sets.”