“What are you doing here?”
Alex looked up at her. Her hair was a mess. She had dark circles under her eyes, but she still looked beautiful. “I was worried about you,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
She hesitated. “I'm sorry. I'm being terribly rude. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” The man had been kind enough to get her to the hospital. The least she could do was offer him a cup of coffee.
Alex’s relief was almost overwhelming. “Thank you. I'd like that.” He followed her into the building and into the elevator. “Is David going to be all right?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“Yes,” she answered, and suddenly the compassion in his voice was too much. The emotions she had so tightly held back, overflowed, and all at once, tears were running down her cheeks. “I'm so sorry. I don't know why—”
“It's okay.” He pulled her into his arms and until the elevator bounced to a stop that's how they stayed. Alex was surprised at how good he felt having his arms wrapped around her. “Go ahead, cry. You've had a rough day. By the way, I’m Alexander Ivanov.”
The irony of the situation struck both of them at the same time. Here she was, crying in the arms of a man who did not even know her name. Her sobs turned into giggles, then into laughter.
“Brigitte Dartois,” she said and offered her hand as the elevator door slid open.
“Nice to meet you Brigitte Dartois,” Alex replied, smiling so that his eyes crinkled around the edges.
* * *
Chapter 22
Alex looked almost embarrassed as he walked in. He stood in the hall while Brigitte took his coat and gave it to Réjeanne.
“Come into the living room and have a seat. I'll go make us some coffee and be right back.”
While Brigitte disappeared down the hall, Alex looked around, awed by the tasteful surroundings. In one corner of the living room stood a baby grand piano. Above it hung one of her paintings. The style was unmistakable. He walked over for a closer inspection.
“I thought you didn't like my paintings,” said Brigitte from behind.
He turned around. She was standing in the doorway with an amused smile. “Didn’t I tell you that some tastes are acquired?”
Brigitte joined him by the piano and looked up at the oil—a vivid, larger than life, bunch of lilacs. “That was one of my earlier paintings. I was just beginning to discover my own style.” She sighed. “I still get goose bumps when I remember the joy I felt painting it.”
“It's certainly…” Alex stammered for the right word and settled on, “…something.”
Brigitte laughed. “That must be the most maladroit compliment I've ever had.”
“Give me time. I'm sure I’ll grow to love it.”
“Here's the coffee,” said Brigitte as Réjeanne appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray. “Why are there only two cups, Réjeanne? Aren't you joining us?” asked Brigitte.
Réjeanne set the tray on the coffee table. She spoke quietly. “No, if you don't mind. I'm really tired. I'd rather go to bed. Good night. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Ivanov.”
“Thank you, Réjeanne. I'll see you in the morning.”
Alex watched, as Brigitte poured the coffee. Everything about this woman was lovely. Her beauty went beyond her large green eyes and sensuous mouth. It was more than just her luxurious red hair and her perfect figure. There was a gentle strength about Brigitte that Alex had never known in a woman.
She is different from any girl I've ever met, he thought. It was difficult for him to believe that he was sitting in this apartment making small talk with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He wanted to take her in his arms and make wild, passionate love to her. He shook himself out of his daydream. Recalling the events from earlier in the day, he asked, “When is David coming back from the hospital?”
“Tomorrow. He's being kept under observation for the night.
“You love him very much don't you?” It killed him to ask the question, but he needed to know.
“Very much. He's the only family I have,” answered Brigitte softly and Alex felt his hope sink.
He looked at his watch.
“Do you have to leave?” asked Brigitte, surprised that she was disappointed at the thought.
Alex grinned sheepishly. “Not any more. I had a flight to New York earlier today and I completely forgot about it.”
“But that's terrible. What are you going to do?”
He shrugged and then asked her the question that was really on his mind. “How long have you and David been married?” he asked, feeling like a fool.
“Married?” Brigitte burst into laughter. “I'm not married. David is my son,” she said and for some strange reason, the look of relief on Alex's face made her happy. “David is seven years old and he has a heart condition,” she continued, giving the same explanation she always gave. After years of using the excuse, she almost believed it herself.
“Will he be all right?”
She nodded. “His condition is carefully monitored and controlled with medication,” she said and changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself.”
For the first time in his life, Alex had no desire to tell anything but the truth. He began slowly, talking about his childhood and the cold water flat he and his mother had shared. He discussed the endless string of men Marlena had brought home. There was nothing but genuine sympathy and interest in Brigitte’s eyes. So, he kept talking.
He told her about his dream of someday living in Manhattan and creating beautiful buildings, about how hard he had worked putting himself through University while holding down an evening job. The joy he had felt working for Brandon & Company and his bitter disappointment being disqualified from the Modern Design & Architecture competitions were all spread before her. “And now,” he concluded grimly. “I don't know what I want to do.”
Brigitte nodded. “I'm sure that's normal. You've just had a bitter disappointment. I have a feeling you'll be back to your old, ambitious self in no time.”
As Alex had talked about his life, a calm, peaceful feeling descended upon Brigitte. She felt close to this man, almost as though she had known him for years. It was as though Alex’s joys were hers, his disappointments, hers. In some way, they were. He had lived a bitter childhood, as she had. He had the same burning ambition to succeed that she did. When Brigitte looked at Alex, she felt the walls she had built begin to crumble.
Long after the coffee had turned cold, Alex and Brigitte were still talking. Finally, Alex looked at his watch regretfully. “It's late. I really have to go.” Brigitte held her breath. “Maybe I can call you tomorrow?” he asked.
She smiled. “Maybe you can.”
Brigitte walked him to the door and when he took her in his arms and kissed her, she felt a new, surprisingly pleasant sensation. A sort of warmth spread all over. She closed the door behind him and hurried to bed.
* * *
The man's hands were on her breasts, grabbing, squeezing. Brigitte moaned in pain as she tried to squirm out of his hold.
“You like this don't you?” he asked, sadistically.
“No!” she insisted. “I don't want you. Get away from me.”
Her desperation amused him. He laughed. His booming voice echoed in Brigitte's ears. “Don't lie to me. I saw the way you looked at me. You want me. Come on,” he goaded her. “Juste une petite caresse.”
Those were Lucien's words in Lucien's voice. Brigitte looked into the man's eyes. No! It can't be. To her horror, Alex's eyes stared back at her, a malicious grin on his handsome face. “No!” screamed Brigitte.
A moment later, she sat up in bed, damp and shaking from the nightmare. “God,” she cried. Will this torture never end? she asked herself bitterly.
* * *
The next morning when Brigitte took David home from the hospital, Alex was in the apartment waiting for them. His smile lit up the room. “I hope you don't mind. Réjeanne was kind enough to invite
me in for a cup of coffee,” he said, embarrassed.
“Of course,” she answered, but there was only cool politeness in her voice. “Alex, I'd like you to meet my son. David, this is Alex. He is an architect from New York.”
“Hello, David,” said Alex, wondering if he was imagining the coolness in Brigitte's voice.
David looked at him, his intelligent eyes wide with interest. “You're American? I bet you can't speak French.”
“You're wrong,” answered Alex. “Bon-joor, comment alleze vooze?” he continued in mock seriousness.
David hesitated. “That's not French, is it Maman?” he asked uncertainly.
“Only to an American,” answered Brigitte, chuckling.
Alex pulled out a gift-wrapped package from behind his back and handed it to the freckled boy. “I brought you something.”
“Thank you,” he said politely and waited for his mother's signal before taking the package and opening it carefully. “Maman, look at what Alex gave me.” Inside was a complete set of geometry tools. He held up a slide ruler.
“If you like, I can show you how to use them,” offered Alex.
“Could you show me right now?”
Alex laughed. “Sure.”
Brigitte watched as David led Alex to his bedroom. “David, you've got half an hour then you have to rest,” she called after them as they disappeared down the hall.
Brigitte sat in the living room, filled with a sudden sense of panic. From the bedroom down the hall, she could hear David asking question after question, and Alex's voice, patiently answering. I wish… she thought and immediately wondered what it was she wished. I don't know, she realized with a shock. I don't know what I wish.
Later, Alex joined her in the living room. “Your son is quite a boy. He's bright. I showed him how to use the slide ruler, and three minutes later, he already understood how to measure one of his toys.”
She spoke softly. “Alex, I have to talk to you.”
“I like him.” Alex moved closer and kissed her. “But not nearly as much as I like his mother,” he added.
Brigitte felt her heart skip a beat, and immediately reprimanded herself. What is happening to me? I can't let some smooth-talking American affect me. She pulled away. “Alex, this is ridiculous.”
“What?” he asked, puzzled.
“This.” She gestured helplessly at him and her. “Last night I was vulnerable. I apologize for giving you the wrong idea. I think you're a nice man, but I would prefer if you didn't come here again.”
“Are you serious?” He searched her face for an answer and found only determination. “I don't understand.”
“Believe me, it's much better this way.”
Before Alex knew what was happening, Brigitte had walked him to the door and was waiting for him to leave. He searched wildly for some excuse to see her again. “David really likes me,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come by once in a while to see him and say hello.”
Brigitte hesitated. David did seem lonely sometimes. “All right,” she said, and Alex knew he had just been handed another chance.
David was sitting in bed reading the instructions on the geometry kit. “This is really great Maman,” he said, his green eyes wide with excitement. He opened his arms for a hug and allowed himself to be tucked in. As Brigitte turned to leave, David's sweet voice followed her. “Do you like him better than Fortune?” he asked.
“My goodness, that’s an odd question. What makes you ask such a thing?”
He shrugged. “I like him a lot more than I like Fortune, and I think Alex likes you.”
“Why in the world would you say that?” asked Brigitte, surprised.
“Maman! I might be just a kid, but I have eyes. The way he looks at you, I can tell, he likes you a lot.”
Brigitte’s heart did a happy little dance, but all she said was, “I think it's time for you to go to sleep.” She tucked her perceptive son into bed and closed the door.
Over the next few weeks, Alex launched an all out campaign to win David's affections. Every day after school, Alex picked up the boy and together they went for walks, visited museums, or played in the park. To his surprise, he enjoyed David's company. The boy was a bright and happy child, and he followed Alex around adoringly everywhere they went.
I wish his mother would look at me like that, thought Alex. Every evening, after David was put to bed, Alex invited himself for a cup of coffee with Brigitte. Those moments became more and more important to Alex, and even though she refused to acknowledge it, they were also becoming precious to Brigitte.
Later, Alex walked back to La Petite Tuilerie and climbed into his own bed, aching with desire for this strangely unreachable woman. He tossed and turned for hours, berating himself for hanging on to the hope of winning her affections.
“My goodness, those two are almost inseparable lately,” commented Réjeanne after David had gone to bed one evening. “In case you haven't noticed, that man is sweet on you, Brigitte.”
“Well if he is, he is wasting his time, because, I'm not interested.” Even as she said it, Brigitte wondered if it was true. Lately, she found herself looking forward to Alex’s visits, and much to her surprise she enjoyed every moment she spent with him. She saw the doubt in Réjeanne's eyes and shrugged. “Really! I am not interested.”
Réjeanne's eyebrows shot up, but she bit her lip. One thing the old woman knew was that nobody could force Brigitte to admit anything unless she wanted to.
One morning when Brigitte marched into Le Gallet, Fortune called her into his office. “I have some good news for you,” he told her. “Le Figaro wants to do an article on you.”
“They do? That's wonderful. When?” Brigitte was jubilant. “Does it have anything to do with the article in Le Monde a few weeks ago?”
Fortune beamed. “You're becoming a celebrity, my dear. Everyone wants to interview you. Speaking of which, some old man came by yesterday. Big, blonde guy; he refused to give his name, but he wanted to know all about you. How old was your son, where you lived, even what color your hair was. He said you reminded him of his daughter.”
Brigitte felt the blood drain from her face. She struggled to keep her voice steady. “My father died when I was thirteen.” She hesitated, adding. “Did you give him my address?”
“Of course not. Now, about your Figaro article…” He went on to instruct Brigitte on her appearance and on what she should say during the interview. Brigitte could hardly listen. Please God, let it not be Lucien.
That night, when Brigitte got home, Réjeanne greeted her with the news that Alex Ivanov was visiting again. He was in David's room, teaching him to read architectural plans. “Oh! And I almost forgot,” continued Réjeanne. “Some old man came by. He asked me a dozen questions about you, but he wouldn't give me his name when he left. There was something peculiar about him. I didn't like him at all.”
Brigitte felt her stomach lurch. “Was he a big blonde man, about sixty years old?”
Réjeanne nodded. “Why yes, he was. He walked in here as though he owned the place, and made comments about how much money everything must have cost. I tried to get him to leave, but then David came in. It was odd. The man took one look at him, and for a moment, I thought he might faint.”
“He saw David?”
“He was only here for a minute, and David just happened to come in from school.” Réjeanne noticed that Brigitte was shaking. “Brigitte, is this some other mysterious man from your past or am I not supposed to ask?”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment while Brigitte tried to find something to say. The stillness was broken by a knock at the door.
“I'll get it,” said Réjeanne coldly.
“Wait!” cried Brigitte, but it was too late. Standing in the doorway was Lucien, her stepfather, the man who still haunted her dreams.
Réjeanne took one look at Brigitte's face and immediately realized something was terribly wrong. “Get out! Get out,” she shouted at the
old man as she tried to push him away.
He shoved her aside easily and walked toward Brigitte “What's the matter, Brigitte? Don't you recognize your own papa?” he asked.
Brigitte stood paralyzed with shock. “You're not my father. Get out of here,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
The old man chuckled. “Aw, Brigitte, you're breaking my heart. Where's your gratitude, after everything I did for you? Looks to me like you've done well for yourself. You're living in this fancy place, and with a maid. Seems to me you could show some gratitude to your father and help him out a bit in his old age.”
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