Read Online A Temporary Ghost (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Series 2) by Michaela Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michaela Thompson
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difficult to know whether she saw today’s commercialism or the romantic panoply of her imagination.
By tacit consent, we split up to wander separately. Eating a ham and egg crêpe at an outdoor table, I mused: about the scene Marcelle had overheard between Vivien and Pedro, the anonymous letters I’d received, Blanche’s Book of Betrayal notebook. I felt as if I were riding a turbulent sea in a flimsy craft, uncertain whether I would stay afloat or be engulfed.
After lunch I continued to ramble, joining the crowds in the narrow streets. Eventually I came to the entrance of the Cité Mort, the ruins of the castle and its surrounding buildings. I paid the twelve-franc admission fee, passed through the small lapidary museum, and went to see where the lords of Baux had hurled their enemies from the cliff.
I emerged on a vast field of chalky, rubble-strewn stone. The glare was almost painfully intense. The ruins of the castle and outbuildings were on my left, looking as if they’d been struck by a bomb. Doorways and windows opened through half-knocked-down walls; archways and turrets emerged from piles of unformed stone. Ahead of me, white rock and sparse ground cover stretched out to a ridge. It was difficult to imagine a civilization flowering in this bleak and inhospitable spot. Dazzled by the sun, I followed a path across the plateau, past a bust of the Provencal poet Frederic Mistral and a stone cross to the cliff’s edge. Far below were tilled fields and forested hills, lines of cypress trees, straight-rowed vineyards. The contrast of the fertile plain with this arid rock was striking.
Hot wind fanned my cheek. Except for one short iron railing, there was no safety barrier. Throwing someone over would be no more difficult today than it had been for the lords of Baux. Sightseers drifted back and forth around me, inspecting the ruins or ogling the view, but in this large space there was no crush. I wandered along the edge until I’d had my fill of vertigo, then crossed back to the ruins. I was poking around the tumbling walls when I saw Blanche.
She was standing on a flat boulder projecting over the valley, and she was dangerously close to the edge. Her back was to me. Outlined against the sky, her pink shirt fluttering in the stiff breeze, she looked ridiculously slight, as if she might sail off on the next gust. Her head was bent. As I watched, she leaned forward, almost to the point of overbalancing. The thought came to me, forcibly, that she was about to jump.
I dashed forward, careening over the pebbly, uneven ground. She bent again, farther this time, and I was sure she would topple and disappear. She straightened, though, her hair tossed by the wind. I thought she squared her shoulders.
When I had almost reached her, I called, “Blanche!” She bent rapidly forward, but I lunged, clutched at her arms, and pulled her back. The guidebook sailed out of her hands and spun downward. “Are you crazy?” I cried.
Her face was wet with tears. A few people stared as I led her away, probably thinking I was angry with her for going so close to the edge. Back at the ruins, I sat her down on a low wall and dug in my pocketbook for a tissue. I was nearly crying myself. “God, Blanche, what were you trying to do?” I babbled. “Don’t do that again. Ever.”
She was shuddering, her elbows on her knees. She took the tissue I offered and wiped her face. “Don’t tell Mother,” she gasped, when she could speak.
“I have to—”
“No!” She drew a rasping breath. “You should have left me alone.”
“Why?”
She spread her hands limply. I took her by the shoulders. “Tell me!”
So faintly I had to lean forward to hear she said, “Everything’s wrong. Everything.”
I felt helpless. Should I talk to her, try to make her feel better? Or would I blunder and make it worse? I looked around for Ross and Vivien, but they were nowhere in sight. I put my arm around her shoulders, as much to keep her from
By tacit consent, we split up to wander separately. Eating a ham and egg crêpe at an outdoor table, I mused: about the scene Marcelle had overheard between Vivien and Pedro, the anonymous letters I’d received, Blanche’s Book of Betrayal notebook. I felt as if I were riding a turbulent sea in a flimsy craft, uncertain whether I would stay afloat or be engulfed.
After lunch I continued to ramble, joining the crowds in the narrow streets. Eventually I came to the entrance of the Cité Mort, the ruins of the castle and its surrounding buildings. I paid the twelve-franc admission fee, passed through the small lapidary museum, and went to see where the lords of Baux had hurled their enemies from the cliff.
I emerged on a vast field of chalky, rubble-strewn stone. The glare was almost painfully intense. The ruins of the castle and outbuildings were on my left, looking as if they’d been struck by a bomb. Doorways and windows opened through half-knocked-down walls; archways and turrets emerged from piles of unformed stone. Ahead of me, white rock and sparse ground cover stretched out to a ridge. It was difficult to imagine a civilization flowering in this bleak and inhospitable spot. Dazzled by the sun, I followed a path across the plateau, past a bust of the Provencal poet Frederic Mistral and a stone cross to the cliff’s edge. Far below were tilled fields and forested hills, lines of cypress trees, straight-rowed vineyards. The contrast of the fertile plain with this arid rock was striking.
Hot wind fanned my cheek. Except for one short iron railing, there was no safety barrier. Throwing someone over would be no more difficult today than it had been for the lords of Baux. Sightseers drifted back and forth around me, inspecting the ruins or ogling the view, but in this large space there was no crush. I wandered along the edge until I’d had my fill of vertigo, then crossed back to the ruins. I was poking around the tumbling walls when I saw Blanche.
She was standing on a flat boulder projecting over the valley, and she was dangerously close to the edge. Her back was to me. Outlined against the sky, her pink shirt fluttering in the stiff breeze, she looked ridiculously slight, as if she might sail off on the next gust. Her head was bent. As I watched, she leaned forward, almost to the point of overbalancing. The thought came to me, forcibly, that she was about to jump.
I dashed forward, careening over the pebbly, uneven ground. She bent again, farther this time, and I was sure she would topple and disappear. She straightened, though, her hair tossed by the wind. I thought she squared her shoulders.
When I had almost reached her, I called, “Blanche!” She bent rapidly forward, but I lunged, clutched at her arms, and pulled her back. The guidebook sailed out of her hands and spun downward. “Are you crazy?” I cried.
Her face was wet with tears. A few people stared as I led her away, probably thinking I was angry with her for going so close to the edge. Back at the ruins, I sat her down on a low wall and dug in my pocketbook for a tissue. I was nearly crying myself. “God, Blanche, what were you trying to do?” I babbled. “Don’t do that again. Ever.”
She was shuddering, her elbows on her knees. She took the tissue I offered and wiped her face. “Don’t tell Mother,” she gasped, when she could speak.
“I have to—”
“No!” She drew a rasping breath. “You should have left me alone.”
“Why?”
She spread her hands limply. I took her by the shoulders. “Tell me!”
So faintly I had to lean forward to hear she said, “Everything’s wrong. Everything.”
I felt helpless. Should I talk to her, try to make her feel better? Or would I blunder and make it worse? I looked around for Ross and Vivien, but they were nowhere in sight. I put my arm around her shoulders, as much to keep her from
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