Hidden In Paris Part 17

Lola took a deep breath, stared at her feet, at the wall, and said, "You're a fault-finder."

"You're the fault-finder," Mark retorted, "as you just proved. Only you're a hypocrite."

"I'm a hypocrite?" Lola said anxiously.

"You never said anything."

"I was afraid that you'd stop loving me. I was afraid that you'd leave me."

"So instead you leave me? What a joke."

"I'm sorry."

"It suits you to see yourself as victimized and me as the tyrant, but you constantly insinuate that I'm a bad father, a bad husband."

"I never said that."

"Oh spare me. I read it in your eyes."

Lola was dumbstruck that Mark allowed himself to be so candid. "But I..."

"And s.e.x," Mark interrupted. He paused, "There's always an excuse. Your libido."

Lola's shoulders relaxed suddenly. s.e.x, that time-honored weapon of conjugal life. "Maybe I was just resentful."

"Well, I'm sure glad you admit it at last. I knew it was a crock of s.h.i.+t."

"You know it's not that I don't love you."

"What do you want me to do, Lola? You want me to crawl back to you on my hands and knees? You know me better than that."

"We need to communicate."

"Girlfriends 'communicate.'"

Lola's heart sank. "So what do we do?" she murmured.

"I'm not running after you, if that's the game you're playing. I won't be waiting long. You're not the only mermaid on Malibu Beach, as you well know."

"Are you saying you want to see other...people?"

"Hey, not a bad suggestion! You know, try out a French guy." He laughed nervously.

"There is no French guy."

"After you've finished gut-wrenching communication with the perfect wimp of your dreams."

"But it's not what I want."

"I'm what I am," Mark said, "It's my way..."

"Or the highway...I know."

"Well, f.u.c.k you! I'm hanging up," Mark said, and he did.

Lola stared at the receiver and burst into tears. Annie was there in an instant, an arm around her shoulders, letting Lola sob against her. "I listened to the whole thing," Annie admitted. "You're making real progress."

"You think he's beginning to see my point?"

"Well, no. What I mean is that you're closer to standing on your own two feet."

"You know what is bothering him the most about having us disappear like this?" Lola wept. "It's that he can't explain it to people without looking like a complete loser. He doesn't care at all about us...about me."

In Bel Air, Mark hung up the phone. It was dark now and he had not bothered turning the lights on in the living room. So when the headlights of a pa.s.sing car in the distance briefly brightened the room, Mark lifted his head, startled. For a second he was disoriented and took it for Lola's car coming up the driveway, which was absurd. The house had a different smell now, a different sound. From the couch, Mark counted the interval of the security system's light, red against the wall, and the green lights of the message machine that showed thirty unheard messages. He better have the doctor check that hollow feeling in his solar plexus that felt kind of like acid reflux, but not exactly. Far away, in the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed. He searched the darkened room for signs of life but there were none, no movements and no voices, only the echo of his breathing bouncing off the walls. He got up from the couch, turned on a few lights, then turned most of them off. He walked up the steps and wandered through the immaculate house-immaculate, the way he thought he liked it. The sound of his steps m.u.f.fled on the carpet but echoed like in a museum when he entered the bathrooms. He opened the kids' bedroom doors, smelled the air for signs of them. He was a good man. Unlike his own father, Mark would never have raised his hand to his children or his wife. He only raised his voice. Only his voice.

Chapter 18.

The kitchen air was thick with heat and steam when Lucas entered. Annie was tipping a pot of boiling water the size of a small car into a giant colander. From Lucas's angle, steam from the angel hair pasta appeared to rise from Annie's body and she looked good enough to eat.

Annie glanced over her shoulder and saw him. Did she know he had been looking at her back and her beautiful b.u.t.t in those pants? "Where's Jared?" she asked.

"How should I know where Jared is?"

She poured the pasta into a bowl and dabbed steam from her cleavage and forehead with a kitchen towel. "He's gone M.I.A for three days."

"And you can't live without him suddenly?"

"Not me..."

Annie went quiet when Althea materialized in the kitchen cradling an oversized gray clay mug in her bony hands like it was life support. Lucas could not help but feel uncomfortable around this strange woman. Maybe it was the white sweater and pants that gave her that air of translucence, but today she looked more like a ghost than ever. "Bonjour!" he bellowed gregariously to hide his dismay. Again, he thought he must have misunderstood. There was no possibility that Jared was interested in her.

"h.e.l.lo," Althea mumbled without looking him in the eye. She advanced slowly towards the stove like a somnambulist, wrapped her long fingers around the handle of the teapot, poured boiling water into the mug that already contained a used-up tea bag, and vanished from the kitchen through the backyard gla.s.s door.

Annie nodded toward the door. "That's why I need Jared, and quick."

"You think they have a thing going?"

"Of course. How could you not notice?"

"Well, Jared did mention something."

Annie frowned. "So it's true? Why didn't you tell me anything? Anyway, he's disappeared for three days and nights and Althea's waiting for him, I know that much. But no one can talk about it. Oh no! Or the way she eats! I asked her why she looked so haunted. She said she was fine and had no idea what I was talking about. It's like a frigging 800-pound elephant in the room."

"Or an 80-pound elephant in her case."

"Since Jared's been gone, she has barely left her room during the day, and she roams through the house all night. She's not even calling her mother. I heard her crying in her room at four in the morning."

Lucas approached the stove. "What smells so good?"

"And Lola's no better since that last phone call to her husband three days ago when he essentially told her to come back to the marital bed or bug off. She's crying all the time. I'm thinking of adding a surcharge for Kleenexes."

"What are we eating?"

"Fish stew."

Jared's voice came behind them. "I'll have some."

"Look who's back!" Annie exclaimed. "G.o.d's gift to mankind! Where have you been?"

Jared made an evasive hand gesture. "Is it all right with you if I bring the food to my room?"

Annie gave Jared a dirty look, shrugged and took a large plate from the cabinet. Lucas watched her fill the plate with pasta, pour over it a heaping serving of fish stew that overflowed with mussels, shrimp, and red sauce, and top it with a sprig of parsley. She handed the plate to Jared. "You want something else? Dessert? Bread?"

"Non, c'est parfait," he said. He thanked her and left the kitchen like a robber carrying his loot, the aroma of fish, white wine, and tomatoes following him up the dark stairs.

"The h.e.l.l with these people," Annie said.

Lucas uncorked a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse, poured it in a gla.s.s, and handed it to Annie. "Even me?"

Annie put down her towel and took the wine gla.s.s. She leaned against the kitchen counter and took a sip. "No, you get an A-plus for entertaining me."

The dinner turned out to be a real diner de fou. Once their mothers mellowed out thanks to the wine, the children, sensing a window of opportunity, began making bullets out of bread and throwing them at each other. Simon's apparent function was to retrieve the bullets that had landed on the floor and pop them into his mouth. Lucas struggled to make conversation but it was no use, as Lola and Annie roared with laughter every time his accent sounded particularly hilarious to them. No one paid any attention to Althea who ate her own meal in the most peculiar way: She was cutting cooked beets into even squares, placing them between her fingers and dipping them in moutarde extra forte. The result was that her fingers and mouth were stained red and made her look as if she'd just feasted on someone's neck.

"I hope you can find me a couple cases of this fabulous wine, Lucas. I'm throwing a party," Annie said, emptying her gla.s.s and handing it to Lucas to be filled.

"A party?" he said in surprise. Annie had not mentioned a party, let alone attended one in the last three years. "What does it mean?"

"It means, I am back, baby!"

"She's back!" Lola howled and burst into laughter.

Wasn't this the same woman who, according to Annie, had been crying for three days? Lucas pondered the unpredictability of women. Scientists have demonstrated that as they live together, they can fall hormonally in synch. Could this be what was going on? Both of them on their emotional time?

Annie proceeded to tell Lola about what she had in mind, which made it apparent that this was not a spur of the moment decision, but something Annie had been planning for quite a while. This might not be drunken or hormonal talk, but perhaps a rebirth of enthusiasm for the very things Annie had shunned ever since Johnny's death. Maybe she was indeed coming out of her sh.e.l.l in some way. "It will begin as a kids' party and transform into an adult party toward the evening. An all day and all night affair. Something huge," Annie explained. "You remember my old parties, Lucas?"

Lucas groaned. "I thought they had been outlawed."

"You're an old party p.o.o.pydoo!" Annie said.

"Please allow me to give Lola an account of past events," Lucas suggested. "About thirty well-mannered children under the age of ten arrive here, and within moments, they become raving hooligans. Memorable indeed. They'll look back on it and say 'You know that party at Annie's, the one where I lost my left eye?'"

"My parties are a riot," Annie agreed.

"Alas in the proper sense of the term."

Annie ignored him. "Later in the evening, the grown-ups arrive. They bring something to drink, but the French don't do potluck; they don't even have a word for it. So the food will be up to me. I'm thinking of cooking a whole lamb, mechoui style. It will be served under a tent in the garden. That's what the pillows I've been working on are for."

This announcement confirmed the deliberate, premeditated nature of Annie's decision. This was news he should have rejoiced about, but he could not help but be aware of the fact that his friends.h.i.+p with Annie had started, been possible even, when Annie had isolated herself and become antisocial. "See Lola," Annie continued, "you have never partied until you've partied with the French. We'll be dancing, drinking, and eating all night. This thing won't end until the wee hours of the morning, with fresh baked croissants from the bakery, espresso, smeared makeup, and hangovers for everyone."

"How fun!" Lola cried.

"I've seen many couples created and destroyed during your parties, Annie."

"Oh, it's a meat market! People bring people, and I usually make a few new friends."

"And lose one or two."

"Let's party!" Lola bellowed.

At that moment, the dining room door opened. Jared was standing in the doorway, his hair a tangled mess, his black s.h.i.+rt riddled with moth, or perhaps acid, holes.

"Did you like the food? How come you..." Annie began, but before she could complete her question, Jared had walked around the table to where Althea sat, taken her beet-stained hand, grabbed bread from the bread basket, and taken her away from the dining room table and out of the room, the whole thing without uttering a word. Althea had appeared violently surprised, or embarra.s.sed and had turned a shade of red that would have made the beets envious. The door shut behind them and the kids giggled hysterically. Lucas looked at Lola and Annie who looked at him perplexed.

"No one told me that Frankenstein and his fiancee lived here!" he told the children who burst out laughing. Even Simon, who did not know why, laughed out loud showing the content of his mouth, filled with bread.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Annie whispered to Lola.

Althea was too rattled from her abduction from the dinner table to understand what it was she was looking at. Inside Jared's room, on the small pine desk, the table was set for two. There was red wine in coffee mugs, two plates framed by forks, spoons and knives, and in the center a bowl covered by a third plate. In a tall gla.s.s were two long-stemmed white roses that threatened to topple over. Jared placed the bread he had just taken from the dining room table next to an overflowing ashtray, then, realizing the ashtray did not belong, he emptied its content into a trashcan and put it back on the table. He took out a cigarette, lit it, put it in the corner of his mouth, took off the plate to uncover the bowl which was filled with the same food Annie had served for dinner and said "Ta-dah!" sounding apologetic.

She looked at him, still not understanding. Althea's stomach turned at the sight of that dish. She had not touched it at dinner, not even glanced at it, and now it was there, facing her like a reproach. The shrimp, mussels and pasta looked congealed, like those plastic meals one might find in the window of some j.a.panese restaurants. Did he mean for her to eat this? But what panicked her the most, what she could not take her eyes away from, was the attempt at a bouquet that stood on the table. Were those store-bought roses? For her?

Jared gave Althea the one chair and sat Indian-style on the bed, across from her, the desk between them serving as a dinner table. He was close, much closer than those times he had painted her, and he was peering into her eyes. There was absolutely nowhere to hide. Jared put the single bowl of food in front of him and she breathed in relief. She watched him wrap pasta expertly around his fork with the elegant ease that French people have when it comes to table manners. She followed the fork from the bowl, then up. The fork seemed suspended in the air for a moment, then began to advance toward her mouth.

Her eyes widened as Jared brought the food an inch from her lip. "No, No, Merci, non," she said, shaking her head furiously.

Jared gazed intently into her eyes and whispered a soft command. "Mange. C'est bon."

Althea blushed terribly. She was cornered. She opened her lips slightly.

"Plus grand. Bigger," he said gently, but with extreme seriousness.

She felt she had no choice but to part her lips and let him slide the pasta into her mouth. Her taste buds sent conflicting information to her brain about salt, tomatoes, danger. Her lips noticed the food was in fact still warm. The roof of her mouth and her tongue remembered the lusciousness of the sensation of eating forbidden food. She chewed slowly, not knowing where to look as Jared scrutinized her face. She chewed all the while eying the door, planning an escape. But already Jared had wrapped more pasta on the fork and aimed it at her mouth, his eyebrow raised in concentration. And again. And again. Althea chewed and swallowed powerlessly while her body rebelled, while, under the table, her fists tightened and her legs wanted to spring from under her and run out of the room. But, tangled with that rage, her heart ached for the way he gathered the pasta and slightly opened his own mouth like a mother does, how he whispered encouraging words, and smiled approvingly when she swallowed.

By the fifth forkful, she was gagging and her eyes were watering.

"Good for today. Tres bien," he seemed pleased. "Demain aussi, d'accord?"

Althea nodded.

He did not offer to paint her that evening. Instead he helped her up from the bed, away from the table and out of his bedroom, then walked her back to her own room. At her door, he filled her hands with bread like a grandfather gives candy to a child. Then he seemed to remember something. "Attends," he said suddenly. She stood in the hallway and watched him hurry to his room, then come back with the two roses. "Belle comme toi," he said, handing them to her. She took the roses, shaking from head to toe.