Crossing on the Paris Read online

  “What are you working on?” Constance asked politely.

  Mildred held up a sampler with colorful numbers and letters embroidered into the fabric. In the center, she was stitching a large Christmas tree covered with candles, beads, and baubles.

  “I know it may seem odd to work on a Christmas sampler in June, but I’m making twelve of them—all different!—for our church bazaar come December. My work is so very appreciated . . .”

  Mrs. Thomas continued talking, but Constance had long stopped listening. She sat staring at that festive tree, trying to work out whether, after last year, their holidays could ever be the same again.

  She and George had brought the children round to visit her parents on Christmas Eve. The girls were so excited. Elizabeth and Mary had helped bake gingerbread men for everyone and even prepared a few carols to sing. Dressed in ribbons and bows, the three little girls led the way into the parlor; Elizabeth proudly carried the tray stacked with cookies while Mary held a toddling Susan by the hand. Thrilled by the season, they entered the room grinning and singing: “We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas . . .”

  Next to the unlit tree, their grandmother was crouched in front of the fireplace, barefoot. In her white nightgown, her long, graying hair loose, she was gazing intently into the fire, poking it with a thin branch. She didn’t acknowledge their presence, as if she hadn’t heard their entrance nor the girls’ pealing song. Elizabeth stopped and called out.

  “Gran!” She laughed. Could her grandmother—always rather quirky—be playing a game, pretending not to know they’d arrived, only to feign utter delight when she finally turned around? “We’re here! It’s Christmas!”

  Lydia still didn’t react. Constance brushed past her daughters, making her way to the fireplace in a few quick strides, as a smiling Gerald came on the scene. He had been locked away in his study as usual, but was lured out by the girls’ cheerful song. His face paled as he saw his wife huddled there in her nightdress and he too rushed past the children.

  “Mother?” Constance asked, reaching out to tap her shoulder. “Lydia?” exclaimed Gerald, right behind her.

  Wild-eyed, she looked up at them, her pretty mouth twisted into a confused snarl. Brandishing the stick with its fiery-red tip, she scooted away on her backside, until she was safe behind the armchair. Once there, she held the branch close, then began to sear her forearm with the ember.

  “I burn therefore I am,” she muttered sharply. “If I can burn, then I exist.”

  Constance and her father stood in paralyzed shock, watching the welts rise on her arm as they caught a faint odor of charred skin and burnt hair. Gathering his wits, Gerald finally charged his wife, pushing the armchair aside and disarming her, throwing the maple branch into the fire. With one arm, he tightly held Lydia, who began uttering a long, ghostly moan, and with the other batted Constance away.

  Panicking, she looked over at George and her children. The girls were sobbing, holding on to their father’s pants legs, gingerbread men broken at their feet. Constance rushed over to her daughters, hugged them close, then whisked them all out of the room.

  “What the hell was that?” George whispered in a huff, as if he himself had suffered a personal affront. “Good God!”

  “Take the little ones home,” Constance said, ignoring his blustering comments and trying to keep her voice calm. “I’ll be there as soon as possible. I can’t leave them like this. I’m going to call Dr. Matthews.”

  “It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake, Constance!” he cried, still vexed.

  “There’s nothing I can do about that,” she said plainly, then kneeled down to talk to the girls. “Don’t worry about Gran,” she breathed in a soothing voice, stroking their damp, puffy faces with her silk handkerchief. “She’s sick and she needs a doctor. Now, you go on home to wait for Santa Claus. I’ll be there directly.”

  George took the girls home, and Constance stayed, as she always did, to help her parents. The family doctor finally came round that evening. Lydia was still in her nightgown next to the fireplace, now cold. Dr. Matthews helped get her in bed—Lydia would listen to him—and gave her a sedative.

  Christmas Eve . . . That was the beginning of this long episode, her worst ever. Had six months already passed since that night? For her mother—who hadn’t spoken since—had any time passed at all? In her mind, did she still exist?

  “The other hand, ma’am,” the manicurist said, obviously not for the first time.

  “Oh, right, sorry.” The corners of Constance’s mouth briefly rose into a makeshift smile as she exchanged one hand for the other.

  “Aren’t you the absentminded one today!” Mildred teased her in time with her stitches. “My, my!” She poked the needle in twice more.

  Christmas, thought Constance, looking at the sampler’s tree. This year, how would the girls react to the decorations, the carols, the sweets? Mildred peeked over at Constance, who was staring again at her work. Pleased, she held it up for admiration once more.

  After another fifteen minutes, Constance was ready to go. Her hair was cut and styled and her nails shiny and trim. However, instead of feeling pampered and revitalized, she was utterly drained.

  “Don’t you look lovely!” Mildred Thomas said. “One might think you were getting all gussied up for someone special!”

  She wrinkled her nose with a smirk. Constance gave her an uncomfortable little nod. This woman made her nervous. Perhaps it was a good thing that Mrs. Thomas was working under the erroneous notion that she was from Boston. Not only would she not relish a visit from the Thomases, but Worcester was a small town. Mildred seemed rather suspicious of her friendship with Serge. Constance wouldn’t like to imagine her meeting one of her neighbors and saying . . . what exactly?

  Constance was walking out as a beautician led Mrs. Thomas to the sink for her rinse.

  “Good-bye, dear.” Mildred waved. “See you at luncheon!”

  “Good-bye,” Constance said shortly, slipping through the salon door.

  Once in the corridor, she took a deep breath. What a relief to be free of the close confines of the salon. The strong smell of the dyes—not to mention the noxious company of Mrs. Thomas—was making her dizzy. While sitting at her side, Constance had already decided to have lunch ordered to her room. But what she really needed now was some aspirin. She wanted to be able to enjoy herself tonight without any nagging pains hindering her mood.

  Indeed, she mused, perhaps this evening would provide a sensational anecdote to tell her girls. How their very own mother rubbed elbows with the rich and famous—Mary Pickford herself!—while eating Crêpes Suzette with the captain under the domed cupola of the first-class dining room.

  She unlocked the door to her cabin and, tossing her purse on the table, fell onto the bed. George might wonder, of course, why she’d been included in such a soirée. Though, truly, there was nothing wrong with a friendship between a man and a woman, even if there was a bit of an attraction between them. She lay back on her bed, recalling Serge’s clean, warm hands exploring her torso that morning; with a deep sigh, she closed her eyes, her fingers flitting up to lightly stroke it herself. Suddenly, she remembered her fancy Marcel waves and sat up with a jerk.

  Vera heard a knock at the door, which both woke Amandine from her nap in the other armchair and caused Bibi to produce a halfhearted bark.

  “Amandine, would you mind answering that?” Vera asked tiredly. “Perhaps it’s the doctor, checking to see if I’m still alive.”

  The maid opened the door to find a stylish woman in her late twenties, accompanied by a small boy of about five, in a green sweater and short pants, and what appeared to be his nanny.

  “May I come in?” she asked. “I’d like to see Mrs. Sinclair.”

  Amandine looked over at Vera, who nodded, pulling her shawl around her more tightly. The young woman instructed the servant and child to wait outside, on deck, but before the door was shut, Vera caught the boy’s eye; it wa
s big and brown and was studying her shamelessly.

  Amandine excused herself and retired to her own room, leaving the two women alone.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sinclair,” she said. “I’m Emma Richter, Josef’s wife.”

  “Yes, I remember you. Good afternoon,” Vera said, while pointing to the recently vacated armchair next to her. “Please, sit down.”

  Emma tentatively sat on the edge of the chair.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t come into the dining room for today’s luncheon. I wanted you to know that my husband and I have been reassigned to another table and you can feel free to join your companions at meals. Really, I shouldn’t like to think we’ve ruined the crossing for you.” There was a hint of confusion on her face. “This has all been so extraordinary . . .”

  “I fear it is I who have ruined the crossing for you,” said Vera. “I hope your husband is not too upset. And, please, don’t worry about the dining arrangements. I am taking meals in my rooms now, for a variety of reasons.”

  “Are you ill, madame?” Emma asked, then immediately regretted it. She knew it was too personal a question to ask a stranger, especially a stranger who had such a violent effect on her husband.

  Vera nodded and shrugged. “It is a part of growing old, I suppose.”

  “I would also like to apologize for my husband’s outburst yesterday,” she began, then hesitated. She knew Josef would be furious if he found out she was here, but she’d wanted to meet this woman for herself. “It was the shock, you understand.”

  “He had every right,” Vera began, then faltered, stifling a sob and struggling to remain calm. She took a few deep breaths, then looked into Emma’s face. There was no judgment there, no hostility. If anything, her deep brown eyes looked receptive. She decided to explain herself. “When I first met Laszlo, your husband’s father, he was so serious, so despondent. All I wanted was to see him smile.” She threw up her hands. “Isn’t that ironic? That in the end I caused him so much pain?”

  “You didn’t know he was married, did you?” Emma asked softly.

  “No,” Vera said, shaking her head with a sigh. “I was falling in love with him when he finally managed to tell me that he had a wife and son. I left that same day. And his letters . . .”

  “You never read them,” Emma finished, looking at Vera’s puzzled face with compassion. “But, I have.”

  “What?” Vera uttered, too stunned to say more.

  “A few summers ago, Josef and I were staying at his family’s country home in Solymár. I promptly sprained my ankle getting off a horse and was confined to my bed for the rest of the holidays. By the second day, I was bored stiff. I began poking around the bedroom, in search of some amusement, and I came across the letters.” Emma offered up her open palms apologetically. “I’d heard about them, of course, and frankly, I was astounded that they hadn’t been destroyed. They were in a drawer in the wardrobe—forty or fifty of them—tied together with a faded red ribbon.”

  “Tell me, then.” Vera’s voice trembled, her eyes welled with tears. “What did they say?”

  “It was an outpouring of love, affection, apology, angst,” Emma spoke with reverence. “Like nothing I’d ever read before.”

  Vera had lowered her face and covered it with one hand, listening with her eyes closed. Emma contemplated the elderly woman, her gnarled fingers, her wispy white hair. She seemed so harmless, so vulnerable. Was this really the woman who had driven Josef’s father to suicide, destroying his family in the process? Vera finally released her head and looked back up at Emma.

  “I didn’t read them”—Vera spoke slowly, articulating carefully—“because I was weak and knew I’d be tempted. I just wanted to do what was right.”

  “I confess,” Emma added, “as I was poring over them that summer—a brief pastime Josef was never aware of—I became curious about the woman who had inspired such passion.”

  “That woman,” Vera whispered, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, then balling it into her hand, “is long gone.”

  “You know, the letters did make me understand Josef’s bitterness. He was only seven or eight when he lost his father, and his only memories are those of a stern, taciturn man. Silence reigned at their house, at dinner, in the drawing room,” Emma paused for a moment, feeling a stab of guilt for discussing her husband with his rival. “I think he was hurt by the number of words—the veritable tomes—his father dedicated to you. But then, he never read them. He said just looking at the envelopes turned his stomach.”

  Emma stole a glance at Vera, afraid she might have hurt her; she was staring at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. Emma reached out and touched Vera’s arm.

  “Perhaps,” she added, searching Vera’s eyes with her own, “he would be more empathetic if he had.”

  “I wish there was something I could do,” Vera said. She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm herself. During this conversation, the heat from the fever had become an icy chill.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done, Mrs. Sinclair,” Emma said, rising to leave. “And now I should be on my way.”

  Vera got to her feet and gave Emma’s hand a warm shake.

  “Oh, Mrs. Richter,” she said suddenly. “When you rang, was that your son there at the door?”

  Emma Richter smiled. “Yes, that was young Max.”

  “Would you mind terribly,” Vera paused and bit her lip. “Would you mind if I made his acquaintance? Very discreetly. In the lounge, perhaps? I would so like to meet Laszlo’s grandson.”

  Emma looked at the frail woman before her, wobbly, shriveled, pale. What was the harm?

  “I have no objections to that, Mrs. Sinclair. He’ll be with his nanny all evening. You could probably find them in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you,” Vera said, “and thank you so much for coming to see me.”

  “Farewell, Mrs. Vera Sinclair,” Emma Richter said as she walked out the door.

  Vera breathed deeply, looking at the closed door of the quiet room. She dabbed her eyes again, then got back in bed, under the covers. She needed some rest. Later that day, she would meet the grandson of the last man she nearly let herself love. As she was falling into a feverish sleep, the smile on her face was unmistakable.

  After having lunch in her room, Constance played with china patterns. Her headache was thankfully gone and, growing nervous about her dinner date, she was passing the time with her paints. Tired of her own design, she tried to remember the floral one she’d copied out so many times that summer at Aunt Pearl’s. She successfully reproduced the rosebuds and swirling tendrils but couldn’t quite manage the rest. Looking at her watch, she saw it was nearly four o’clock: teatime in the drawing room. With the decision to fortify herself with a strong cup of tea, she put the watercolors away and happily left the cabin. For the last hour or so, it had been shrinking smaller and smaller.

  Since the deck was too foggy for all but the heartiest passengers, the drawing room was nearly full. As Constance looked for a place to sit down, she passed passengers napping, reading, playing dominos and chess. She noticed the young honeymooners she’d seen on deck. Instead of doing a crossword, at the moment they were busily feeding each other messy bites of mille-feuille pastries. Reminded of Faith and Michel, Constance looked away, deeming it too private an act to be done in a packed lounge.

  Making her way through the room, she thought back on her honeymoon with George. They had spent an awkward two weeks holed up in a cottage on Martha’s Vineyard, the pouring rain making outings or strolls impossible. There was no giggling or chocolaty feedings, no nude drawings or champagne silliness. And the bungling at night . . . Shaking that thought away, she reminded herself instead of the lovely piece of cross-stitch—a stylized S for Stone—she’d been able to produce on the island that fortnight, due to the uncooperative weather.

  In the far corner, she finally found a vacant chair (a big striped armchair she would have liked in her own sitting ro
om) next to an animated octet from London. They were about to begin a game of their own invention. Listening to their banter, their charming accents, Constance was again reminded of Nigel Williams. What was he doing now? Was he married? And his honeymoon?

  “Excuse me, miss?” one of the British women suddenly said to Constance with a little wave to get her attention. “Would you mind helping us with our game?”

  “Of course, I’d be delighted,” Constance said, eager for some lighthearted diversion after a morning with Mrs. Thomas and a lonely lunch.

  They had each brought a book, presumably to read, but as the barometer fell, they had become too skittish for literature, craving talk and amusement instead. They had all written down the last line from each of their books, then gathered the folded papers together and put their books out on the table.

  “We’re going to try to guess which last lines go with what books. But, we all know each other’s handwriting, which would give away the answers.” She gave Constance a friendly look. “Could you read out the sentences?”

  “Yes, that sounds like fun,” Constance replied.

  Beforehand, however, after the waiter had come round offering tea and pastries to the passengers, they introduced themselves, sweetened their tea, and took a look at the books at hand. There was a wide assortment, from best-selling authors like Sinclair Lewis, Zane Grey, and Edith Wharton, to old favorites like Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens, to unlikely choices such as Herman Melville.

  “Robert, how can you read Moby-Dick while at sea? With its mad captain and vicious whale, a sinking ship with a sole survivor . . . Doesn’t it all make you nervous?”

  “Look around you, my man! The Pequod would fit into the ballroom of the Paris! There isn’t a creature in the seven seas that could challenge an ocean liner!” He raised his teacup in appreciation. “Compare us with those poor blokes, eating their sea biscuits and boiling their blubber! No, I find it all quite comforting, I must say!”