The Day After Tomorrow

30

LITTLE MORE than a stone’s throw from the building on the rue de la Cité where McVey sat with Lebrun’s phone trying to get through to the New York City Police Department regarding the late Albert Merriman, Vera Monneray walked along the Porte de la Tournelle, absently watching the traffic on the Seine.

It had been correct for her to end her relationship with Francois Christian. She knew the break had caused him pain, yet she had done it as kindly and respectfully as she knew how. She had not, she told herself, left one of the most esteemed members of the French government for an orthopedic surgeon from Los Angeles. The real truth was that neither she nor Francois could have continued on as they had and each continued to grow. And life without growth meant a withering and finally a dying out.

What she had done was no more than an act of personal survival, something Francois would, in time, have done to her when he finally resigned himself to the fact that his real love’ belonged to his wife and children.

Reaching the top of a long flight of stairs, she turned back and looked at Paris. She saw the sweep of the Seine and the grand arches of Notre Dame as if for the first time. The trees and rooftops and boulevard traffic were completely new to her, as was the romantic chatter of passersby. Francois Christian was a fine man and she was grateful she had had him in her life. Now, she was equally grateful it was over. Perhaps it was because, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt unencumbered and totally free.

Turning left, she started across the bridge to her apartment. Purposefully, she tried not to think of Paul Osborn, but she couldn’t help it. Her thoughts kept coming back to him. She wanted to believe that he had helped free her. By giving her attention, even adoration, he’d renewed her belief in herself as an independent, intelligent and sexually attractive woman fully capable of making a life on her own. And that was what had given her the confidence and courage to make the break from Francois.

But that was only part of it, and not to admit it would be to lie to herself. Dr. Paul Osborn hurt, and she cared that he hurt. On one level she wanted to think that caring and concern were part of an instinctive female nurturing. It was what women did when they sensed pain in someone close to them. But it wasn’t that simple and she knew it. What she wanted was to love him until he stopped hurting and after that to love him more.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” a round-faced, uniformed doorman said cheerily, holding open the filigreed iron outer door to her building.

“Bonjour, Philippe.” She smiled and went past him into the lobby, then quickly up the polished marble stairs to her apartment on the second floor.

Once inside, she closed the door and crossed the hallway into the formal dining room. On the table was a vase with two dozen long-stemmed red roses. She didn’t have to open the card to know who’d sent them, but she did anyway.

“Au revoir, Franqois.”

It was written in his own hand. Francois had said he understood and he had. The note and flowers meant they would always be friends. Vera held the card for a moment, then slid it back in its envelope and went into the living room. In one corner was a baby grand piano. Across from it, two large couches sat at right angles to one another, with a long ebony and leaded-glass coffee table in between. To her right was the entrance to the hallway and the two bedrooms and study that led off it. To the left was the dining room. Beyond that was a butler’s pantry and the kitchen.

Outside, the low-hanging clouds obscured the city. The overcast and grayness made everything feel sad. For the first time the apartment seemed huge and ungainly, with-out warmth or comfort, a place for someone more formal and much older than she.

An aura of loneliness as bleak as the sky that sealed Paris swept over her and, without thinking, she wanted Paul there. She wanted to touch him and have him touch her, the same as they had yesterday. She wanted to be with him in the bedroom and in the shower and wherever else he wanted to take her. She wanted to feel him inside her and to make love to him over and over until they ached.

She wanted it as much for him as for herself. It was important he understand that she knew about the darkness. And even if she didn’t know what it was, even if he couldn’t tell her that it was all right for him to trust her. Because when the time was appropriate, he would tell her and together they would do something about it. But for now, what he had to know more than anything, was that; she would be there for him, whenever and for as long as he needed.