had, she no longer seemed to serve any purpose whatsoever. It was hard to live with that, hard to feel useless and unwelcome. And yet her life with Malcolm was something she was grateful for, and she had the child …but that was all she had, and why he was so infinitely, desperately precious to her.
She went to her own dressing room then, thinking of him, and changed into a long, pink satin dressing gown, and looked at herself long and hard in the mirror. In some ways, the years had been kind to her. Her figure had stayed the same, despite two children, but her face seemed older now, more sharply etched, more defined and wiser. The eyes were what gave her away, they said she had lived several lifetimes. And as she sat there, she found herself thinking of Charles again, only a few blocks away, and for an insane moment, she wanted to call him, but she knew she couldn't. There was nothing left to say to him except recriminations and apologies and regrets. There were no answers to their questions and now they both knew there never would be.
Malcolm came home shortly after that, and told her he had a business dinner scheduled for that evening. It had come up unexpectedly, and he apologized, as he kissed the top of her head and disappeared hastily to his own bedroom. She ordered a tray in her room that night, and tried to read the same page of the same book over and over, but she found she couldn't make sense of it, no matter how hard she tried. Her mind was elsewhere.
All through the evening, memories of Charles kept intruding on her …Charles in Paris when he was so brave, so wild, so young … in Venice … in Rome on their honeymoon … of Charles laughing …teasing her …swimming in a lake …running through a field …and then the last time …in Switzerland …and now, today…. She laid her head down, and cried finally, unable to bear the memories a moment longer. And finally, late that night, as the house lay still, she tiptoed silently upstairs and looked at the sleeping child. She knelt on the floor next to his bed and kissed the velvet of his forehead, and then tiptoed back downstairs to the room where she slept alone. She was aching to call Charles, but she owed Malcolm too much. He had done too much for her. She could not call Charles, no matter what … no matter what she still felt, or what he had said …she knew her days with Charles Delauney were over forever.
The next morning, Marielle made one of her rare ap pearances in the dining room for breakfast. Usually, she had her breakfast in her room on a tray, but this morning she had woken early. She found Malcolm downstairs, finishing his coffee and eggs, and reading the morning paper. In Italy, Mussolini had just demanded that France hand over Corsica and Tunisia.
“Good morning, my dear.' He was always courteous, always kind, always seemed pleased to see her, like a charming houseguest he hadn't expected to encounter quite so early. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not very,” she said honestly, which was rare. Usually it was easier to just say what was expected …fine …thank you …excellent …marvelous …but her night had been filled with nightmares.
“One of your headaches again?” He put down the paper to look her over, but she seemed well. In fact, she looked better than she had in a while, he decided.
“No, just a long night. I probably drank too much coffee after dinner.”
“You should drink wine, or champagne.” He smiled. “That'll put you to sleep.”
She smiled in answer. “Are you home tonight?”
“I think so. We'll spend a quiet evening by the fire.” Everything was always such a frenzy right before Christmas, the week before they had been out five evenings in a row, at least this week was quiet. “What are you doing today?”
“I thought I'd take Teddy to the park this morning.” She led such a small life, he felt. She seldom went out, never had lunch with friends. He had introduced her to everyone, yet even after all
She went to her own dressing room then, thinking of him, and changed into a long, pink satin dressing gown, and looked at herself long and hard in the mirror. In some ways, the years had been kind to her. Her figure had stayed the same, despite two children, but her face seemed older now, more sharply etched, more defined and wiser. The eyes were what gave her away, they said she had lived several lifetimes. And as she sat there, she found herself thinking of Charles again, only a few blocks away, and for an insane moment, she wanted to call him, but she knew she couldn't. There was nothing left to say to him except recriminations and apologies and regrets. There were no answers to their questions and now they both knew there never would be.
Malcolm came home shortly after that, and told her he had a business dinner scheduled for that evening. It had come up unexpectedly, and he apologized, as he kissed the top of her head and disappeared hastily to his own bedroom. She ordered a tray in her room that night, and tried to read the same page of the same book over and over, but she found she couldn't make sense of it, no matter how hard she tried. Her mind was elsewhere.
All through the evening, memories of Charles kept intruding on her …Charles in Paris when he was so brave, so wild, so young … in Venice … in Rome on their honeymoon … of Charles laughing …teasing her …swimming in a lake …running through a field …and then the last time …in Switzerland …and now, today…. She laid her head down, and cried finally, unable to bear the memories a moment longer. And finally, late that night, as the house lay still, she tiptoed silently upstairs and looked at the sleeping child. She knelt on the floor next to his bed and kissed the velvet of his forehead, and then tiptoed back downstairs to the room where she slept alone. She was aching to call Charles, but she owed Malcolm too much. He had done too much for her. She could not call Charles, no matter what … no matter what she still felt, or what he had said …she knew her days with Charles Delauney were over forever.
The next morning, Marielle made one of her rare ap pearances in the dining room for breakfast. Usually, she had her breakfast in her room on a tray, but this morning she had woken early. She found Malcolm downstairs, finishing his coffee and eggs, and reading the morning paper. In Italy, Mussolini had just demanded that France hand over Corsica and Tunisia.
“Good morning, my dear.' He was always courteous, always kind, always seemed pleased to see her, like a charming houseguest he hadn't expected to encounter quite so early. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not very,” she said honestly, which was rare. Usually it was easier to just say what was expected …fine …thank you …excellent …marvelous …but her night had been filled with nightmares.
“One of your headaches again?” He put down the paper to look her over, but she seemed well. In fact, she looked better than she had in a while, he decided.
“No, just a long night. I probably drank too much coffee after dinner.”
“You should drink wine, or champagne.” He smiled. “That'll put you to sleep.”
She smiled in answer. “Are you home tonight?”
“I think so. We'll spend a quiet evening by the fire.” Everything was always such a frenzy right before Christmas, the week before they had been out five evenings in a row, at least this week was quiet. “What are you doing today?”
“I thought I'd take Teddy to the park this morning.” She led such a small life, he felt. She seldom went out, never had lunch with friends. He had introduced her to everyone, yet even after all
Similar Books
