by Erinne Bates
It never felt to me like a betrayal. I have never allowed myself to consider it one. To this day I cannot say I would have done anything differently.
“Do you want to go somewhere today?” Justine asked me, joining me on the bed. Her robe had opened a little, exposing her breasts as she settled herself next to me. I knew I didn’t want to leave the room. What I truly wanted to do was to cling to her. I saw myself sucking her nipple like an infant until I fell asleep and wondered if she would allow it.
“If you’d like.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” she then said. “Can we just stay here? Together?”
I took my coffee and went to the window to stare out at the downtown traffic.
“What are you thinking about?” Justine asked after a few minutes. When I heard her words, I realized I had been waiting for them.
“Do you feel guilty?” I asked, keeping my focus on the action outside the window.
“No. Do you?”
“I don’t either.”
“What else?”
“Does he know about us?”
Justine was silent until I turned around. “Some. He doesn’t know you by name. For a time, in the beginning, I wasn’t sure that I would stay. That I wouldn’t try to…” she stopped herself with a chuckle. “He’s a good man, and…I do love him.”
“I’m sorry that you were lied to,” I said, ignoring her last comment. “We both—were lied to.”
“We have one more day together. One more evening. I don’t want anything else to be more important.” She came to me at the window and, taking me by the hand, led me back to the bed just as our breakfast was being delivered by room service. Justine knew she would not return for a long time. She had not suggested I visit her in France where she now lived. This was to become our goodbye. Our closure. When she sat back against the pillows, I did take her nipple into my mouth and laid my head on her chest while she read the morning paper.
Chapter 11
My years with Elise were pretty wonderful. We had a very nice love and we made a very nice life with each other. We had a few close friends that we loved to entertain at our home regularly. It was what we enjoyed doing together. My freelance writing career continued to grow while Elise began investing in rental properties. I hated anything that had to do with home repairs, but it was right up Elise’s alley. She was smart about her investments. We weren’t rich, but we made enough to save, and in our thirties, it is what we focused on.
I did not hear from Justine in the nine years that went by after our time at the hotel. I had no idea how to reach her even when I wanted to. I thought about her often but it was nothing like before when memories of her were tainted with heartbreak. I could and did finally let go of her ghost. I loved Elise and the journey of our life together. But like all journeys, things happen that cause us to stumble, get lost, or quit.
Elise eventually started making the big bucks. Between her rentals and the homes she fixed up and re-sold, her bank account became pretty impressive. As for me, my client base was also expanding so words like “deadline” heavily dictated my personal life. While it appeared Elise gained freedom, my schedule choked me like a tight collar. It got so bad sometimes I started getting panic attacks whenever I was away from my computer. My days were spent in the trenches of research, and writing, and proofing, and re-writing, and drafts, and more drafts, and a thousand other ways to say I wrote from seven in the morning until midnight, sometimes every single day. I lost the ability to sleep soundly. I couldn’t turn my brain off most of the time.
Things began to feel off balance between Elise and me. At first, I thought it was in my head and I was the only one who felt it, so I never brought it up, thinking it would eventually pass. To help me separate myself from my work, Elise suggested we meet our friends out away from the house rather than entertain at home where I would be tempted to retreat to my office to work. It was one of those things that made me appreciate how much she cared for me, but it didn’t help me in the way it was meant to. It wasn’t her fault. I simply didn’t know how to properly manage my time and the stress that comes with it. I also had started smoking regularly when we went to the bars. Then also at my computer at home.
One evening when we met our friends out at Veronica’s, I decided to leave early to go home to work on an article I was working on. Elise stayed behind. It was nothing out of the ordinary for us. It was a fun night out as I remember, but eventually my mind started thinking about my deadlines and when I was no longer able to be in the moment with everyone, I grew anxious.
After I left the girls at the bar to go home and work on something that wasn’t even pressing, Elise Delviney kissed Brenda Hamilton in front of all of our friends. Brenda Hamilton happened to be the one girl that Elise crushed on whenever she came around. Now… we all get crushes no matter how in love we are with our partners. It was never anything to be alarmed about. Brenda was gorgeous. Even I enjoyed watching her walk by. But she was more Elise’s friend than mine.
I’m sure I will never know the exact specifics of the night Elise kissed Brenda but what I do know is their affair went on for several months before I became aware of it. When I did find out, I can’t say it was jealousy that hurt but rather the lie that broke me. I never understood what betrayal could do to someone until then. My life spiraled.
Devastated beyond what I could handle, I almost lost everything I had worked for. Oddly, Elise was the one who became my comforter. The person who hurt me the most also became the only one I had to help me through it. When I couldn’t pay the rent on my new apartment, Elise wrote checks. It took me a year to get over the brokenness, but what I learned most was that it wasn’t about Elise lying to me or leaving me for someone else. It was about my ability to cope with life’s obstacles.
Like all tales of debilitating heartbreak, life continues, and if we are lucky we get past the hurt. To this day she is my closest friend. As for Brenda – her jealous streak did not pair well with Elise’s love of attention, and their relationship lasted only eighteen months.
Part Two
Chapter 12
Life has this great way of providing opportunities. Opportunities lead to new beginnings. Life is full of new beginnings. When I had fully recovered from the brokenness I felt and understood the lessons I learned after Elise, I wrote. I poured all that had broken inside me into my writings and turned it into a tale of love, loss, devastation, and of course redemption.
I received a small amount of local notoriety from my book and an introduction to a literary agent named Claude Fritz. He was a new agent, barely twenty-two, but there was something old fashioned and driven about him that I was drawn to. Even his name reminded me of an era that had passed. Whenever we talked on the phone he spoke fast, like he was trying to get his pitch out before he forgot all the points he wanted to make. I knew one day I would disguise him as a character in one of my stories. I felt a connection to him because we were both starting out.
“You’ll keep me in mind when you finish your new book,” he told me one afternoon when I came by his office to drop off the first fifty pages of a new novel I had begun. Two days later he called me.
“A female who disguises herself as a man to become a spy during World War II. It’s wonderful,” he exclaimed.
“It’s really a love story,“ I said quickly, not wanting him to expect a story about war.
“I can’t wait to see the rest. “
“Great. Thank you for reading it, Mr. Fritz,” I said, “I know it’s not protocol for a writer to give an agent unfinished work."
“Well, I don’t mind on some occasions, just not for everyone. You know you can call me Claude, Ms. Edwards.”
“When you sign me I will call you by your first name,” I replied.
Something set in motion within me the moment we hung up. It was as if a path had been lit and not taking it would lead to suffocation. I called Elise and asked her to meet me for dinner.
“I know this is going to
happen for you,” she said, touching my hand. “When can I read some of it?”
“Soon, I promise,” I said. I stared at her, remembering a time when I knew every line in her face. When the sound of her voice untensed all that was wrong with the day. When I loved washing her clothes and folding her tee shirts just so. As I was then approaching forty, she was approaching fifty. Any new lines she had only enhanced her beauty.
“You ok?”
I grinned, embarrassed, “Sorry,” I chuckled.
“It’s ok, I’m used to you wondering off,” she said. “What I would’ve given to be the one to have discovered where you went to.”
I was about to tell her that I was only admiring her looks when the waiter appeared.
“Another dirty martini?” he asked. I nodded. Justine’s face always flashed in my mind when I ordered them. Each time I could hear her telling me I would be drinking them one day.
“Yes please,” I said. I looked at Elise, “I think I’m going to go away for a while.”
“Really? Where?”
“Europe. France,” I stabbed at my salad and then turned the tines downward as I brought it to my mouth.
“Why there?” Elise asked.
“I think I am going to write this book there. I can do it, Elise. I have the means to,” I explained, though I was only just sorting it out as I spoke.
Elise slammed her palms down on the table in excitement, “How many times have I told you, you should go overseas to write?”
She had told me numerous times, it was true. It had always been a fantasy until now.
When I arrived home I started planning my move. It only took three weeks to tie up loose ends, secure housing in Versailles, and well – basically say goodbye. I didn’t have much to say goodbye to, really. I visited my mom and her new ‘wealthier-than-the-last’ husband and attended a small party thrown by a few friends at Veronica’s. I was going to be gone for no more than three months. It was all I needed.
I never did tell Elise about what happened between Justine and me when I stayed with her at the hotel so many years ago. Strange as it may sound (and possibly just an excuse), it never felt like an act of unfaithfulness. It served its purpose, and I like to believe it allowed us both to move on. As I boarded the plane to France, I wondered if I would ever see her again. I truly had no idea how to contact her, or if she even lived in France anymore. There had not been one word between us since we parted, nearly ten years ago. As the flight crew gave us safety instructions and we prepared for take-off, I closed my eyes and thought of her face.
Chapter 13
During the twelve hours I was in the air, my emotions went from excited to oh shit within the first hour, then determination, followed by regret, which circled back around to excited. This cycle happened at least three times until I asked the flight attendant for some vodka and ice. After my third vodka, my emotions evened out and I remained in a state of adventurous heroine. I had never thought of myself as much of a drinker, but I considered becoming an alcoholic if this was the mood it kept me in. By the time I arrived at the Chambre d'hôtes (bed and breakfast) in Versailles, I was still feeling the effects of the alcohol I had consumed on the flight.
The bed and breakfast was a beautiful old two-story stone farmhouse owned by a woman named Juliette, who reminded me of a young Lauren Bacall. I had rented one room from her and shared a bathroom with two other boarders, also women. On the first evening of my arrival, I was invited to join them all on the patio to smoke and drink wine. I had already had my limit of alcohol on the plane and was suffering from jet lag and exhaustion, but the sensation of surrealism and the fact that I was in another country sparked a desire to be entertained.
“Another American,” announced Fenne as I sat down at the wrought-iron table and introduced myself. She was Dutch, appearing to be in her early twenties, and a student who was doing research on something that had to do with the Palace of Versailles. Even though she was less than impressed by me being there, I smiled anyway and cursed her youth.
“So what, it would be better than another Dutch,” replied Sofie between the cigarette smoke she exhaled. She gave me a smile. “She doesn’t mean it,” she said. “She thinks that all American women have big fake tits and bleach their assholes.” She moved the communal ashtray toward me and lit the cigarette I had produced. She was French and a poet, she had said.
“What movie was that from?” I asked, making eye contact with Fenne who reached her arm across the table to ditch her cigarette in the ashtray that was mostly in front of me now.
“You’re pretty,” she said looking up at me with provocative eyes. Before I could figure out if she was making amends or mocking me, Juliette appeared with a second bottle of wine. I was thankful someone at the table was now in my age range.
I tried to guess Juliette’s age. Her face had deep lines around her mouth that I had always thought was seductive. Her resemblance to the late actress, Lauren Bacall, was remarkable. Even the way her hair waved just at her temple before falling around her shoulders.
“What shall we celebrate tonight?” asked Sofie, pouring her wine for her.
“I think tonight…” she started, “we should give celebration to the moon for never being more perfect than it is now.”
When I looked up at the soft white light, I had to admit it was amazing. It wasn’t full but it gave me a sense of new beginnings and awakenings.
“But Madame we celebrated the moon last night,” Fenne wined with boredom.
“Oui, but it was not the moon of tonight, chérie. And it was not the moon that shone upon the four of us in this very moment,” Juliette explained. Sofie spoke French to Juliette who giggled but placed a hand on hers as though to quiet her.
“I speak French you know,” said Fenne who lit another cigarette. I moved the ashtray back to the center of the table. “Thank you,” she said to me.
“So – welcome to Versailles,” Juliette then said to me. “Do you have a specific reason to visit? The Palace perhaps?”
“To write,” I said.
“Ahh, we have another writer. I love a house filled with artists,” Juliette poured more wine into my glass. “We will enjoy having readings with each other.”
“I won’t care to listen to these readings,” Fenne stated. Her comment surprised me. She spoke frankly, but I didn’t sense she was being unkind.
“I know, chérie,” Juliette replied, with genuine understanding in her tone. “We will leave you out of the invitation when the time comes.”
“Fenne doesn’t like made-up stories,” Sofie tried to explain to me. “Only educational books.”
“I like books about a subject matter I can verify the authenticity of,” Fenne said. “I don’t enjoy an untrue story. It isn’t entertaining when I know I am being lied to.” I looked at Fenne’s eyes as she spoke. She hadn’t looked directly at me until she finished her sentence, but in them, I could see that she was not speaking out of arrogance – well maybe a hint of arrogance, but I found it contributed to the charm of her character.
By the time I had settled into my room, I felt at home in my new space. I found Juliette incredibly attractive. The alcohol, environment, and perhaps her French accent caused me to undress her three times during the evening - all in my head of course. I found that I enjoyed Fenne’s unapologetic ways. She said what she was feeling in the moment yet she didn’t try to convince any of us to agree with her. I’m not sure she cared if we did. Sofie was kind-spirited, who’s young romantic notions increased with each glass of wine. Juliette was a painter and a mother and an art teacher, which she said had only just wound up in that order now that her only son had recently married.
I slept late the following morning until Sofie tapped on my door with a tray of fresh brioche, a few slices of cheese, jam and butter, and coffee that was served in a small bowl. After a much-needed shower, I quietly tiptoed down the stairs to see if anyone else was around.
In the natural daylight, the house was even mo
re charming than I had remembered the night before when I was exhausted and partly intoxicated from my long flight. Beautiful paintings of still life hung throughout the kitchen, while abstract and portrait-like paintings and drawings were hung or stacked against the walls in the living room area. The kitchen and living room were connected, creating an inspiring sense of light and open space. French doors that led from the kitchen to the patio were opened, allowing what was left of the late morning’s fresh air in. A long inviting dining table was just in front of the opened doors, with a rustic tin vase containing flowers, and drinking glasses that lined up along the center of the table. I looked forward to the meals and conversations that would take place there. In the center of the kitchen was a beautifully handmade island, with a wooden top. An impressive set of knives were laid out, next to a pile of peeled potatoes, a large onion, celery, tomatoes, green beans, and freshly cut thyme, oregano, and basil. Cloves of garlic were set in a glass next to a bottle of olive oil and tiny jars of powdered spices. A deep pot was off to the side. Through the open doors, I could see Juliette in her garden bent and reaching toward the ground, holding a woven basket.
From the living area, I peeked inside a large room without a door. An entire wall was shelves containing paints, metal canisters of brushes, and canvases. An easel and a stool were set up in the center of the room, while other easels were stacked together in one of the corners. The room smelled faintly of turpentine.
“You may explore,” Juliette called from the kitchen, startling me. I had not heard her come in. I joined her in the kitchen, taking a seat at the long table. A pile of carrots with soil still on them lay in the woven basket now on top of the counter next to the sink. Juliette brought a pitcher of fresh water to the table and sat across from me, pouring a glass for herself. Sofie and Fenne came down from their rooms and also joined us. Fenne sat with us at the table and occupied herself with notes she had written in a binder, while Sofie washed the carrots Juliette had picked and placed them on a paper towel next to the other vegetables on the island. When she had finished her water, Juliette started to cut the vegetables. She began with the garlic, onion, and herbs, and it wasn’t long before the kitchen smelled of the promise of fresh garden-vegetable soup.