Their son, Brad Jr., was shattered, quietly. He put his head down all the way to his knees and his shoulders shook like a duck in water shaking hind feathers. A surprising tremble along the navy wool of his father’s blazer, his narrow back, nipped like a mannequin’s at the waist. Darling, she whispered. Brad, sweetheart, and placed her own shaking hand between his shoulder blades. The cool of his skin seemed to penetrate the wool and seep into her fingers. He was very high, she decided, yes, and these shaking tears were no more than an earnest need to be elsewhere. She gave him five hundred dollars when she put him on the plane, and the promise of some kind of trust when things were settled. She went home to dismantle her life.
It was easier than she ever could have imagined. Coren wasn’t useful at all. Patty would collapse nightly into one of her silly Adirondack chairs and over the flicker of netted candles report on the chicanery of auction houses and international realtors and estate attorneys. Coren would nod and pour. Only much later, when the walnut trees planted her very first spring in the Dordogne were finally bearing, did Patty realize what a comfort that had been.
Her helpful new neighbor, a farmer who wished to graze his cows in her meadow, brought two dozen saplings and planted each in a delicate line out to the east of her widow’s perch. Three years passed, then his sons came to gather the first harvest, and Patty saw an opportunity. She’d return a kindness and maybe settle a ticking disquiet. Almost a fizzy feeling in her nervous system. She wrote to Coren, Come, my dear friend, this place was made for you. It will cure you.
When she didn’t receive an answer she telephoned. But even long distance, Coren could be obtuse, a bit dense. What exactly did Patty wish to cure?
Patty laughed, then said, Look, something’s come up.
Are you all right? Is Brad okay?
I can’t really talk about it on the telephone.
It was odd to think that Coren grew up in Europe because she got so thoroughly lost on the way to the Dordogne. She was stranded a whole long dull day in Amsterdam, where, she told Patty, she’d actually considered calling her mother. As a surprise. Could Patty believe it? I mean everything was completely different, and still I wanted to find a pay phone—there are none—and call and say, I’m home.
You have a home wherever I am, dear, just try to get here. This was the inflated sentiment Patty used all the time, and it protected her. She’d heard the story of Coren’s mother long ago. And it was certainly sad. And Coren had been very young. And the stepmother she gained too fast had been feckless and hurtful. All of that, and then the refrain about a phone booth, the most unfortunate detail about her mother’s death. Patty felt it was almost tasteless for Coren to bring it up, even obliquely. But this was Coren trying to seed some kind of emotional ground. This would be the trouble: her husband Phil’s desertion—it had finally come to that, Patty heard—would equal her mother’s early death. Well, Patty had already decided she owed her. That’s what she’d realized watching her neighbor’s sons bent and laughing, collecting tiny fallen nuts in her young grove. Also that she did precious little in the way of aid and comfort, and maybe it was time.
But willing and able are sometimes very far apart, Patty understood. This case, she could see immediately, was complicated. She watched through the Plexiglas wall in the tiny airport in Bordeaux as Coren shuffled past a customs officer, only to be waved back, then dragged back by a sleeve. His face amused and regretful. His lips quite red and curled. Patty knew the addled woman in gray would be tossed about between bored officers, perhaps even mocked and imitated. She tapped sharp nails against the glass. She caught his startled attention and smiled. This was the right place for her. She knew the right smiles, could calibrate a swift disarming promise. Such a different world and she may have been happier here all along. She was happy now, catching and holding a quick high strike in the eye of a pretty young man. He waved away the woman in gray and smiled an answer to Patty, a promise neither would remember a moment later.
Patty always liked that easy way of playing with things, of lighting small tips of desire and turning away. Just fun. And her husband had never minded, never much noticed. Here it was more intricate, more competitive! And that left her always assessing, sizing up. The doors slid apart, and Coren reached around for a too-short handle to drag a thin red suitcase. She wore a sheath cut like a muumuu, an embarrassing hand-knit sweater, and a nice pair of boots, as if she’d robbed a chicer, cleverer woman. Their burnished coppery sheen looked out of place with the fade of her dress and skin and hair. First thing, Patty would release some closely held information about grooming in one’s fifties. Though actually, now that she thought about it, and she had plenty of time, as Coren seemed to lose her way between the automatic doors and the rope fence—Patty’s fresh cut roses drooped in her hand —Coren was ten years younger, at least. Not possible, she thought, What in the world had happened? And then she remembered her mission. Aid and comfort, aid and comfort, nothing more. Coren! she cried out, Thank god.
Patty warned Coren about sleeping too long, but it was little use. Coren poured herself into the guest bed and refused, in a complimentary way, to come down for dinner. Such a perfect bed she couldn’t move, though Patty’s roasting chicken was in all her dreams, the aroma divine. But at five in the morning, Patty woke to the bang of Coren in the kitchen, smashing against the chair rungs. Let her wander, Patty thought, not unkindly; she knew Coren would be happier for the moment on her own. She’d take her in hand in the morning.
Out the high window a sliver of red warmed the black edge of the hill beyond the walnut trees. Patty listened to the knock of the kettle hitting the stove top, and remembered the sad thickness of this landscape when she’d first arrived, before she’d adjusted, and wondered how Coren would see it. But Coren saw so little. It was the secret of her startling equanimity. Patty pulled the duvet high on her chest to smother a prick of unhappiness. A cat, the old gray mother, sighed and settled at her knees.
Their last sleepover, Patty now remembered, had been a disaster. A brownout in Manhattan, both husbands out of town, they’d watched the undulating city from Coren’s terrace. The darkness, the sounds from the streets, frightening, but from their perch of safety, fascinating, too. That’s when she’d heard the tale of Coren’s mother’s death and the part darkness played in the violent end of a young foolish woman. Coren’s mother had made her fatal telephone call from a booth with a burnt-out bulb. Surely the first thing a girl learns is to avoid the dark alone. Patty released the thought and let sleep take her over.
Patty had a theory about sad stories, they were best left untold. Or told only once if absolutely necessary, then forgotten. So on the first day, spotting Coren wrapped in a blanket staring out unseeing from the stone veranda, she settled on an agenda of distraction. Not easily done in a place where culture had yet to recover from a war most of the world knew only as a reliable movie plot. But there were country walks to be taken, and morning markets to be shopped; she’d invite friends, foreigners who, like herself, had bought up the crumbling abandoned farmhouses and poured money, like honey, into the restorations.
And lucky for both of them, she’d just received a knotty, mysterious letter from Brad Jr. in Vancouver. Darling, she said, letting the letter flutter from her right hand as she balanced a tray with toast and jam and fresh coffee. Help me sort this out, please! She settled the tray on the stone wall and offered Coren a pretty napkin and one of the small white porcelain plates that pleased her so. Good news? asked Coren.
Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. And they both laughed.
Brad’s trust was nothing he could live on, but it broke the spirit to have things too easy when young. Didn’t Coren agree?
Well, what does he say?
Here goes: Dear Mama—great, so far, said Patty, looking up, smiling—I don’t want to bother you because I know you’ve had a hard time. The project of the house is more than just old stones. If you could be with Dad, you wouldn’t need to be out in a field
clearing rocks. Right?
Good luck with the harvest! Be careful of your back. Walnuts are small, but weight is strange the way it accumulates. Maybe that’s more about stars.
Anyway, things are pretty good at the Pilner-Stokes, better than at Kaplan-Kolp. The funding tanked when the newest council convened to “clean-up” fiscal slag. Our salaries were cut 10 percent. Unbelievable. But the universe is a long-term project. Anyway, do you think I could talk to Preston Boll about a bigger payout from the trust? Then I could move out of the cave with hot plate, to a studio with a stove and, you know, a shower. I love the work and wish it would pay more. I don’t know. Maybe we’re both just looking for signs of Dad in something totally mysterious and out there. Anyway, would you consider an increase? If it’s a problem, forget it. But if you say yes, you know I’ll repay you.
Your son, Brad
Patty folded the letter back into its blue envelope, lifted her cup, and blew on her hot coffee, took a tentative sip.
Very Brad, said Coren. Always so tender. Just like his father.
You think so?
I do! You know what I was remembering in the airport? The way he used to sit with Jorge in the doorman’s booth and play gin rummy on rainy afternoons. Poor sad Jorge, remember? His cheeks would swell and that stood for a smile. I remembered the two of them, Brad, a neat stack of pennies—
Stolen.
And Jorge beaming, if you could call it that. Remember?
Of course. And that was precious when Brad peed into Jorge’s Thanksgiving dinner. Remember? said Patty, as she leaned over to spoon jam on a toast point.
Really?
You had to calm Jorge down, he wanted to sue!
Oh, come on.
You come on, Patty smiled. Try this toast.
I’m not so hungry.
Patty sighed, You will be. Let me take charge of you this first day.
May I have some more coffee?
Patty peeled out of her teak armchair, scraped it across the stone.
Wait! Don’t bother. I thought there was more right here.
No bother.
Coren sighed, looked out at the long meadow. To the right, walnut trees shivered in a breeze, the slender trunks wrapped in a gauzy fog. It was autumn. Ocher underwrote every other color. There must have been flowers in the pergola; their empty pods still reached toward a shrouded sun. Coren snuggled closer into her blanket. Everywhere at this house, it seemed, the high din of flies twisted nearby. A sour manure smell came and went, then Patty was back with a French press glass coffeepot on another enameled tray. I made a ton! But really you shouldn’t be drinking it. Anyway, let’s table Brad.
But I’m all for a raise! smiled Coren.
Of course you are. Look at those ugly things. In the middle of the meadow, birds too big for the landscape gathered at the top of an old dead tree and cawed. Patty poured the new coffee to the very brim of Coren’s cup. Careful! she said, it’s boiling.
In many ways the first week was an enormous success. Guy Theirry the retired Swiss pilot flirted with concentration and poise. Patty swore she saw a flicker of interest after the long walk to the nearest village where an atelier boasted a potter of some talent. Guy explained the firing of a certain local clay that required no glaze. The color bursts from within, and no one can predict its beauty. Coren smiled and didn’t catch Patty’s eye once. Well done, thought Patty. And then watched Guy’s large head bob closer to view the squat sphere balanced so carefully in Coren’s hand. See the rings, and here, the tiny jabs of flame? he said, All natural.
On Friday, Guy took Coren to dinner. Patty complained of a small headache and used the time to gather her thoughts and make private phone calls. First to Brad Jr.: She was very sorry but completely strapped. She told him, it was funny, his father had made his first million when he was even younger than Brad was now. Amazing, right? What would they do without him? Brad said he loved her and that he had a terrible cold.
Then she called Preston Boll, a funny man who’d always carried a torch for her. She insisted he visit the Dordogne! What in the world was he waiting for! And then they agreed that Brad’s trust was best conserved. Unless, of course—Preston Boll reminded her of the terms—Brad wanted to buy a house. There were some nice bargains right outside Vancouver.
Oh, she said.
I know, said Preston, I know. And she could hear the smile in his voice as he said, Just like his old man, head in the clouds.
The stars! And you listen to me, old man, not another peep until you’re calling to say you’re on your way.
Lonely?
Yes, she said. And she put down the phone. She made a toddy and snuggled under the covers and dropped off before she could even find her book. Again, Patty was awakened in the dark by the bang of the kettle, but this time laughter floated up the curved walnut staircase. The wood was slick from decades of bees wax rubbed into the planks and if she went down in bare feet she might slip. She hunted around for her slippers with the grippy soles and then realized she’d look like someone’s grandmother tottering down to scold about the rules. And what rules? A woman deserted by a useless husband making tea for a man puffed with vanity about an ordinary career. Though handsome, Guy Theirry was a complete miss as far as Patty was concerned. No fire. Where the hell were her slippers anyway? Could Coren have borrowed them without asking?
She got down on her hands and knees and lifted the dust ruffle. Here, through the floorboards, directly beneath her, it would seem, she thought she heard the first awkward gasping cry, deep and stupid, as if sounded right in her own ear. Not a bit of humor or grace, a response to what must have been a quick sure grasp on the part of the great pilot. She would certainly not listen to this. Her efforts to rise silently only gave her back a wrenching pull. She would laugh, if it were funny. Here she was, injured by someone else’s foolish clutch in the dark.
When Coren finally made her appearance the next day, Patty was out clipping the more artless tendrils of the autumn roses, ignoring the twinge in her back. Patty braced herself for gloating. Dropped the clippers and did her duty: Good Morning, princess!
Oh! said Coren, I didn’t see you. Her hand flapped around her heart and she seemed to be panting.
What’s wrong?
Nothing, nothing. I was startled. I thought I saw a ghost.
Well, there is one, said Patty, with a smile. She’d landed on the day’s activity just like that. We’ll have a bite, then walk to the ruins so I can introduce you.
They’d give the great pilot a breather, Patty thought. He was probably home this minute nursing a hangover trying to piece together clues of last night. By the time he called Patty for a hint, they’d be all the way to Combarelles. She’d never liked him, she realized in the moment. Guy Theirry was arrogant. Based on almost nothing as far as Patty could tell. He was tall—true—and had an elegant nose. The rest? His wife died on the operating table and he took early retirement and bought a half-collapsed château for nothing. Every once in a while he gave a course to new pilots.
Patty’s first year in the Dordogne, he used to settle beside her at parties and tell amusing stories about young bucks lost in tiny clouds, all very funny. But then no follow up. He was as superficial as the bone button on his fancy bombardier jacket. Oh, she could laugh just to think of him. But why think of him? They’d only been flung together because they’d each lost a spouse in an instant. The macabre things that some people think quicken a pulse. And she could just imagine last night’s table talk. Coren would have unfurled some impenetrable tale. And Guy could bore with almost no effort. She wouldn’t ask. But Coren was trailing her into the kitchen as though lost. She wore the afghan from the guest room reading chair wrapped around her shoulders and sure enough, Patty’s green fluffy slippers. Cold? asked Patty.
Umm, said Coren, settling her back against the wall. She closed her eyes.
He’s nice, that Guy, tried Patty, against her better judgement; anything to open Coren’s eyes!
Did y
ou know he’s found some art under his house? And now there are all sorts of problems with the government. He was clearing the rubble and he actually found one of the women.
The women?
The stone carvings. They’re everywhere around here I guess. With the huge bellies? They’re pregnant!
Who said?
Well, Guy, of course, and now she blushed. He insists I see them for obvious reasons.
It’s obvious you like him! Patty twisted the timer on the convection oven and unwrapped the croissants. I’m just going to give these a little boost. I spoke with Brad last night.
What did he say? I miss him!
So do I. He sounded happy. Loves, loves his work. Who ever would have imagined?! I thought he’d be a gangster.
No, you didn’t.
Patty smiled, said, Put some clothes on. We’ll eat these and then I want to show you something.
But Coren didn’t answer.
Patty turned and raised her eyebrows. This was an old cue for them. So many times on Coren’s tiny terrace Coren would be choked to silence and Patty would raise her eyebrows. Coren always spilled whatever troubled her. Though what could be so troubling, really, Patty had thought back then. Phil made plenty of money. It was true Coren had wanted children, but it hadn’t worked out. Patty assured her it was a blessing. Though the years of trying had been a strain on their friendship. Meanwhile, Phil kept traveling to South America and Coren’s terrace plantings became more elaborate.
Double Happiness Page 8