He took her by the arms and turned her so that her back was to him. She hesitated for a moment, looking over her shoulder as if she was about to protest, a frown creasing her forehead. Then she shrugged and lowered her head in a cradle made by her forearms.
With her face buried in her arms she was anonymous to him; it was better this way, and he decided that from now on, until she conceived and lost interest in sex again, he would only take her from behind, so there would be no need for either of them to pretend affection.
Sebastien lifted her hips and ran his hands across the firm mounds. Sliding his fingertips up her spine, he caressed her shoulders for a moment, then reached under her and began playing with her breasts. She moaned softly and begged, “Ne me tourmente pas.”
No need to waste time, she meant. And why should he? He had a great deal of reading to do after he finished with her. Sebastien grasped her hips and eased into her. She swelled and tightened around him; he threw his head back and gasped at the hot glove that squeezed each time he pushed forward. Only a few seconds passed before her guttural moans became frantic. Her back arched like a cat’s, and she writhed.
After a year’s abstinence her movements made him feverish with sensation. In the trance of approaching release he shut his eyes and allowed pleasure to open channels in his mind. The onrush of emotion flooded him before he could retreat. He grimaced and gave a hoarse shout as he came.
Breathing heavily, Sebastien looked down at Marie, who was deadly still. Then she jerked herself away from him and whirled around, crouching on the bed, her face livid. “If you have mistresses, I don’t care! But don’t call their names while you’re with me!”
A chill ran through him. “I wasn’t aware that I’d called anyone’s name. And I have no mistresses.” Sebastien stretched out on his side and tried not to appear shaken. “So tell me, madam, who is this lover that I can’t even recall?”
She leapt forward and slapped him solidly across the face. Sebastien grabbed her wrist in an electric snap of movement then held it rigidly. Her hand quivered in the air and he loosened his grip. “Who?”
“Amy.” She snarled the name.
Sebastien felt the breath leave his lungs. And yet a sense of the inevitable taunted him. He wasn’t surprised. He was only sorry he had hurt Marie. “It means nothing. I’ve never been unfaithful to you. I apologize for being so ungallant.”
Her anger wavered. She searched his eyes for a moment, then shuddered. Her head drooped. “You have bad timing, Sebastien, that’s all. I shouldn’t have slapped you. But you and I, we are so alike, so pragmatic, I have always been proud of that. I dislike emotional displays. And no disruptive energy must come between us right now. Who is this Amy?”
“Someone I knew before I met you. In America. No need to be jealous.”
She arched a brow in surprise. “That many years ago? What a woman she must have been!”
“Forget what happened. I wasn’t even thinking about her.”
“I’m not jealous. I simply don’t want anyone to cloud your focus. You’re going to be a father. Our next child will live. The time is right. The planets, the mood, the signs—”
“I hope your mysticism lives up to its noble purpose.” Feeling tired and distressed, he let her hand go. After a second he stroked her hair. He tried not to reveal that he wished she would leave.
She kissed the small graying spot at the center of his chest hair. Her expression was now more indignant than angry. “Good night. I have to go back to my own room and meditate.” She slipped away from him and nodded politely, then took her robe from the bed’s foot rail.
Sebastien nodded back. “Until our next mating session.”
After she left he got up, feeling dazed, and went to the armoire across the room. He jerked its bottom drawer open and scooped stacks of linen handkerchiefs onto the floor. Underneath them was a large, lacquered box. He hadn’t opened it in years. There were numerous Celtic crosses that had belonged to his mother, a Bible that Pio Beaucaire had given him, a pistol that had belonged to his maternal grandfather, and a box of the special cartridges it required.
Wedged in a crack between the base and one side of the box was the old silver token on its tarnished necklace. Sebastien ripped it from its place. He went to the balcony doors and opened them, then stepped naked into the freezing night air and hurled the necklace into the hedges across the courtyard.
Memories were more dangerous than he had realized. If he cultivated them they would only make him examine his choices, his life, himself.
Pio was getting old. It saddened Sebastien to have to shorten his strides to match Pio’s stiff, slow ones. But Pio was too happy to notice. Spring was here and the vineyards were rich green stripes under a magnificent sky, and Pio hummed as they walked among the trellises. They had strolled the vineyards together each spring for as long as Sebastien could recall. First at his father’s estate, now here at his own. It was one of the few traditions that mattered to Sebastien. Stealing amused glances at Pio’s satisfied smile, Sebastien recognized a vintage year. What did Pio’s infirmities matter when compared to that?
“Ripe. I like it when everything is ripe,” Pio announced, waving his arms. He slapped Sebastien’s shoulder. “This spring feels special. You watch—this will be the year you become a father.”
“Marie is only four months pregnant. She’s lost babies later than that.”
“Such pessimism. And Marie is so positive, this time!” They halted, and Pio scowled at him. “What will become of you, if you don’t have a little faith in something besides your work at the hospital?”
“Hmmm. Let’s change the subject. I have a surprise for you. I’ve bought a small winery in the United States.”
Pio snorted. “What for? Isn’t owning one dreadful American winery in Georgia enough?”
“This one is my personal place. It’s to enjoy. Simply to enjoy. I want you to visit it. It’s in California.”
“California! Merde! You won’t even get good table wine from it!” Pio spat with such disgust that Sebastien laughed.
“I went there two weeks ago and made the final purchase arrangements. It’s a wonderful place, Pio, with an old stone house that only needs some repair to be enjoyable. I plan to hire a caretaker to work the vines. They’ve been badly neglected, but within a few years—”
“That is not a winery. That is a charity project. What will you do with an unimportant vineyard halfway across the world?”
“Use it as another home.”
Pio frowned harder. “You don’t need a home in America. Your American days are long past. I’m too old to go chasing you, and I’m sure your father would send me.”
“And I’m sure his spying would have as little effect as it did before.” He patted Pio’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I don’t run as fast as I once did.”
Pio relaxed. He chuckled ruefully. “You certainly kept him busy. Especially with that last escapade.”
“Which of my escapades could possibly have become so infamous?”
“The one with that funny young woman who lived with you right before you left for Africa. That one had your father worried. She was so totally unsuitable that he was certain you were going to keep her just to spite him.”
Sebastien stared hard into Pio’s eyes. Why was the past crowding him so much, lately? “My father knew about her? You told him?”
Pio’s amusement faded. “Of course. I told him about every woman you had. You found my snooping not the least threatening. You used to call me Inspector Clouseau, remember?”
“But why her? I knew her so briefly—”
“Ah, but she was the only one you took care of as if she were a wounded bird. The only one who charmed you into supporting her, sending her to college, giving her an expensive car.” Pio spoke lightly again, though there was a worried glint in his eyes. “You should have seen your car parked in front of the decrepit old house she lived in at school! You would really have questioned your decision if you’d s
een that.”
“You visited her? You never told me! I never asked you to look after her, so what business did you have with her?”
The look on Pio’s face said that he’d only just realized his misstep. He made several awkward noises, then coughed. “I was curious about her. I wanted to see how she was spending your money.”
“I see more in your eyes. Much more. I see the fear that you’ve become old and careless, and that you’ve told something I was never supposed to know.” Sebastien grasped Pio’s shoulders. “What were you visiting her for? What had my father sent you to do?”
“Nothing! Why does this concern you now? You left America almost nine years ago! You have a wonderful wife! She’s going to give you a child this fall—yes, I have faith! You’ve avoided almost every plan your father had for you and you’ve gone your own way. You should be happy! Why this interrogation?”
“Goddamn you, Pio!” Sebastien shook him. “Goddamn you! What plot did you and my father concoct?”
The older man’s face had gone white. “You’ve never cursed me before.”
“I’ll do worse than that if you don’t tell me the truth! I’ll fire you. You can go back to my father’s estate and gloat over your victories there!”
“Fire me? Fire me?” His eyes were furious, but glistening with tears. “How can you talk that way to me?”
“How can you continue to deceive and manipulate me?”
“Honor! Loyalty! You are the heir of one of the finest, oldest families in France! You must not be allowed to ignore your responsibilities!”
“The truth, Pio! Now. Or get off the estate!”
Pio shoved him away and stumbled down the row, clutching the vines for support. “I’m leaving! I’m going to pack! Oh, Sebastien, Sebastien! How could you have come to this—”
He grabbed his chest and pitched face-forward on the thickly matted grass. Sebastien raced to him, broken words catching in his throat. He turned Pio’s limp body over and groaned at the blue tint already staining the face, and the sightless, rolled-back eyes. Ripping Pio’s shirt open, he put his ear to the unmoving chest.
The physician in him became brusque, performing emergency procedures with confident hands. The small boy in him felt helpless and choked back tears while whispering, “No, Pio, no. Pio! I won’t let you go. Pio, it’s springtime.”
Pio’s funeral mass was attended by several hundred people. The funeral itself was formal and solemn, in keeping with Pio’s wishes. He was buried where he had been born, in a village south of Orleans. Sebastien stood at the back of the cemetery alone, having left Marie in Paris with her crystals and her meditations. A funeral radiated too much negative energy, she had said.
Sebastien couldn’t agree more. He kept a hawklike watch on his father, who stood near the grave with head bowed majestically, his severe black suit accenting the grief in his posture. Sebastien didn’t doubt that his grief was sincere; Pio had been his father’s lifelong servant, friend, loyal coconspirator.
When the priest finished with the graveside service Philippe de Savin turned and caught Sebastien’s gaze. His father gave him a hopeful look that hardened when Sebastien didn’t respond.
Sebastien felt a muscle pop in his jaw when his father moved toward him through the crowd. He watched people step aside to let him pass, their attitude respectful but their faces shuttered. His father did not inspire sympathy or affection. A grim realization came to Sebastien: That was how the staff at the hospital regarded him.
“I had expected to see you before now,” his father said, coming to a brusque stop in front of him. “I looked for you before the mass, and then during mass, but you never arrived.”
“All that matters is that I was with Pio when he died. I despise the maudlin atmosphere of funerals. I’ve attended a few too many in my life.”
“Perhaps for your benefit we should have had a reading from something by Camus. An uplifting passage about how absurd and unfair life is, and how we suffer because we try to change it.”
“Ah, but we need not suffer ourselves. We can meddle in the lives of others and put the suffering on them. Pio and I were discussing that point just before he died. Your name was mentioned.”
His father regarded him silently, his face tightening. “Not happily, it seems.”
“I want you to search your memory. Go back nine years, to the time when I was preparing to leave the United States for the Ivory Coast. I was involved with a young woman who worked at the Georgia winery. You knew about her. Pio told you.”
“Sebastien! You flatter me! I can’t remember all of your transgressions. And certainly not from so long ago.”
“I think you would remember Amy Miracle. She was a unique problem—too appealing, too different to ignore. Come now, Pio remembered her easily. He remembered visiting her at school after I left the country. I’m sure he remembered why he visited her, and what you instructed him to do about her. But he wouldn’t tell me.”
“There was nothing to tell. Did you badger Pio? My God, did you upset him with pointless accusations?”
“Yes, and I could cut out my tongue for doing it. He wasn’t to blame—you were. I want you to give me the answers that he was too loyal to give.”
His father drew back a blue-veined hand and slapped the back of it across Sebastien’s face. The blow had an emotional force that was far greater than the physical one. Sebastien didn’t flinch, but every nerve pulled tight.
His father’s eyes glittered with fury. “You were not forced to leave your American woman behind when you went to Africa, but you did. You were not forced to marry Marie or come home to France, but you did. You made your own decisions. So there is nothing for me to tell you. God help you for making Pio miserable. He loved you. He wanted the best for you. So did I. But I’ve given up on you, and he never did. You killed him for caring.”
Annette was now standing beside them, her hands covering her mouth in horror. “Stop it! Stop disgracing us, both of you! Everyone is staring! To brawl at Pio’s funeral—it’s unforgivable!”
“Forgiveness remains impossible in this family,” Sebastien said softly, hatred in every word. He held his father’s gaze with vicious intensity. “I made the decisions, true, and they can’t be reversed, but now I know that you manipulated them—somehow. You’re dead to me, do you hear? You don’t exist anymore. If Marie and I have a child, you’ll never see it. There will be no contact … and no mention of you in my home, ever.”
His father gave him an icy, unperturbed smile that hinted at plans yet unveiled, then walked away.
It was easy to be funny when the alternative was being homeless. Amy scribbled notes on a thick yellow pad and ignored distractions—the noisy play of her landlord’s five children, the rumble of the freeway, the clacking of the fan in the window that swirled hot night air through the kitchen.
She gnawed the cap of her pen and studied her work. She’s the kind of girl who goes to her family reunion to pick up men. Her idea of great art is a “scratch-and-sniff” ad for men’s deodorant.
Amy scanned a dozen other lines written along the same subject. With confidence born of growing experience, she decided which of her clients would be suited to the material and which wouldn’t. Sometimes she felt schizophrenic trying to write gags for a dozen different comics. But she was meeting the challenge. And she was making steady money—twenty-five bucks a joke from the lesser names, fifty from the headliners—and paying her bills. For starters, this apartment—the top half of a small duplex—cost her five hundred dollars a month.
Amy sipped a glass of iced tea, fanned the tail of a floppy sundress at her sweaty legs, and continued working.
She looked up, and listened intently. Footsteps were ascending the wooden stairs to her door. She kept a handgun on the top of a bookcase across the one-room apartment. Of course, if anyone bothered her she could simply yell, and a swarm of Alvarezes would come racing up with their arsenal of weapons.
She went to the door and waited. When t
he careful, polite knocking came she cleared her throat and asked in a gruff voice. “Yes? Who is it?”
“Stop doing the Lauren Bacall impression and open the door.”
It was Elliot. He sounded cheerful, teasing. But he had visited her in that mood before, only to switch to anger or tears after she let him inside.
“Just a second.” Amy hid the gun in a dresser near her bed. Then she unlocked the door. He stood there in tie-dyed, knee-length denim shorts, a wrinkled white pullover, and unlaced basketball shoes. He held a pizza box in his arms.
“Pizza-gram,” he said coyly.
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“I just got away from the studio. I was restless. Lonely.”
“What? Nobody to hang out with? How was Miss July? Any fireworks? No cherry bombs, I bet.”
“Well, well, you watched last night’s show.”
“I wouldn’t miss seeing you interview a centerfold babe who’s also an expert on explosives. Too bad she had the I.Q. of a sparkler.”
“Jealous?”
“No, I just hate to see you use the show to pick up women. In the eight months since we broke up your ratio of beautiful female guests to funny skits has become real skewed. Stop trying to antagonize me. It’s not good for the show.”
He breezed past her and went to the kitchen in one corner. Tossing the pizza container atop her table, he then ambled around the room, hands on hips. “Oh, I like what you’ve done with the place. Plastic furniture and bean-bag chairs are so cool. Did I tell you that I just bought a little bungalow at Malibu? Right on the beach. With an incredible view. You really must drop in sometime.”
She crossed her arms and regarded him patiently. “The tip of your nose looks like a tomato.”
He gave a short laugh and scrubbed a hand over the swollen surface. “Cherry or Big Boy?”
“What are you doing here tonight, Elliot?”
“Making you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“Try me.”
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