Read The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel Online
Authors: Mj Roë
Anna had grown up longing to do something interesting with her life. Creative and talented, she had further developed her storytelling ability through her high school years. Her first short story was published when she was a senior in high school. She published a short novel while studying English and French at UCLA. Once she had completed her undergraduate studies, she flew off to study for her graduate degree in Paris, a move that would transform her and profoundly affect how she lived her adult life. She adapted to the easygoing nonchalance of the French and lived a relatively carefree life as a student and writer in Paris in the 1980s. It was during that time that she had met and fallen in love with a young medical student whom she nicknamed C-C. She had not intended for the affair to be serious; he certainly had not, or she would have had a response to her letters. Anna closed her eyes as she leaned back and held her face up to absorb the warmth of the sun. She was back in Paris, standing for a moment looking up and down the rue Saint-Jacques. A sudden and deep feeling of loss flooded her entire being. C-C. Where are you?
“Where are you?” Mark’s voice, eerily echoing her thoughts, brought her back to the present. She opened her eyes.
“So, what’s the answer? What were you thinking so hard about just now?” Breathless and sweating from jogging along the shore-line, he flung a towel around his neck and plunked his appealing muscular frame down beside her. He stretched his powerful legs straight out in front of him, crossed his arms, and smiled. He had a handsome, boyish face, and his sandy hair was in disarray.
“My latest novel, I guess…” she lied.
“Hi, boy.” Mark tousled Paris’ big floppy ears. The man had definitely won over her dog. The golden retriever was up on his feet and responding with a wild wag of the tail.
“How about we go get a latte at Starbucks?”
“Okay…sure,” she nodded, smiling.
“By the way, there’s a package waiting for you at your door. I saw it when I was leaving.”
“Hmmm. I wasn’t expecting anything.”
“Ah well, then we have a mystery.” He leaned over, grinning, and nudged her with his arm. “Let’s go get that coffee first.”
An attorney in his midthirties, raised in Pacific Palisades in a wealthy Hollywood filmmaking family, Mark was what Anna referred to in her novels as the quintessential “Mister Perfect.” He had done his undergraduate work at the University of California, Berkeley, then attended Stanford Law School, passed the California bar, and immediately moved to Laguna Beach where he had found a small office above an antique store on Glenneyre Street and opened his own practice. The sign on the side of the building read: “LAW OFFICES M. A. Zennelli, Attorney at Law.” He didn’t have a lot of clients, but the ones he had seemed to keep him busy processing mostly real estate litigation. He drove a new navy blue BMW convertible, worked out daily, and liked to eat out a lot. Anna had thought that he was a sweet guy the day she had literally run into him jogging on the beach near her condo. They had started dating and, she had to admit, they had fun together, but the relationship had never blossomed, despite Mark’s occasional suggestion that it might.
Since she had returned from France, he had been trying to understand what was going on with her. She had been indifferent, aloof. He liked her enough to be patient, telling himself that it was her grief over her grandparents that had caused her to become more distant. So he had come up with a plan. The package sitting at her door represented the initial effort.
M
ark and Anna stood in front of the open French doors of her condo. Outside, the shimmering blue-green Pacific Ocean sent sparkling waves crashing to the beach. Mark’s hazel eyes reflected the ocean as he watched her open the mysterious package that had arrived that afternoon on her doorstep. It was a large oil painting—one of those Paris street paintings.
“I found it on consignment in one of those small galleries just down the highway. I thought you’d like it,” he said. “I guess some old lady had bought it on a trip to Europe decades ago and didn’t want it anymore. I know how much you like Paris, and it sort of, ah, reminded me of you.” He shifted his weight to his other foot and waited for her reaction.
The painting was a cliché. In the impressionistic style of Paris street artists, it was the often-painted scene of the place du Tertre in Montmartre, the artists’ square, with the white dome of Sacré-Coeur visible in the background. In the foreground was the Café Gascogne, with a blurry assortment of people seated at tables under a green awning. A couple walked in the square, the woman clothed in a bright, tulip red. It appeared to be a cloudy day, and the artist had given the street a mirrored effect as if it were wet from a recent rain.
“You know, it’s odd, but I’ve never purchased one of these paintings in Paris, Mark. All the time I’ve spent there, I’ve admired lots of the artists’ work. I always thought it would be too much trouble to get through customs. This one is rather nice. Thank you.” Anna was touched by Mark’s thoughtfulness. Her brown eyes glistened. She looked up. “I have the perfect spot for it—over there, on that wall.” She pointed to an empty space above the persimmon-colored couch. “It will go perfectly with the colors of the room.”
“Anna…” Mark hesitated a moment and then dropped what he was going to say. “I…I’m glad you like it.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. Without pulling back, she let him kiss her. He was warm and smelled of musk. His strong arms enveloped her small frame. “How about dinner tonight? My place. I’m cooking for a change. Spaghetti
alla Bolognese
. It’s a family specialty.”
“That should be a treat. Sure.”
That evening, after dinner, with Paris at their feet, they lay wrapped in a large beach blanket on the chaise lounge on Mark’s balcony. He listened with his arms around her as Anna shared with him the story that her grandfather had told her before he died in the hospital. She told him about the Corsican father she hadn’t known who had died as a soldier in Algeria, and about the mother who hadn’t cared to know her. She poured out her heart to him about losing her grandparents, all the questions she had now about whether there was a relative, a grandfather, somewhere in the world. The only thing she didn’t tell him about was C-C. They sat for a long time in silence, listening to the waves and enjoying the smell of the fresh, salt air.
“Have you ever been in love, Anna?” he asked her as he nuzzled her ear.
The question took her by surprise. She pulled back slightly and looked at him.
“Yes…maybe…I don’t know. What is real love, anyway? I write about it all the time. I write passionate love scenes in my books. But do I really know what love is? I don’t know.”
“If I read one of your books, would I get a clue as to how to make passionate love to you?”
She laughed. “Wait. You mean, like reading one of your law textbooks?”
“Sorta…” His eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he played with her hair. He kissed her neck.
“No, my books are all fiction.” She put her hand on his chest. “You’ll have to figure it out on your own. You’re the smart attorney.”
“Is that a summons to court?”
She couldn’t speak, but she nodded in spite of herself. Her heart was beating too fast.
“Well then, I’ll have to put together a creative motion for this case.” He moved his tongue down her neck and smothered his face between her breasts. His right hand slid under her sweater around her ribs, and his left hand slipped under the drawstring waistband of her warm-up pants, caressing her buttocks as he pulled her in close to him.
She felt weak. “Is this how you win cases?” she whispered.
You could be the woman in the painting with this on. I’d like to be the man walking at your side. M.
A
world away from Paris, Anna stood on her doorstep, staring at the card that had arrived with a special delivery package from one of those glamorous shops on Rodeo Drive. Neatly folded inside the signature tissue paper was a soft, cashmere sweater in her favorite color—persimmon.
The gift was a little too personal, a bit too extravagant. It made her uncomfortable. Yet, it was sensual. She nestled her nose in the softness of the cashmere. She went into the bedroom and pulled the sweater on over her head. It had a classic V-neck and small ribbing. It was a good color for her, and it fit her perfectly. She looked at herself in the mirror. She had a nice figure. Her skin was light olive and healthy looking. Her long, dark hair was shiny. The image in the mirror stared back at her. What could you have been thinking? A thirty-five-year-old woman? That you could just waltz back into C-C’s life after all this time and take up where you had left off a decade before? You are insane. You should fall in love with Mark. Marry him. Have a family. Why not?
She picked up the phone and dialed Mark’s cell phone. His voice message said he was with a client and to leave a message.
“Hi Mark. It’s Anna. The sweater arrived. It’s just…just beautiful. I’m not sure I deserve all this attention. Stop over for a glass of wine when you get home later so I can thank you in person.”
He called back and left a message an hour later when she was out walking Paris. “Hi. It’s Mark. How about we meet somewhere? I’m tied up at the office until the wee hours—new client and all that. But I would like to see you. How about a margarita at Las Brisas at say sevenish?
Hasta luego
.”
It was a cool November evening. Anna walked into the popular Mexican restaurant in Laguna Beach. She wore her new sweater with black pants, a melon wool scarf, and high-heeled black leather boots. The colors offset her long, dark hair and stunningly beautiful eyes.
Mark was waiting in the cantina. Showing his obvious admiration, he took her hand and brushed her on the cheek with his lips as he guided her to a table.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he whispered in her ear.
Anna gazed at him. Dressed in a sleek, taupe suit with a chestnut beige silk tee that matched his hair, he looked to-die-for gorgeous himself. She squeezed his hand.
The waiter brought them chips and salsa. Mark ordered two of the house specialty margaritas, on the rocks.
“I’m swamped at the office. I’ve got this new client…very rich, and now my family has asked me to do some work for them also. It involves some travel. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll be in New York until sometime next week. Will you be okay?”
“Sure. I’ve got to meet with my agent anyway, explain why my book’s not getting done before the end of the year as planned. He’s getting a little testy about it.”
“Good luck on that. What say we plan a weekend getaway when I get back? We could spend Thanksgiving in Vegas, maybe? My family will be in Europe, so no Mom’s turkey feast this year.”
She flinched. He really was moving too fast now. A trip together would be a whole new step in their relationship. Was she ready?
He regretted the comment about the Thanksgiving turkey feast as soon as he said it. Anna’s face showed it.
“I…I hadn’t even thought about the holidays coming up. My grandmother always made a big deal out of Thanksgiving,” she said, clearing her throat and shifting in her chair. “Even if we didn’t have many guests, she made a huge turkey with all the trimmings and fussed and fussed over the table.” She paused a minute to gather herself together. The whole subject made her uncomfortable. “Actually, Mark, getting out of town that weekend might be a good idea.” She forced a smile. She could handle it. She needed to get out of her shell.
“Great, then.” He heaved a small sigh of relief. “We’ll plan on it.” The restaurant was noisy. They finished their drinks. “I’ve really got to get back to work.” He looked at his watch. “I have an early morning flight, too, so guess this is good-bye for a few days.”
They left the restaurant and walked down the hill toward the beach, lingering briefly along the concrete beachfront footpath. In the moonlit darkness, the ocean waves could be heard lapping against the rocks. He took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he kissed her again, a lingering, passionate kiss that took her breath away. The ocean air was crisp and cool, and the stars shone brightly above them.
“H
ave you ever been in eastern France?”
Mark called Anna from New York two nights later. The question took her totally by surprise.
“Years ago. Why, Mark?”
“Our meeting today. Legal issues with the European Union. Firm’s in Strasbourg. I have to fly over and see what’s goin’ on. It’s a family issue.”
“Lucky you. A business trip to France. When do you leave?”
“Not so fast, Anna. I don’t speak French, remember.”
“Oh, you’ll get along just fine.”
“I’m not talking about in the meetings. The firm I’ll be dealing with speaks English. I’m talking about getting around. Ordering in the restaurants. Asking for directions. You know, the street stuff. Last time I was in France was when I was a little kid. I need a tour guide.”
“Most taxi drivers will gladly give you a tour, Mark.” She was having fun with him. “They will even provide you with commentary.”