“I don’t know why, but I think things were easier when our kids were younger,” Anne sighed with a smile, “or maybe that was just because I was at the office when the kids were small.” Anne smiled at Robert. Despite their family, and their jobs, they had always made time for each other and romance. “Everything seems more stressful these days, or maybe my nerves just aren’t what they used to be with young kids around, although I love them. But it’s so nice to have a quiet civilized evening, with grown-ups.” She looked at the Morrisons with pleasure. “The decibel level at the house in Sugarbush nearly drove Robert crazy.” They had admitted to each other in the car that they were delighted to come home.
“I’m going to enjoy my grandchildren a lot more when I start to lose my hearing,” he said, setting his glass down on the coffee table, as the doorbell rang. It was nearly eight-thirty, a record in punctuality for the Donnallys, who typically would arrive late, and blame each other for it, each one insisting vehemently that it was the other’s fault. And tonight was no different.
Eric opened the door to them as Diana chatted with the Smiths, and a moment later, they could all hear Pascale and John.
“I’m so sorry we’re late,” Pascale said in her still heavily accented English, although she had lived in New York for nearly thirty years, and spoke the language flawlessly. But she had never been able to shake her French accent, or tried to. She still preferred to speak French whenever possible, with people she met, sales personnel in stores, waiters, and several times a week on the phone with her mother. John claimed they spent hours on the phone. And for all twenty-five years of their marriage, John had steadfastly refused to learn French, although he caught key words here and there, and could say “Merde” with a fairly credible accent. “John absolutely refused to find a cab!” Pascale said in outraged disbelief as Eric took her coat with a familiar grin. He always loved their stories. “He forced me to take the bus here! Can you imagine? On New Year’s Eve, in evening clothes!” She looked incensed as she brushed a lock of curly dark hair from her eyes, the rest was pulled back in a tight bun, just as she had worn it when she was dancing, only now the front was softer. And in spite of her forty-seven years, there was still something overwhelmingly sensual and exquisite about her. She was tiny and delicate and graceful, and her green eyes were blazing as she told her tale of woe to Eric.
“I didn’t refuse to take a cab—we couldn’t find one!” John said, defending himself, as Pascale groaned at him.
“Ahh!” she said, sparks darting from her eyes, as she glared at her husband. “Ridiculous! You just didn’t want to pay the cab fare!” John was notoriously parsimonious among all those who knew him. But with the snow falling steadily, it was entirely possible, in this instance at least, that they hadn’t been able to find a taxi. And for once John looked singularly undisturbed by his wife’s attack, as they walked into the living room with Eric, to find the others. John was in excellent humor as he greeted their friends.
“Sorry we’re late,” he said calmly. He was used to his wife’s inflammatory outbursts, and generally undismayed by them. She was French, easily offended, and frequently outraged. John was, as a rule, a great deal calmer, at least at the outset. It took him just a little longer to respond and heat up. He was stocky and powerful, and had played ice hockey at Harvard. And he and Pascale made an interesting visual of contrasts, the one so delicate and petite, the other strong and broad-shouldered and powerful. Everyone had commented for years on how much they looked like Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. “Happy New Year, everyone,” John said, smiling broadly, as he accepted a flute of champagne from Diana, while Pascale kissed Eric on both cheeks, and then did the same to Anne and Robert, and a moment later Diana hugged her and told her how lovely she looked. Pascale always did. She had exquisite, exotic looks.
“Alors, les copains,” she said, calling them the equivalent of “buddies,” “how was Christmas? Ours was awful,” she volunteered without stopping for breath. “John hated the suit I bought him, and he bought me a stove, can you imagine! A stove! Why not a lawn mower, or a truck!” She looked incensed as the others laughed, and her husband was quick to answer in his own defense.
“I wouldn’t buy you any kind of vehicle, Pascale, you’re a lousy driver!” But he said it, this time at least, with good humor.
“I’m a much better driver than you are,” she said, sipping the champagne, “and you know it. You’re even afraid to drive in Paris.”
“I’m not afraid of anything in France, except your mother.” She rolled her eyes, and turned her attention to Robert. He always enjoyed talking to her. He had a passion for classical ballet, as did Anne, and good theater. And he and Pascale talked about ballet sometimes for hours. He also enjoyed practicing his rusty French on her, which pleased Pascale immensely.
The group chatted amiably till dinnertime, drinking champagne, and talking and laughing. John conceded finally that he was pleased to have taken the bus, to have been spared the price of a cab, and everyone teased him about it. He was famous in their midst for his distaste for spending money, and they loved to tease him about it. He was the butt of endless jokes, and loved them all.
Eric and Anne talked about the skiing in Sugarbush, and Diana chimed in that she was dying to go back to Aspen. Pascale and Robert chatted about the opening of the ballet. And Diana and John talked about the state of the economy, the stock market, and some of the Morrisons’ investments. John was an investment banker, and he loved talking business with anyone who’d indulge him. The interests of the group had always meshed well, and they moved easily from serious subjects to light ones. And as Diana told them they were ready to sit down to dinner in the dining room, Anne mentioned to Eric that her elder son and daughter-in-law were having another baby. It would be their sixth grandchild.
“At least I will never be traumatized by having someone call me Grandma,” Pascale said lightly, but they all knew that to Pascale there was more sorrow to it than her casual comment suggested. They all remembered the half-dozen years when she had reported to all of them regularly about her intensive treatments, the medicines she took, the shots John had to give her several times a day, and her ongoing failure to get pregnant. The group had been unfailingly supportive of them, to no avail. It had been a terrible time for them, and one that they all had feared would ultimately cost them their marriage, but fortunately, it hadn’t.
The real tragedy for Pascale had come when John absolutely refused to adopt a baby. For Pascale, it was the final sentence meted out to her that she would never have a child, which, at the time at least, had been all she wanted. In recent years, she claimed that she no longer thought about it. But she looked wistful still sometimes when the others talked about their children. Eric had even tried talking to John, to convince him to adopt, but he had been intransigent about it. John was nothing if not stubborn, and no matter how much it meant to Pascale, he refused to consider it as an option for them. He did not want to bring up, support, or attempt to love someone else’s baby. He was very clear about the fact that he felt he couldn’t, even for her sake. And the others in the group had been deeply sorry for them.
But there was no talk of it now as they moved to the elegantly set table. Diana set the prettiest tables of them all, and did the most exotic flower arrangements. Tonight she had mixed birds-of-paradise with cymbidium orchids, and there were little silver bells spread all over the table, handsome silver candlesticks with tall white candles in them, and the embroidered tablecloth she’d used had been her mother’s and was spectacular. The table looked superb.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Anne said admiringly, taking in the magic Diana had created, as she stood by looking as elegant as her table in a white satin gown that was the same color as her hair and showed off her youthful figure. She was in almost as good shape as Pascale, though not quite, since Pascale danced for six hours every day, with her students. Anne hadn’t been as blessed as either of the other two women. She was attractive,
but she was tall, and bigger boned than either of the other two, and now and then she complained that they made her feel like an Amazon beside them. But it didn’t really bother her, she was brilliant, fun to be with, self-assured, and it was obvious even to her how much Robert loved her. He had told her frequently over the years that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he meant it.
Eric put an arm around Diana and kissed her before they sat down at the dinner table, and thanked her for what a beautiful job she’d done, as Pascale glowered across the table at John.
“If you did that to me, I’d have a heart attack from shock,” she scolded him. “You never kiss me, and you never thank me. For anything!” But despite her frequent complaints, there was no malice in Pascale’s tone.
“Thank you, darling,” John smiled benevolently at her from his seat, “for all those wonderful frozen dinners you leave me.” He laughed in a good-natured way as he said it. She often went to dance class at night, after teaching all day, and didn’t have time to cook him dinner.
“How can you say that? I left you a cassoulet last week, and a coq au vin two days ago…. You don’t deserve them!!”
“No, I don’t. Besides, I cook better than you do.” He laughed at her.
“You’re a monster!” she said, green eyes blazing at him. “And I’m not taking the bus home. I’m taking a taxi home by myself, John Donnally, and I will not allow you to ride with me!” She looked unfailingly, incredibly French. Theirs had always been a match of fire and passion.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, grinning at Diana, as she served their first course of bluepoint oysters. The six of them shared a particular fondness for seafood. She had cold lobster for the main course, then salad and cheese, in deference to Pascale, who couldn’t bear to eat salad first, and always said she felt cheated when there wasn’t cheese after the main course. And there was baked Alaska for dessert, which was Eric’s favorite, and the others loved it too. It was a festive meal, and a perfect evening for all six of them.
“My God, we eat well at your house,” John said admiringly as Diana came out of the kitchen with the flaming dessert, and the assembled company applauded. “Pascale, why don’t you borrow some of Diana’s recipes instead of all those guts and entrails and brains and kidneys and blood sausages you feed me?”
“You wouldn’t let me spend the money if I did,” Pascale said truthfully. “Besides, you love brains and kidneys,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I lied. I’d rather eat lobster,” he said, beaming at his hostess, as Robert chuckled. The constant bickering and bantering of the Donnallys somehow amused him, even after twenty-five years of listening to it. To all of them, it seemed harmless. Their marriages were all sound, their mates reliable and constant, and their relationships surprisingly harmonious in a world that offered little harmony to most people. They all realized that they’d been blessed, not only in their mates, but in their bond of friendship to each other. Robert called them the six musketeers, and although their interests were varied and different sometimes, they nevertheless enjoyed the time they spent together.
It was after eleven o’clock when Anne commented on the fact that both John and Eric had turned sixty that year, and it no longer made her feel quite as ancient, since she was a year older, and had hated turning sixty the year before.
“We should do something to celebrate it,” Diana said, as they sat over coffee and John lit a cigar, since none of the others objected. It was a taste that Pascale shared with him, and occasionally she smoked one with him. It had become fashionable for women to do that in recent years, but Pascale always had, ever since they’d been married. It seemed incongruous in light of her delicate appearance.
“What do you suggest to celebrate our turning sixty?” Eric asked his wife, with a grin. “Face-lifts for all of us? The men at least, none of you ladies need it,” he said, looking admiringly at his wife. It was the one secret she hadn’t shared with her friends, the fact that she’d had her eyes done, at Eric’s suggestion. He had found her the surgeon. “I think John would look great, if he had some work done.” In truth, he had a few wrinkles and lines, but they looked well on him. He had a manly air that suited his personality perfectly.
“Better liposuction for him,” Pascale said, looking at her husband through the smoke, and he looked undismayed by the comment.
“It’s those damn blood sausages you feed me,” he accused her.
“And if I stopped making them for you?” she challenged.
“I’d kill you,” he grinned, and handed her the cigar to take a puff, which she did, with a look of pleasure. For all their teasing and bantering, she and John genuinely liked each other.
“I’m serious,” Diana persisted. They had another half-hour until midnight. “We should celebrate our men coming of age.” Only she and Pascale were still several years from that landmark, although Diana was closer to it than Pascale, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. “Why don’t we take another trip together?”
“Where do you suggest?” Robert asked, with a look of interest. When they could get away from their demanding professional lives, he and Anne both enjoyed traveling to exotic places. The summer before they had gone to Bali and Indonesia. It was a trip they would remember forever.
“What about a safari in Kenya?” John asked hopefully, and Pascale looked at him with disgust. She had gone to Botswana with him years before, to a game preserve, and hated every minute of it. The only place she ever wanted to go was Paris, to see friends and relatives, but John didn’t consider that a vacation. It drove him crazy to stay with her family, and visit her relatives with her, while she chatted endlessly in French, and he understood nothing of what they were saying, and didn’t want to. He adored Pascale, but her relatives either annoyed or bored him.
“I hate Africa, and bugs and dirt. Why don’t we all go to Paris together?” Pascale asked with a look of pleasure. As much as John hated it, she loved it.
“What a great idea,” he said, drawing on the cigar again, having just relit it. “Let’s all stay with your mother. I’m sure she’d love it. We could all stand in line for a couple of hours, waiting for your grandmother to get out of the bathroom.” Like most Paris flats, they only had one, and Pascale’s ninety-two-year-old grandmother lived with her widowed aunt and mother. It was an atmosphere that drove John insane, and to a lot of bourbon, whenever he stayed there. The last time he had even brought his own, since the most exotic thing in her mother’s bar was Dubonnet and sweet vermouth, although there was always excellent red wine with dinner. Her late father had been a connoisseur of fine wines, and Pascale’s mother had learned a great deal from him. It was the only thing John liked about her.
“Don’t be rude about my grandmother. And your mother is even more impossible than mine,” Pascale said, looking very Gallic and highly insulted.
“At least mine speaks English.”
“You wouldn’t want to stay with my mother either,” Diana volunteered, and the others laughed. They had all met Diana’s parents several times, and although her father was a pleasant man, Diana made no secret of the fact that her highly organized, extremely domineering mother had always driven her crazy. “Seriously, where could we go together? What about the Caribbean? Or someplace really exotic this time? Like Buenos Aires, or Rio?”
“Everyone says Rio is dangerous,” Anne said with a look of concern. “My cousin went there last year, and they stole her handbag, her luggage, and her passport.
She said she’d never go back there. What about Mexico?”
“Or Japan or Mainland China,” Robert suggested, beginning to warm up to the idea. He liked traveling with the others, and he had a particular fondness for Asia. “Or Hong Kong. The girls could go shopping.”
“What’s wrong with France?” Pascale tried again, and the others laughed, as John pretended to slump in his chair in despair. They went there every summer. “I’m serious. Why don’t we rent a house in the South of Fran
ce? Aix en Provence, or Antibes, or Eze … or what about St. Tropez? It’s terrific.” John instantly objected, but as he did, Diana looked intrigued at the prospect.
“Actually, why not? It might be fun to rent a house, and maybe someone Pascale knows could find us a good one. It might be more fun than traveling around some exotic country. Eric and I speak enough French to get by, Anne is pretty good at it, and so is Robert. Pascale can handle all the hard stuff. What do you think, guys?”
Anne looked pensive as she considered it, and nodded. “To tell you the truth, I like it. Robert and I went to St. Tropez with the kids ten years ago, and we loved it. It’s pretty, on the water, the food is great, and it’s very lively.” She and Robert had spent a romantic week there, in spite of their children.
“We could rent a house there for August. And John,” Diana promised him with an earnest look, “we won’t let Pascale’s mother come near it.”
“Actually, we might get lucky. She goes to Italy every year in August.”
“See, it would be perfect. What do you all think?” Diana asked, pressing the project through, even Robert was nodding his approval. St. Tropez had a nice ring to it, it was civilized and fun, and they could charter a boat to visit other places on the Riviera.
“I like it,” Robert admitted, and Eric seconded the motion.
“I vote for St. Tropez,” he said solemnly, “if we can find a decent house. Pascale, what do you think? Can you handle that end of the project for us?”
“No problem. I know some very good real estate agents in Paris. And if she can leave my grandmother, my mother could look at some for us.”
“No,” John said emphatically, “keep her out of it. She’ll pick something we hate. Just go with the agent.” But he didn’t object to the location, even though it was in what he usually referred to as Frogland.
“Is it unanimous then?” Diana inquired, looking around the table, and everyone nodded. “Then it’s St. Tropez in August.”
Sunset in St. Tropez Page 2