by Brenda Joyce
Edward felt like he was a lonely wretch, too.
Edward stared at the Ralston mansion, wondering what she was doing at that very moment, if she ever thought of him, if she regretted what had happened—if she hated him as much as he hated himself when he happened to be lucid.
It was suddenly important that he know for sure.
Edward slid out of the Daimler. It was snowing lightly, and fat flakes melted on his nose. Edward had forgotten his overcoat, but he welcomed the bite of cold. If he was really going to see Sofie today, he needed to appear far more sober than he was.
But as he skidded across the deserted, frozen stretch of Fifth Avenue, he grew afraid. What in hell was he doing? Did he really need to confront Sofie to know that she despised him? Christ, she had refused his offer of marriage. It was still unbelievable. It still made him so angry that he wanted to put his fist through a wall. It still made him feel, inexplicably, as if she had used him.
The worst part was that he wouldn’t have minded marrying her very much. If he had to marry a woman, then Sofie was his choice. It really was not an unpleasant prospect. Except—it was not a two-way street. Sofie was far more radical than he had dreamed. She preferred to live alone, forever, than to marry him.
He had thought her to be in love with him. How wrong he had been. How arrogant the assumption, how vain. “I cannot marry without love,” she had said. Today her words were haunting. She had not loved him then. She did not love him now.
Edward passed the two sitting stone lions that guarded the entrance to the property and trod up the graveled driveway, past the huge evergreen in the middle of the lawn, which was draped with tinsel and crystal and crowned with a glittering star. He paused on the front steps of the house. He banged loudly on the brass knocker. It occurred to him that everyone was having dinner—he would be interrupting. He didn’t care. He wanted to know if she was happy—if she had forgotten that single, incredible night.
Jenson opened the door. His eyes widened briefly before he resumed a butler’s well-worn expression of implacability. “Sir?”
“Is Sofie in?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I don’t believe you,” Edward said, smiling unpleasantly. “Please tell her I am waiting to speak with her.” His pulse had begun to race.
Jenson nodded and began to close the door. Afraid he would be locked out, Edward stuck his foot inside, blocking the door with his leg.
“Sir,” Jenson protested.
Edward smiled again, as unpleasantly as before.
Jenson gave up, turning to go. But he had not quit the room when Suzanne called, “Jenson, who is it?”, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she entered the foyer.
Edward tensed for the inevitable confrontation.
Suzanne halted, spotting him. Anger washed over her features, making her ugly. She rushed forward. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Edward had stepped completely inside the door, and now he closed it behind him. “I want to see Sofie.”
Suzanne stared. “She’s not here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“She’s not here!” Suzanne was triumphant.
Edward’s heart seemed to drop through the floor. “Where is she?” he asked sharply.
Suzanne hesitated.
“Where is she?”
“She is in Paris. Studying an—as she has always dreamed of doing.”
Edward was stunned. Sofie had gone—gone to Paris. But hadn’t she told him many times that it was her dream to study there with the great French artists? Something twisted inside him, like a knife. He was transported effortlessly into the past.
Sofie was rigid, unsmiling. “I did not become your lover to force you to marry me.”
And Edward had a horrible inkling of what was about to occur. His heart seemed to stop. “You were a virgin.”
“That is not a good reason to get married.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. He had begun to argue with her. Sofie was unmoved by the facts, by what had occurred; it was like arguing with a sensible, composed stranger. “I have no desire to get married, Edward. Have you forgotten? Next May I turn twenty-one and I am going to Paris to continue my studies of art. I am sorry … I cannot marry without love.”
“She is happy,” Suzanne said, breaking into his thoughts. “She has written me recently. She has a lovely companion, she has her old friend Paul Verault, and she has been warmly welcomed by the Parisian art community. Stay away from her. She is happy despite all that you have done.”
Edward blinked and faced Sofie’s angry mother. “I am sure she is happy,” he said, unable to disguise his bitterness. “Of course she is happy, in Paris with her art and artist friends. But you delude yourself if you think I would chase her down in Paris.” He squared his shoulders, suddenly furious. “I merely stopped by to wish her a merry Christmas.”
Suzanne watched him warily.
Edward bowed and strode to the door. He slammed it shut behind him, so hard that the festive fir and pinecone wreath almost fell off, and raced down the front steps. As if he would chase her. Christ! He was Edward Delanza, and he never chased women—women chased him. He especially didn’t chase skinny, eccentric women who preferred studying art and pursuing a career to a lifetime shared with him. Oh no.
Edward decided to go back to La Boîte, where he would find a pretty woman to pass the afternoon and night with. Let Sofie share her bed with her art. Hah! What kind of bedfellow was that?
But as he climbed into his Daimler, he wondered if she had chosen her art because it was a far better mate than a man whose only genuine claim to fame was selfish hedonism and the destruction of innocence.
Sofie had never been more lonely. Paul had convinced her that she would be welcome for Christmas dinner at his son’s home, so she had gone, but she was the outsider and acutely conscious of it. His son, Simon, seemed genuinely fond of Paul, despite the fact that Paul had lived apart from Michelle and abroad for so many years. Simon’s wife was sweet and motherly to everyone, and their two small daughters were delightful. Sofie watched the affectionate and happy interchanges, unable to participate. She had never been more lonely, more miserable, more sad.
She wished she were in New York with her family. She missed her mother and Lisa terribly. She even missed Benjamin, whom she had never really been close to. But she would not think about Edward.
They had already eaten and left the dinner table. The girls were playing with their new toys. The diminutive Christmas tree took up a good portion of the small room. The girls had decorated it with popcorn and candy. Paul and Simon were drinking brandy and smoking cigars. Annette did not seem to mind. She was watching the children, slumped in a chair, smiling but obviously tired from having prepared and served a huge feast with only the aid of a single servant. Sofie had not been allowed to help, because she was a guest. Because she was an outsider. Because this was not her family, and no amount of kindness would make it so.
Oh. Edward. She could no longer resist him or her painful thoughts. Will I be alone forever?
Sofie was perilously close to losing control of herself, to succumbing to abject despair, when she reminded herself that she was not going to be alone forever, because in another five months or so she would have a beautiful baby. By the summer she would have her own family. And they would be a family, even though it was just the two of them. Sofie was resolved that her child would not even notice the lack of a father. Somehow she would be both mother and father to her child, even while pursuing her professional calling.
It seemed like a herculean task, but Sofie dared not contemplate the pitfalls that awaited an unwed mother bent on maintaining both a family and a profession.
A few hours later, she and Paul said au revoir and merci beaucoup and left. Simon lent them his horse and buggy. Sofie thought about going back to the pension. She dreaded the idea. It had been eerily deserted this past week as everyone had left to join their families for th
e holiday. Rachelle, who had become Sofie’s companion several weeks ago and who had taken up residence with her at the pension, had gone home as well, to the small village where she had been bom and raised in Bretagne. Sofie decided to go to her atelier instead. For the first time in months, she felt the creeping urge to draw. She wondered if it was genuine. If she put charcoal or ink to paper, could she once again create a work of art?
Paul had halted the buggy in front of the three-story brownstone where Sofie’s studio was, and he swiveled to face her. “It is difficult to be alone right now. I remember too well how it was myself.”
“I hope my behavior was discreet.”
Paul smiled. “Sofie, one day you will learn to be less discreet—and you will be better off.”
She did not smile, for Edward had said the exact same thing to her, only in different words. “Am I such a piece of deadwood?”
“No, petite. But life can be fun. La vie, c’est belie. Sofie—is there anything you wish to share with me?”
Sofie looked into Paul’s kind brown eyes and saw worry reflected there as well. She wore an oversize wool coat, and an oversize wool sweater under that, hiding her growing body. Did he know? Soon he would have to know, soon everyone would have to know, but Sofie did not want to talk about it, not yet. If she began to speak about Edward and how she loved him, she was afraid she would not be able to stop. “No, Paul,” she whispered. “No.”
“Are you going to work tonight?”
Their gazes held. “Yes,” Sofie said, her heart beginning to pound. “I think so.”
Sofie rushed upstairs, unlocked the door to her atelier, lit the old-fashioned gas lamps. She did not waste a single heartbeat. Her excitement increasing, she hurried to her trunk and flung it open. She found the single preliminary sketch of Delmonico’s that she had done before Edward had modeled so briefly for her; before the night of the hurricane. When she saw his roughly drawn face and form, saw how he lounged in such careless repose, she froze, remembering that wonderful afternoon as if it were only yesterday.
Sofie ignored the now steady drip of her tears. Because she knew what she must do—she was driven. She must finish this portrait immediately. Before she forgot that glorious day, before she forgot what it was like, exactly.
Sofie shed her sweater and donned an apron. She began to open tubes of paint, preparing her palette. Oh, God! Although she would use a light and airy color scheme as she had done with A Gentleman, she would also use shocking pinks and brilliant reds. In fact, to capture the moment exactly, to make the viewer feel a sense of immediacy, Sofie decided to place the waiter’s hand and arm in the very front of the painting, as if he were serving Edward then and there.
For the first time in four months, Sofie put a brush to canvas. She was shaking with excitement. And she did not return to the pension for many days, losing all track of time and place.
“Sofie!”
Sofie stirred. She had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep on the faded velvet sofa that she had acquired secondhand when she had first rented the atelier. It was the studio’s only piece of real furniture outside of that necessary for her work.
“Sofie? Are you all right?” Rachelle shook her insistently.
Sofie blinked, very groggy, for a moment not sure where she was. It was so hard to wake up. But when she did focus, she met Rachelle’s wide, worried turquoise eyes. Sofie levered herself into a sitting position with an effort.
“You have not been at the pension for days! When I returned this morning and found (hat out. I immediately went to Paul’s. I was sure you would be there, but he said he had left you here on Christmas day and that he had not seen you since. Sofie—you have been here for almost an entire week!”
Sofie was fully awake. “I have been working.”
Rachelle began to relax. “So I can see.” She gave Sofie a long, speculative glance and walked away. As usual, she wore her heavy black boots and a plain wool dress, this one a dark green, with the same crimson scarf draped about her shoulders, her wild red hair unbound. As always, she was very beautiful. Rachelle stood in front of the canvas, hands on her hips.
Sofie could see the oil from where she sat on the sofa, and her pulse raced. From the center of the room Edward smiled at her from the canvas, the smile reaching his eyes, sexy and suggestive and warm and seductive. He was clad in near white. The table was draped in ivory linen as well. But behind him, the restaurant was a shocking red, pink, and purple sea of the women’s vividly colored tea gowns. The waiter’s black-jacketed arm and pale hand were in the bottom foreground of the work, jarring the viewer out of any complacency.
Rachelle turned toward Sofie. “Who is he?”
“His name is Edward Delanza.”
Rachelle regarded her. “Is he really as handsome—as male?”
Sofie flushed. “Yes.” But she had begun to become accustomed to Rachelle’s frank bohemian manner and her sometimes shocking liberalism. Rachelle had a lover, a poet named Apollinaire, and he was not her first paramour.
Rachelle’s glance strayed to Sofie’s abdomen. “Is he the father?”
Sofie’s heart skipped and she felt her face drain of blood.
“Come, ma petite, let us cease pretense.” Rachelle walked to her and sat down beside her, clasping Sofie’s hands in her own. “I am your friend, non? I was not fooled, not even from the start. You may have fooled Paul, but men can be so stupid at times. Especially when it comes to women.”
Sofie stared at Rachelle. She had wept so much while painting Edward that she had no more tears to shed and she remained dry-eyed. That did not mean she did not hurt inside. “Yes. I am carrying his child,” she whispered.
Rachelle pursed her mouth. “It is too late, you know, to do something about it. A few months ago I could have taken you to a doctor, a good one, and he could have removed the child from your womb.”
“No! I want this baby, Rachelle, very much!”
Rachelle smiled gently. “Then it is a good thing.”
“Yes,” Sofie said, “it is a very good thing.”
For a moment they did not talk. One by one, their gazes drifted towards the canvas facing them, towards the extraordinary man lounging there in his chair. “Does he know?” Rachelle asked.
Sofie froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“Does he know? Does he know that you are carrying his child?”
It was hard to speak. Sofie wet her lips. “No.”
Rachelle gazed at her. patient and wise. “Do you not think it right for him to know?”
Sofie swallowed and glanced at the portrait again. Despite herself, her eyes grew moist. “I have been asking myself that very same question for a very long time,” she finally said hoarsely.
“And what answer have you found?”
Sofie faced her beautiful, worldly friend. “Of course he must know. But for some reason, I am afraid to tell him. I am afraid he will not care. I am afraid he will care too much.”
Rachelle patted her trembling hands. “I am confident you will do what is right.”
“Yes,” Sofie said. “I will do what is right. I must.” She slipped her hands free of Rachelle’s and hugged herself. “But the baby is not due until the end of June. There is time.”
Rachelle’s glance was sharp.
“Paul, I am tired, I really do not feel much like going to Zut today.”
But Paul Verault ignored her, handing her a light shawl. “You have been driving yourself too hard, petite.” He guided her out the front door. “For a woman in your condition.”
Sofie sighed, resigned to joining him at the small bar down the street. “When I decided to do Delmonico’s, I did not realize that, once I started to work again, I would not be able to stop.”
“I know, petite” Paul said softly. He kept one hand on her bulky body as they went down the narrow, steep stairs. “I know how very hard you have been working. I know what the effort has cost you. But you have created some fabulous canvases.”
Sofie swal
lowed, trembling slightly. Paul knew the toll her art had taken on her because he came to her atelier almost every day. He was not her only visitor. Sofie had many friends now, almost all of whom were artists or an students, except for Georges Fraggard and Guy Apollinaire, who were poets. They all dropped in periodically, except for Georges, who had become a visitor almost as frequent as Paul.
Sofie preferred not to think about why Georges came to her atelier so often. She told herself he was infatuated with Rachelle, who had broken off with Apollinaire in the early spring. There was no other explanation. And it was possible. Georges flirted with her, just as he flirted with every woman he met. Except for Sofie. He no longer teased or charmed her as he had done during her first few months in Paris, and had not done so once he had realized she was pregnant.
Ridiculously, Sofie missed his flirtation. She had not realized how very flattering it had been during the loneliest winter of her life. It had been somewhat like drinking sweet, warm wine on a bitterly cold day. Sometimes she wished he would see Rachelle elsewhere, and not in her atelier while she was working. Sometimes he still reminded her of Edward.
Working was her life now, as it had been before Edward Delanza had disrupted it so completely last year. And Sofie was glad.
Finishing Delmonico’s had begun as an exorcism. But it had not worked. Instead of exorcising Edward from her life, instead of exorcising her grief, Sofie found herself more bound to him than before. Perhaps it was not just having completed Delmonico’s, perhaps it was also the baby, who was growing so quickly and purposefully now inside Sofie’s womb. When Sofie had felt her moving for the first time inside her belly, she had begun to feel fiercely like a mother, and the child had begun to take on a persona of her own. She was sweet and trusting and eager to be born. Somehow Sofie was certain that it was a girl. She would name her Jacqueline, after Jake, and Edana, after Edward.