Read Online Mistral's Daughter by Judith Krantz - Free Book Online Page B

been lit in the corner of his studio.
    "You can't sit
there." "Why not?"
    "That chair is about to
fall apart."   "What do you
suggest then-the floor?"
    "I have a little table
outside in the garden — I thought we'd eat out there."
    "But do you also have
little chairs out there in the garden?" she asked with a flick of laughter
in her voice.
    "Yes, believe it or
not."
    "Ah, well in that case,
who could resist such magnificence?"   Maggy followed Mistral outside where overgrown lilacs, their white
blooms just in full bloom, hung glimmering faintly over a table of white
painted wood.   Two bentwood chairs stood
in the unmown grass, with heart-shaped backs and striped cotton cushions on
their wooden seats.   Mistral lit a tall
candle in a short, twisted copper candlestick while Maggy bent over the plate
and inspected the sausage.
    "Go on, take a
slice," he urged her.
    "It lacks...   how shall I put it...   a certain youth."
    "Better not eat
it," he said, hastily putting the plate on the grass.   "I think the cheese is probably
safe.   Are you really hungry?   I can go and get something — there's a charcuterie that stays open late..."
    "No, no, I'm teasing
you.   But did you have dinner?"   "Oh."
    "What is it?"
    "I just remembered where
I had dinner." "And?"
    "It was with a
woman...   a rich American art collector
of sorts who invited me to that Surrealist madhouse."
    "In that case she has
serious reason for complaint."   Maggy raised her wineglass, gravely leaning forward and gesturing to Mistral
to raise his glass to hers.   "To the
lady, let's drink to the lady who began the evening with Monsieur Mistral.   Who knows with whom she will end it?   I wish her good fortune."
    "Good fortune,"
said Mistral, touching her glass with his.   And all he drank all memory of Kate Browning disappeared.   Nothing existed outside of this still, dim
corner of a fragrant little garden, this space that seemed to have been dreamed
into an existence far from the real world, a space in which the music of
Maggy's voice, impudent, low and as free as running water, insulated him from
his former life; a space in which his familiar plot of garden seemed to be
newly created, as fresh-minted, secret and hidden as if it were the floor of a
rain forest.
    He felt his will, his
reliable, intractable will, slipping away from him like a heavy garment he had
worn for too long.   He felt ten years
younger, he found himself aware of the warm touch of the April air and the lush
whisper of the tall grass and the sweet scent of the lilacs and the harsh taste
of the wine.   Maggy was a lovely
shock.   He hadn't been prepared for
her.   He hadn't expected her.   What was she doing here?   He drank again and the question dissolved,
not in wine, because he hadn't had much wine, but in the night of her.
    Without any light but that of
the single candle, she decorated the night.   Her skin reflected the moon when she moved.   The flame of the candle kindled an answering
spark in the green of her eyes, a spark so alive that it made the April moon,
tucked among the trees, look insignificant and far away.   The sound of her voice seemed to be arousing
him to feelings of confused mutiny...   against what he could not have said.
    Almost reluctantly, as if
obeying an order, he yielded to an unfamiliar yet irresistible command.   He flung himself on the grass and took
Maggy's bare feet in his hands, rubbing gently.
    "Poor feet — they're cold," he murmured.
    She didn't answer.   The touch of his hands, big, flexible, powerful,
the heat and the slight roughness of his skin, made her shudder with an emotion
she didn't understand.   She flung back
her head and it seemed to her that the haze of stars was humming.
    Now his lips were on the
soles of her feet, tentative, questioning, barely brushing the skin. She
caught her breath, afraid to move, spellbound by the sensations that shot from
her feet to the very roots of her hair, piercingly urgent