Hidden In Paris Part 6

Lola was wearing jeans and had taken off her makeup. Her face looked a bit strained from lack of sleep, but beautiful. "Didn't mean to make you jump," she said as she took the pan from the drying rack and began to wipe it dry. Annie cringed in horror. Now, during her teatime? Her solitude, invaded? "You don't have to do that!" she said rather bossily. "You must be exhausted. Go to bed!"

Lola seemed nonplussed by her tone. "I want to," she said nonchalantly. "I could use a cup of herbal tea too." She took a wet plate from Annie's clenched fingers and began drying it. "I guess I'm the one who gets to sleep in the duck room tonight. Lia and Simon are sound asleep in my pink bed. So," she added, "Lucas doesn't live here, then?" Annie was appalled. Did she want to make conversation now? "Heck no!" She said.

"Have you ever been married?" Lola asked.

"Once," was Annie curt response.

"You're divorced?"

Annie's answer came out sounding rehea.r.s.ed. "My husband, the love of my life, was killed in a car accident two and a half years ago. D.O.A." Lola looked at her and stopped wiping. "I'm so, so sorry," she said. "So am I, believe me," Annie said, removing her plastic gloves. She resigned to the fact that her solitude was ruined for now. Would any place in the house be safe from now on? She offered Lola a cup of tea, and the two of them stood at the sink. Annie did not invite Lola to sit down in the hope to hurry things up. Maybe she should have. Lola was tall enough to make her-along with the entire kitchen-seem smaller. And shouldn't she have looked worn out from all those hours of traveling? Instead, in her jeans and white s.h.i.+rt, she had a calm, groomed air about her, a quiet loveliness and effortlessness that was mesmerizing. Annie's inadequacy flared up in a big way. Lola pulled up a chair and sat at the kitchen table without being invited to. Of course. This was her house now. Annie sat down too, feeling defeated. "If you want to call your husband, or ex, or someone this is the perfect time," she told Lola. "It will be morning for him."

Lola took a sip of her tea. "Truthfully, I'd like to postpone that a while."

Annie had a vague premonition. "What do you mean by a while?"

Lola seemed to be stalling. "What do you mean?"

Annie looked at her significantly.

"Mark should be coming back home from Atlanta in two days," Lola finally said. "I wrote a postcard and mailed it to him from New York where we changed planes on our way here. So..."

"So?"

"So, with a little luck, he'll be fooled for a while."

"You. Did. What?" Annie gasped.

"I sent a postcard from--"

"You did not take your children and fly to another country without his okay, did you?"

Lola stared at her cup. "Well, it's very complex." she said with a bit of a rattle in her voice.

Annie's heart began pounding. Was she harboring fugitives? "You're not doing anything illegal are you?" She had sounded terribly accusatory and belligerent and regretted her forcefulness immediately. Lola open her mouth to answer but Annie spoke instead, trying to soften her stance. "You did say on the phone that he was abusive."

"It's a question I keep asking myself," Lola said. "What's the definition of abusive?"

"Is he physically violent?" Annie asked. At that point, she needed Lola to say yes.

Lola hesitated, looked away. "He, yes, he is violent...can be quite violent, yes," she said. "But he is very remorseful each time. That's the thing about him, he always comes back and apologizes. I have to give him that. But then, he does it again. The situation at home was getting unbearable. He is so unpredictable. And it's gotten so much worse with the stress of having children." She lifted her face. "You know what I mean. Men get so jealous of the attention."

"I know precisely what you mean," Annie lied. The boys had been nothing but a strong, wonderful bond between her and Johnny. "You poor thing, and the children! How bad is the hitting, I mean, is it hospital-bad?"

Lola's eyes filled with tears and she looked away. Annie had clearly been tactless, grilling her about something very painful like this must have felt like the Inquisition. "Frankly, I'm here to try and not think about Mark for a while, get a fresh start and..." Annie had to ask. She had no choice. "Just promise me you're not doing anything illegal coming here." Lola thought for a long moment. "I...I told him I was moving to New York. I'm not doing anything wrong by moving to France instead."

"Was there ever a restraining order against him?"

Lola looked at Annie. "Oh, definitely. I can do anything I need to protect the kids. I'm allowed."

They sat in silence. Annie felt the weight come off. There was a restraining order. The husband was a bad guy. This was not illegal. She was doing a wonderful deed, helping a woman start over.

"I love him, you know," Lola said.

Annie knew exactly what Lola meant; she knew the ache. She could feel it in her throat, so she made a joke out of it. "I don't mean to be rude, but what part of him is so lovable?"

"Well, he's gorgeous, mainly!" Lola said, and she had such a contagious laugh that Annie had to laugh too. It was in that instant of silliness that an imaginary veil lifted and Annie's preconceived ideas about Lola were thrown out the window.

That night, Annie lay in bed not sleeping, but not exactly anxious either. Maybe this could work. Maybe this would work.

Chapter 8.

Warm water was slowly filling the bathtub. Naked in front of the mirror, Althea watched her emaciated shoulders, her hollow stomach, her hipbones, her legs like tortuous sticks, her knees like giant knuckles. What had happened to her? She had only wanted to be thin. Her mother had told her again, as she was saying goodbye, that she looked like a concentration camp victim. But if she did look so terrible and sick, then why would her mother do nothing about it but insult her? Of course, it would not be fair to blame her mother for what she was about to do.

Her dad had given her that check to go to France and this was as close to communication as they were going to get. He was encouraging her to go away, but did he not mean it figuratively as well? Did he possibly want her to run for his own sake rather than hers? Her parents were not equipped to save someone like her from herself.

She looked at her studio apartment through the open door of the bathroom where she stood; the curtains, the refrigerator, the mirror, the computer, the neat stacks of files and papers, the bowl full of apples that said, "Eat me, eat me," but never, ever, fed her. She felt no physical pain besides hunger.

It would be like going to sleep. There would be no real pain there either. In fact, all she could imagine was relief. She would slowly become weaker, and then fall asleep. The tub was nearly full. In a few minutes, life would sweetly drain out of her. On the side of the tub was the sharp knife she used to peel apples, the knife sharp enough to make this effortless. She considered the knife for a minute, touched the blade gently and felt its power. She turned off the faucet, the bath now full, and stepped in the warm water. She lay in the water and looked at her wrists. If only there was someone she could ask one last question. If only there was someone, somewhere who would be able to tell her how to get out of this skin. Someone who could tell her that things could be different.

She let go of the knife, jumped out of the water, wrapped herself in a towel and got out of the bathroom. Her whole body s.h.i.+vered now with cold and fear. She turned the pages of the paper, searching for the ad. She finally found it, her fingers shaking out of control, and dialed the number of that woman in France.

Annie felt herself pulled out of the womb of slumber with forceps. For an insomniac such as herself, being woken up in the middle of a deep sleep was unwelcome to say the least. In the dark, she felt clumsily for the ringing telephone on her bedside table.

On the line, the voice was barely a whisper. "It's Althea," it said. Althea? The young woman from Cincinnati who had asked many questions about the ad three days ago? Annie let her head sink in the pillow, her hand softened its grip on the receiver and she nearly let sleep engulf her. "It's the middle of the b.l.o.o.d.y night here, darling."

"I don't feel...good. At all." The voice was plaintive, like a small child sick in the middle of the night.

What was that, transatlantic night therapy? Annie mumbled, "Honey, what's wrong?"

"I think I want to die," said the murmur.

An icy tingling traveled Annie's spine and she sat up in a jump. "Non, non, non, non, non," she said in French. "n.o.body's dying!" Why call her for G.o.d's sake? "Where are you right now?"

"Home."

What was that supposed to mean? Not to contradict someone suicidal. Could she call 911 from France? Of course she couldn't call 911 from France. "Are you okay right now?" Annie asked, speaking fast. "Right this minute, are you bleeding anyplace? Did you swallow anything? Is someone with you?" Sweet Jesus, why call her?

"I can't live like this. I really can't." Althea said blankly.

"Not on my watch! None of that," Annie's neurons fired and bubbled, connecting thoughts, searching for the right things to say. "Are you coming to France, honey?"

"I... don't think so."

"Oh yes you are! Listen to me, why don't you just pack your things, go to the airport, and stay there until a seat is available. You have a pa.s.sport? Right? Okay?"

"I do... but I don't..."

"Oh come on, give it a chance. You just call a travel agency and... forget it, my bad. Bad idea. No, just go to the airport and stay there until a flight becomes available. This time of year you'll have no problem getting a flight. Take a direct flight, you hear me? To Charles de Gaulle Airport. It's spelled C.H.... "

"I know how it's spelled."

"And call me, anytime, collect, it doesn't matter, and tell me when you'll arrive. I'll be at the airport to pick you up."

"I'll try."

Annie shrieked. "I'm counting on you, Althea! Don't let me down, sister."

There was a long silence on the line, then Althea's voice, flat. "Okay."

"Good, very good, now give me your address and number." But before she could finish her sentence, Althea had hung up.

Annie stared through her dark bedroom. WTF! WTF! She put her head in her hands. For all she knew, that woman was carrying a deadly virus. Or, more likely, she was dangerously unstable. Oh this was bad. Very bad. She'd never hear the end of it with Lucas. She looked at the clock. 4:00 AM. Couldn't the inconsiderate have attempted suicide at a more convenient time? She got out of bed, wrapped her robe around her, turned on the light in her room and went to her linen closet to find sheets for Althea's bed. She would give her the orange room. To cheer her up.

One day, Lucas thought, he would tell Annie that contrary to what he had told her, he was not an early riser. Every morning he fought the blaring alarm, confronted Paris's pitch-black glacial streets and drove in a semi comatose state, all this to spend what amounted to perhaps thirty minutes of alone time with her. But these were not minutes he ever wanted to miss.

"You will not believe this." Annie told him the instant he entered. Lucas removed his coat, folded it over a chair and sat at the kitchen table. The mug was already there. Coffee, in a mug. Only in America, he thought, not for the first time. Stoical, he began sipping the terribly acid brew, taking pleasure in watching Annie move in the kitchen. Today she wore those jeans he liked on her. She had such a lovely, feminine figure, not like those brittle Parisiennes that were his usual lot.

The hour before the boys woke up was their special time together. Now of course Annie had no idea just how special, and for this Lucas had no one to blame but himself.

This morning, Annie was in a good mood he could tell.

"Lola left the U.S. in a hurry and is hiding from her husband!" she said excitedly, "he's a monster! Years of a violent marriage. Lola is a mess. She's a complete mess." Annie did not seem the least bit upset about this, he noticed. In fact she seemed more than in a good mood. She was upbeat.

"What are you making?" he asked.

"Brioche."

"Ahh! Brioche," he said. He got up, discreetly emptied the contents of the mug into the sink, and came close to her. He looked over her shoulder as she stretched the smooth golden dough and folded it over itself with complete economy of movement. Her hair was in her eyes as always, and Lucas thought of tucking it behind her ear for her. He could feel the heat from her body and the smell of yeast. Both had the tendency of working on him like an aphrodisiac, the yeast and her scent, always the same soap scent that smelled to him better than any perfume and he began to feel his erection. He folded his hand over his crotch and continued watching her hands as she worked the dough.

"Lola says she still loves him. What a crock of s.h.i.+t!" Annie's eyes twinkled. "A mess, I'm telling ya!"

Lucas took a slight step back. "Why do I get the premonition of an impending circus?"

She gave him a dirty look. "What?"

"There will be Lola's drama, and then your drama about Lola's drama."

Annie shrugged this off. "How old do you think she is?" she asked, her hands vigorously working the dough back and forth in a cadence of pus.h.i.+ng and flapping. Flour was all over the floor, even in her hair. Above her lip was a little bit of sweat. Lucas sat down. "So?" she insisted. "Take a guess! How old do you think she is?"

"Well, hmm. Maybe twenty-five? Or thirty?"

"You know what?" Annie said, placing the dough in a brioche mold and covering it with a cloth, "I have extra dough, I can make cinnamon buns."

"Cinnamon buns," he repeated.

"It might sound harsh, but I have trouble respecting someone who's been such a pushover for so long. On the other hand, leaving everything behind was maybe very courageous of her."

"You, harsh? No," Lucas said with what he meant to be pointed sarcasm. "What is that American expression? You don't have a harsh bone in your mind."

"You mean, in my body." She took it literally and seemed pleased. "Well, I haven't gotten the precise information out of her, but I bet she is older than she looks. She told me about her life, and I was adding in my head. She's definitely older than I am." Annie turned off the coffee maker with flour-covered hands, poured coffee into a small cup, placed it in front of Lucas and pivoted back to her baking.

From his chair, Lucas watched Annie's profile concentrated on the effort of rolling raisins and cinnamon into the dough. He did not pay attention to much of what she was saying as she went on about Lola and her husband. His gaze followed her, and his mind wandered. Annie looked particularly s.e.xy today. He would lift her hair and kiss her neck, and then he'd caress her b.u.t.tocks lightly, then more insistently. She would start moaning...

"Couldn't he?" Annie said.

He jumped. "Couldn't he what?"

"Couldn't her husband find out where Lola went by asking the airline?"

This Lola conversation was getting tedious. Lucas drifted back into his reverie. "Possibly."

"So the Althea woman, you know, the suicidal one, called me finally and she will be landing at eight AM, which means I'll really need your driving expertise tomorrow morning again, by the way. I'm giving her the orange room in the attic. It's cheerful. I'd better get going on the cleaning."

"I'm not going to the airport again." He remembered the attic room. He would carry Annie up to the room and unb.u.t.ton her jeans...

"I won't be able to walk for a week," he heard Annie say and he nearly fell off his chair. "I beg your pardon?"

Annie stepped toward him, holding her sticky hands up like a surgeon after scrubbing.

"h.e.l.looo? Earth to Lucas? I'm saying could you please bring the vacuum cleaner upstairs. It kills my back every time."

Lucas got up and walked to the closet where the vacuum cleaner was stored. "I was wondering," he said. "You said you wanted four tenants?"

"Three now that Lola is renting two rooms. Why? Do you have someone in mind?"

Why did Lucas have to make things so difficult? Annie was thinking the next morning as she scanned the airport crowd for her new tenant. They both knew he was going to help her out, so why the charade? Her thoughts were interrupted and she instantly knew that the young woman coming up the walkway was Althea. Red Hair, she had said, and boy did this fit the definition. But the strangeness of her appearance? Annie had expected someone who looked depressed. What do people look like when they are depressed? They'd look like Annie did: normal. They wouldn't look like this. This was something else. Something she clearly had no name for.

In the airport, people stared, as French people do, at the red-haired young woman who was advancing toward them. When she had first come to France, the stares had made Annie feel furious, violated. The staring included gazes that swept from feet to face and back down, taking in every detail, whispered comments, little face and hand movements. Men looked at women in s.e.xual ways, and women looked at other women in critical ways. It was the way it was and had always been. It was all done in a very conspicuous way. A rude way, possibly? Annie didn't know any better anymore; it had taken her a while to get used to it, but not long to emulate.

"Look at that specimen," Lucas said with impeccable timing.

"Oh, shut up."

"What?"

"That's her, that's what."

"Carefully selected, over the phone, specimen!" Lucas said smugly and she did not have the energy to kick him in the s.h.i.+n.

Her hair was the first thing Annie noticed, and how she recognized her. "Red hair," Althea had said. "I have a lot of long red hair." Hair was hardly the fitting word. This was a mane, alive, profuse, lush, that came half way down her back and moved as one curly, bright red ma.s.s. But that hair of hers was all that seemed alive. As she walked up the ramp in her black sweater and black jeans, the young woman appeared breakable, lost in her clothes and in the world. She walked slowly, hesitantly as though she might retreat back and run away any moment. There was something of a pre-Raphaelite painting about her. Not a healthy pre-Raphaelite. She wore no makeup and her high cheekbones accentuated the triangular shape of her face. There were dark circles around her gray eyes, and her mouth was pale enough to blend with her skin. But even with serious mascara, lipstick, and some color, she wouldn't have looked right. At the end of Althea's long emaciated hand and collection of thin bones under translucent skin was a single suitcase. It was the hand that alarmed Annie the most. The hand was not right either. It alarmed her in ways she couldn't have put into words.