Where were you? I looked everywhere for you. I told you to meet me at the restaurant at twelve o'clock. Monique looked mollified as she looked up at her mother, but what surprised Charlie was that the woman was as cold as ice with her, and the child was so warm. But the elegant young woman was also angry because she had been worried, and he couldn't entirely blame her.
I'm very sorry, he apologized. It's probably my fault. We rode up on the lift together, and then we skied down and took our time. We started to talk. She looked even angrier at that.
She's an eight-year-old child. She glared at him ferociously and something rang a bell in his mind, but he had no idea what it was. She looked so familiar to him, and he still had no idea why. But as he looked down at her, he could see that Monique was about to cry. Monique, her mother glared down at her relentlessly, who paid for your lunch?
I did, Charlie explained, sorry for the little girl in the face of her mother's tirade.
What happened to the money I gave you this morning? The young woman looked frustrated and angry as she took off her hat, and revealed a long mane of dark auburn hair. And Charlie had already noticed that she had deep green eyes. She didn't look anything like her daughter.
I lost it, Monique told her as two tears finally escaped from her brimming eyes. I'm sorry, Mommy' . She hid her face in her hands so Charlie wouldn't see her cry.
Really, it's nothing, Charlie tried to soothe them both. He felt terrible about the stir he'd caused, first making her late, and then paying for her hot dog. It wasn't as though he was trying to pick her up. He was well aware that she was a child. But the look in her mother's eyes was still ferocious, and after thanking him angrily, she took Monique by the arm, and led her away without even letting her finish her lunch. Just watching them together made Charlie angry. There had been no reason to make a scene and embarrass the child. She was right not to let her hang around with strangers, but he certainly looked harmless enough. She could have been good humored and a lot more pleasant about it, and she wasn't. And as he finished his hamburger, he thought about them, the little girl he'd enjoyed talking to so much, and the mother who was so angry and afraid ' and then suddenly he remembered. He knew exactly where he'd seen her before, and who she was. She was the disagreeable woman from the historical society in Shelburne. And he had disliked her almost as much there as he did this time. She seemed so bitter and so frightened. And then he remembered what Monique had said, that in Paris her mother had cried all the time. It made him wonder even more about them. What was she running away from? What was she hiding? Or was she as unpleasant as she looked? Perhaps, in fact, there was no one inside.
He was still thinking about them when he took the chairlift alone this time, and ran into Monique at the top. She still seemed embarrassed, and she was more hesitant about talking to him this time. But she had hoped she'd see him. She hated it when her mother acted like that. Nowadays, she did it a lot. And that was more or less what she told Charlie, as she looked up at him with her great big eyes.
I'm sorry my mom got mad at you. She gets mad a lot now. I think it's because she gets tired. She works really hard. She stays up really late at night, writing. It was still no excuse for the way she behaved, even the child knew that, and she was really sorry her mother had been so mean to Charlie. There seemed to be no way to make it up now. Do you want to ski with me again? she asked sadly. She seemed so lonely, and he suspected from the way she looked at him, that she missed her father. With a mother like that it was no wonder. And he hoped for the child's sake that her father was warmer than the woman with the sharp tongue and broken look in her eyes.
Are you sure your mother won't mind? He didn't want her to think he was a pervert, some crazy pedophile chasing her little girl. But they were out in the open, on the mountain, there wasn't much that could be misconstrued from that. And he didn't have the heart to reject the child. She seemed so hungry for a companion.
My mommy doesn't care who I ski with. I just can't go inside with anyone, or to their house, or in their car, she explained sensibly, and she was really mad because I let you pay for my lunch. She said we can take care of ourselves. She looked up at him with huge eyes then, apologizing for her extravagance. Did it cost a lot? she asked, looking worried, and he laughed at the innocence of the question.
Of course not. I think she was just worried about you, and that's why she got angry. Moms do that sometimes, he said sensibly, trying to allay her worries, and so do Dads. Sometimes parents are afraid something bad has happened when they can't find you, so when they do find you, they get all wound up. I'm sure she'll be fine by tonight. But Monique was not as certain, she knew her mother better than Charlie. Her mother had been moody and unhappy for so long, Monique could no longer remember a different person, although she thought her mother had been happier when she was little. But their life had been different then, her illusions had not yet been shattered, there had still been hope then, and faith, and love. Now there was only bitterness and anger, and unhappy silence in their lives.
In Paris, Mommy used to cry all the time. Here, she gets angry. She sounded like a barrel of laughs, and Charlie couldn't help feeling sorry for the child. It was so unfair of her mother to take her unhappiness out on her daughter. I don't think she's very happy. Maybe she doesn't like her job.
He nodded, suspecting easily that it was more than that, but he wasn't about to explain it to an eight-year-old. Maybe she misses your daddy.
No, Monique said firmly, as they made a sharp turn side by side. She says she hates him. That was nice. What a great atmosphere for a kid to grow up in, Charlie thought, growing still more annoyed at the mother. I don't really think she does, Monique said, looking hopeful, but her eyes were sad. Maybe we'll go back one day, she said wistfully. But Daddy is with Marie-Lise now. It sounded like a complicated situation, and it appeared to have taken a heavy toll on the child. It reminded him a little bit of his plight with Carole, but at least there were no children to get damaged by it. And Monique seemed to be surviving, in spite of her mother.
Is that what your mommy says? he asked with idle interest, not because of any interest in the mother, but only because he had grown fond of the child. That you'll go back?
Not really ' not yet anyway. She says we have to stay here now. He could think of worse fates. He wondered if they lived in Shelburne Falls, and on the way down he asked her, and she nodded. He knew her mother worked there, but he didn't know if they lived somewhere outside town or in Deerfield. How did you know? she asked him with interest.
Because I've seen your mom. I live there too. I just moved there from New York, at Christmas.
I went to New York once, when we came back from Paris. My grandma took me to F.A.O. Schwarz.
It's a great toy store, he said, and she agreed heartily with him, and they got to the bottom of the run and rode up on the chairlift together this time. He decided it was even worth risking her mother's ire, just so he could enjoy talking to Monique again. He really liked her, and he could sense an unstoppable enthusiasm and warmth and energy in the little girl, despite her problems with her parents. She was so bright and alive and so loving, and she had obviously been through a lot of pain, and yet there was nothing dreary about her. Unlike her mother, who had obviously been beaten down and never came out the other end. Or if she had, whatever there had once been in her of life and hope and happiness had altered. It was almost as though she had died, and a bitter, tired, battered soul had taken her place. In a way, Charlie felt sorry for her. Monique would survive. Her mother obviously had not.
They talked about Europe this time on the way down, and Charlie loved talking to her. She saw everything through the fresh, funny, always slightly humorous eyes of a child. And she told him about all the things she loved about France. There were a lot of them. She thought she would go back one day, when she got big enough to live where she chose, and she was going to stay with her daddy. She spent two months in the summer with him now, and she liked it very much
. They spent a month in the south of France. She said her dad was a sportscaster on TV, and he was very famous.
Do you look like him? Charlie asked casually, admiring the soft gold curls and the big blue eyes, as he had since they met that morning.
My mom says I do. But he suspected that that also made her mother unhappy. If he was an Olympic ski champion and a sportscaster, and had a girlfriend named Marie-Lise, there was always the possibility that Monique's mother had gotten a bum deal, or maybe not. But if she Used to cry all the time it didn't exactly speak well for her husband. And he found himself thinking on the way down, as Monique chattered on, what messes most people made of their lives. Cheating on each other, telling lies, marrying the wrong woman or man, losing respect, losing hope, losing heart. It seemed miraculous to him now that anyone managed to make it work and stayed married. He certainly hadn't. He had thought he was the happiest man in the world, until he found out his wife was madly in love with another man. It was so classic it was embarrassing, and he found himself wondering again what had happened between Monique's parents. Maybe there was a reason for the grim look her mother wore, the heart-shaped lips set in a firm, hard line. Maybe she'd been someone else before Pierre Vironnet had turned her bitter. Then again there was the possibility that she was a shrew, and he'd been thrilled to get rid of her. Who knew? And in the end, who cared? Charlie didn't. He only cared about the child.
Monique went to find her mother on time this time. Charlie had asked her about any rendezvous they had, and at three o'clock sharp he sent her off, and went up alone for a last run. But he found that even without the child, he skied no better, no faster, no wilder than he had with his young friend. She could keep up easily with him, and Charlie could see that her father had taught her well. And as he came down the mountain alone this time, he couldn't help thinking about the little girl who'd lived in Paris. Meeting her almost made him wish that he and Carole had had children. It would have complicated things, and they'd be in the same mess now probably, but at least there would be something to show for their ten years together. Now all they had were some antiques, a few nice paintings, and half the linen and china. It seemed precious little to have left to mark ten years together. After ten years, they should have had more.
Charlie was still mulling over it when he went back to the hotel. But the next day, when he skied again, he didn't see Monique, or her mother, and he wondered if they'd gone home. He hadn't asked her if they were planning to stay, and he guessed that they hadn't. He skied alone for the next couple of days, and although he saw some pretty women here and there, none of them seemed worth the trouble. These days, he felt as though he had nothing to say, nothing to offer anyone, no succor, no support, no amusing anecdotes. His well had run dry. The only person who had drawn him out successfully was an eight-year-old. It was a sad statement on his psyche, and his perspective on life.
And he was startled when, on the day of New Year's Eve, he ran into Monique again. Where've you been? he asked with delight, as they met putting on their skis at the base of the mountain. He noticed that her mother was nowhere in sight. Again he wondered about someone who was so concerned about who bought the kid a hot dog and fries but let her ski alone. She certainly didn't hang around with Monique much. But she knew that at Charlemont, Monique was safe. They had come here almost every weekend for the past year, ever since they'd moved here. And despite the bitter taste that Pierre had cast on almost everything they'd done in France, skiing was still important to them, although her mother skied milder slopes than she did.
We went back because Mom had to work, she explained to Charlie as she beamed at him. It was like the meeting of old friends. But we're going to stay here tonight, and go home tomorrow.
So am I. He had already been there for three days, and wasn't going back until New Year's night. Are you going to stay up tonight for New Year's Eve?
Probably, she said hopefully. My dad lets me drink champagne. My mom says it'll rot my mind.
That's possible, he said, looking amused, thinking of all the champagne he'd drunk in the past twenty-five or thirty years, although it was debatable as to the effect it had had. I think you'll be all right with a few sips.
My mom won't even let me have that. And then on a happier note, We went to the movies yesterday. It was very nice. She seemed pleased and then moved ahead of him for a little while. And this time, at exactly noon, he sent her down to her mother. But they met again that afternoon, and Monique brought a friend with her. He was a boy she knew from school. He was a little hot dogger on the slopes, Charlie observed, but Monique whispered to him with a serious look that Tommy was a rotten skier. And Charlie smiled as the children flew ahead of him. Charlie was a little more cautious than they were on the way down, and by the end of the day he was tired. Monique had left the slopes by then, and he was surprised to run into them in his hotel that night after dinner. They were sitting in the lodge's large living room, and Francesca had stretched her long legs out in front of the fire. And as she said something to Monique, Charlie actually saw her smile. And he hated to admit it, but she looked gorgeous. She was a beautiful woman despite the icy, sorrowful look in her eyes.
He hesitated at first, but finally decided to walk over and say hello to them. He had spent so much time with Monique by then, that he felt rude not acknowledging her mother. She wore her hair down her back in a long ponytail, and as he approached, he couldn't help noticing the enormous almond-shaped eyes and the deep red color of her hair in the firelight. There was something mysterious and exotic about her when she smiled. But the moment she recognized him, everything closed again, like shutters on windows. Charlie had never seen anything like it. She was obviously determined to hide.
Hello again, he said, trying to look more comfortable than he felt. He wasn't good at this anymore. And he didn't want to be. He felt like a fool, standing there with Francesca glaring at him. Great snow today, wasn't it? he said casually, and saw her nod. The eyes fluttered up at him once and then looked back into the fire without interest.
But she forced herself to glance up at him finally, and answer his question. It was great snow, she conceded, but he noticed that it seemed to cause her considerable pain to speak to him at all. Monique told me she saw you again, she added, seeming almost expansive, but he didn't want this woman to think there was anything clandestine about his dealings with her child. They were just ski partners, and she was obviously hungry for male companionship because she missed her father. You've been very kind to her, Francesca Vironnet said quietly as Monique went to talk to another child, but she didn't invite him to sit down with her. Do you have children of your own? She assumed he had. Monique hadn't told her much about their conversations. She particularly didn't tell her that she had told Charlie about her father.
No, I don't have children, Charlie explained. I like her, Charlie said, and then complimented Monique profusely. But he couldn't help noticing again how withdrawn the woman was. She was like a wounded animal deep in a cave. All you could see were her eyes glistening in the dark from the light of the fire. He wasn't sure why, but even if only out of curiosity, he would have liked to draw her out. These were the kind of challenges he had loved years before, but had learned not to tackle even before he was married. More often than not, challenges such as these were not worth the agony, or the time. And yet ' something in her eyes whispered volumes about her sorrow.
You're very lucky to have Monique, he said quietly, and this time she looked up into his eyes, and at last he saw the merest flicker of something warm from behind the glacier where she was hiding.
Yes, I am lucky ' she conceded, but didn't sound as though she meant it.
She's a great skier too, he smiled, she outran me a number of times.
She outruns me too. Francesca almost laughed, but caught herself. She didn't want to know this man. That's why I let her ski by herself. She's too fast for me. I can't keep up with her. She smiled at him, and looked almost beautiful, but not quite. It woul
d have taken a lot more fire to make the difference.
She tells me she learned to ski in France, he said casually, and with those words he saw everything in Francesca's face slam shut. It was like watching the door to a vault close electrically. Locked and sealed and barred, and nothing short of dynamite would have opened it before the appointed hour. He had obviously reminded her of something she could not bear to think about. And she had locked the door, and run far, far away from him. She was still wearing a look of startled agony when Monique wandered back, and Francesca stood up and told her it was bedtime.
Monique looked devastated. She had been having such a good time. And she wanted to stay up till midnight. And Charlie knew that, in part, her removal was his fault. Francesca had to run away from him now, to stay safe, and she had to take her daughter with her. He wanted to tell her that he wished her no harm, that he had wounds of his own. He was no threat to anyone. They were like two wounded animals, drinking at the same brook, there was no need to injure each other again, nor to run and hide. But there was no way to tell her what he felt. He wanted nothing at all from her, no friendship, no intimacy, he wanted to wrest nothing whatsoever from her. He was just standing qui-edy along her path. But even that faint threat, that hint of a human presence in her life, even for a moment or two, was too much for her. He wondered what she was writing about, but he wouldn't have dared to ask her about diat.
He tried to make a last plea for his young friend. It's awfully early to go up on New Year's Eve, isn't it? How about some ginger ale for Monique, and a glass of wine for us? But that was even more threatening, and Francesca shook her head, thanked him, and within two minutes, they both were gone, and he was sorry when they left. But he had never met a woman as badly injured as she, and couldn't imagine what the sports-caster had done to leave her so damaged. Whatever it was, Charlie suspected it must have been pretty awful. Or at least she thought it was, which was enough. But despite the suit of armor she wore so effectively, he sensed now that somewhere deep within, she was probably a decent person.
The Ghost Page 12