Authors: Danielle Steel
“Because the woman you resent so greatly is a diabetic, and if I’d gotten her pregnant it could have killed her. I had a vasectomy several years ago.” He stared back at Deanna, satisfied with the disclosure, as Deanna steadied herself unthinkingly on the back of a chair.
“I see.” There was a long silence between them. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I’m tired of lies, and your miserable pathetic face, and your feeling put upon and used and abused by me. I have not abused you, madam. I have done you a favor. I have kept you, and your child, in spite of your appalling behavior. In spite of the fact that you’re an adulteress. And now he’s gone, and you have no one to turn to but me. You are mine.”
“To do with as you choose, is that it, Marc?” Her eyes raged at him, but he was too drunk to see it.
“Precisely. And now I suggest that you take yourself and my son to bed, and I will take myself to bed. I will see you in the morning.” He marched solemnly upstairs, totally unaware of the effect of his admission. Deanna had been freed.
32
The door to the back of the house, behind the kitchen, had been locked, and she had the key. She had called Kim and asked her to rent a car—a station wagon. She would explain later. She had had the grocery store deliver a dozen boxes. The equipment in her studio went easily into three. Her photographs and albums fit in five. The paintings were all neatly stacked next to the back stairs. Six suitcases waited to be packed. She picked up the phone and asked Margaret for her help. She would not do this alone. She had been working in her studio since six, and it was almost nine. She knew that Marc had probably already left the house. He didn’t follow her to her studio after she left their room, and the silence in the house had been deafening. The end had come quietly, in silence. Now she could put away the past. In a dozen boxes and a few valises. She was leaving him everything else. It was all his. The furniture from France; the paintings; the rugs; and the silver, which had been his mother’s, almost all of it sent from France. All that she had collected over the years was in her studio—art books, brushes, paints, a few trinkets, some bits and pieces that she liked but were worth nothing. She had her clothes. And the jewelry she would take too. She would sell it to eat, until she found a job. She was taking all her paintings, they meant nothing to him, and she could sell those too. All except the one of herself and Pilar. That was not a painting to sell, it was a treasure of a lifetime. The rest he could have. He could have it all.
She unlocked the door at the foot of the studio stairs and hesitantly made her way through the house. What if he was still there? If he was waiting? If he knew what she was going to do and how soon? But it didn’t matter now. He couldn’t stop her. He had told her what she needed to know last night. The baby wasn’t his, it was Ben’s. And he had known all along. But it didn’t matter anymore. None of it did.
“Margaret, is …?” She wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“He left for the office at half past eight.” Margaret’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Mrs. Duras, you’re not. … Oh, don’t leave us, don’t go…”
It was the speech that should have been made by Marc, except that he already knew he had lost and he was too drunk the night before to follow through on his fears. He must have figured that if he slept it off and let her hide in her studio, he could come home with a handsome piece of jewelry, an apology, and a lie, and all would be well again. Not this time. Deanna put an arm around Margaret.
“I have to. But you’ll come and see me.”
“I will?” The old woman looked crushed; Deanna smiled at her through her own tears. She was crying for herself now, not for him.
The doorbell rang as they finished the second suitcase. Deanna jumped, startled, and for a moment Margaret looked like she might panic, but Deanna sped down the stairs and discovered that it was Kim.
“I got the biggest station wagon they had. It looks like a boat.” She tried to smile but saw that Deanna was not in the mood. There were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was disheveled, and her eyes were rimmed with red. “Looks like it must have been a great night.”
“The baby’s not his.” It was the first thing she could think of to say, and then suddenly she was smiling at Kim. “It’s Ben’s, and I’m so glad.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” For a moment, Kim didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but somehow she felt immensely relieved. Deanna was free. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’re leaving?”
“Yes. Now.”
“I had a suspicion it was something like that. Because of the baby?” They were still standing at the door. Deanna started slowly toward the stairs.
“That and everything else. The other girl, the baby. It’s not a marriage. Kim. And whatever it is or it isn’t, it’s over. I knew that for certain last night.”
“Will you tell Ben?” But it was a dumb question. She knew that Deanna would. She knew it, until Deanna shook her head. “Are you kidding? Why not?”
“Why? So I can run from Marc’s house to his? So he can take care of me too? I left him, Kim. I walked out. I went back to Marc and never told him I was having a child. What right do I have to call him now?” Her eyes looked too big in her face. Kim stared at her, trying to make sense of what was being said.
“But you’re having his baby. What more right do you need?”
“I don’t know. I just know I won’t call.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?” Kim grabbed her arm as she started up the stairs.
“Leaving here. I’ll find an apartment and take care of myself.”
“Oh, for chrissake, will you stop being so noble? How the hell will you eat?”
“Paint, work, sell my jewelry. … You’ll see. Come on, I have to finish upstairs.” Kim looked sober as she followed her up the stairs. She thought leaving Marc was the best idea Deanna had had yet but not calling Ben was insane.
Margaret had just finished packing the last bag. There was nothing left in the room except the things that belonged to Marc. The little trinkets and photographs, the tiny mementos, the jewel box, and the books … all were packed and gone. She stopped for only a moment on the threshold, then hurried down the stairs.
It took them twenty-five minutes to pack the car, with Margaret crying ceaselessly and Kim carrying all the heavy bags. Deanna carried only her paintings, which were light.
“Don’t touch that!” Kim shouted at Deanna once, when she had been about to pick up a valise. “You’re five months pregnant, you jackass.” Deanna smiled.
“No, I’m not. Probably a lot more like four.” Then they both grinned. Deanna had figured that out in the early morning as she cleaned all her paintbrushes, wrapped them in newspaper, and put them away. He had told her that she had conceived at the end of June, which was when he’d left. But it was probably more like late July, when she was with Ben. That explained too why Dr. Jones hadn’t heard the heartbeat until a month after he thought he should have and why she was so small. Also, why she was still so tired. She was probably almost exactly four months pregnant. “Oh, my God.” She suddenly looked up at Kim. “Is today Thanksgiving?”
“It is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
“Not until later. We’ll get you settled first. You can have a nap. And then we’ll get dressed and have a turkey dinner.”
“You’re nuts. You act as though you’ve been planning for weeks to have me stay.” The two women exchanged a smile as they stowed the last painting in the back of the car. “I’m going to stay at a hotel, you know.” She said it firmly as she looked at the paintings and packages in the car.
“No, you’re not.” Kim was equally firm. “You’re staying with me. Until you’re ready to move out.”
“We’ll discuss it later. I want to go back inside for a minute and check.”
“Is there any chance Marc might come back? It is a holiday after all.”
But Deanna shook her head. “Not for him. He works on Thanksgiving.” And then she smiled a half-smile and shook her head. “It isn’t French.” Kim nodded and got into the car as Deanna disappeared back into the house. Margaret was in the kitchen, and for a moment Deanna was alone. For the last time in what had been
her
house—except that it had never been. It had always been his. Maybe the little French girl in the fur coat would like it, maybe it would all mean something to her.
Deanna stood in the hall, looking through the living room, glancing at the portraits of Marc-Edouard’s ancestors. It was amazing, after eighteen years she was leaving with almost as little as she’d brought when she had come. Some boxes, some canvases, her clothes. The clothes were more expensive now. The jewelry would keep her alive. The paintings were better, the art supplies finer. But it all still fit in one car. Eighteen years in as many boxes and bags. She sat down at her desk then and pulled a piece of paper out of a drawer. It was Wedgwood blue, trimmed in white, and the letterhead said M
ME
. M
ARC
-E
DOUARD
D
URAS
. She pulled out her pen, thought for a moment, and then wrote only a few words:
I loved you, darling.
Good-bye.
She folded the sheet of paper, wiped a tear from her face with the back of one hand, and left the note stuck in the mirror in the hall. When she turned away, she saw Margaret watching her, the tears streaming from her eyes. Deanna said nothing, only went to her, held her tightly for a moment. Then, with tears streaming from her own eyes, she nodded and walked to the door. She said only one word as she left, and she said it so softly that Margaret could barely hear. She said it gently as she closed the door and smiled. “Adieu.”
33
“Why won’t you come?” Kim looked disappointed. “It’s Thanksgiving, and I won’t leave you alone.”
“Yes, you will. I’m an uninvited guest, and an exhausted one at that. I can’t, love. Honest. I’m just too goddamn tired. Leave me here, and I may even revive by tomorrow.” But Kim wasn’t sure of that either. The last twenty-four hours had taken their toll. Deanna looked exhausted and bleak. Kim had even gone so far as to call Dr. Jones from the kitchen phone, where Deanna wouldn’t hear. She explained to him what had happened. His advice had been to just let Deanna be. Let her go at her own pace and do what she wanted. He felt sure that she’d be all right. On the strength of that Kim decided not to push.
“All right. But you’re sure you won’t be lonely.”
“No, more likely I’ll be asleep.” She smiled tiredly at her friend and suppressed a yawn. “I don’t think I’ll miss Thanksgiving at all this year.” The two women exchanged a smile, and Deanna was asleep before Kim left. Kim tiptoed out the door and quietly locked it.
The key turned in the lock around eleven that night, and for a moment he held his breath. It had been insane not to call, but he hadn’t known what to say. What could he tell her? How could he take back what he’d said? He had wanted to buy her something pretty, something to buy her back, but all the stores had been closed. Thanksgiving. A day of thanks. He had spent half the day working at his desk, and the other half quietly with Chantal. She had known that something was wrong, but she was not quite sure what. He had clung to her in their lovemaking in a very odd way.
He opened the door and looked up. There was no light and no sound. She was obviously asleep. Her car had been in the garage. He didn’t even see Margaret’s light shining under her door down the hall. The entire house was still, and he put on only a small light as he hung up his coat. And then he saw the note paper, stuck into the frame of the mirror near the door. Was she out? Had she gone somewhere with a friend? He reached for the paper and held it, a sudden, odd feeling clutching at his heart. He stood there for a moment, as though waiting to hear her voice or her foot on the stairs. He looked up again and heard only silence, and then slowly he opened the folds of the paper at last. His eyes swam and his head pounded as he read it. “I loved you, darling. Good-bye.”. Why “love
d
?” Why in the past tense? But he knew. He had told her the one thing that she could never know. That the baby was not his. She knew now that he had lied to her about the baby, and about Chantal. … She knew about his other life. She had seen him with Chantal in Paris and again the other night. With feet like lead he tried to race up the stairs. He would find Deanna there. She would be asleep in their bed. All day he had ignored what had happened between them, hoping it would go away. Calling her would make it real. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to do that. Now all he had to do was run to the bed and he’d find her there, asleep.
But when he reached their room, he found it as he dreaded he would—empty. She was gone. Deanna was gone.
Marc-Edouard stood deathly still for a long moment, not knowing what to do. Then fighting back tears, he reached for the phone. He needed her. Desperately. She had to be there for him now. He knew she would be. He dialed, but when Chantal answered, she sounded strange.