Summer’s End

by Danielle Steel

  “I know. If you knew how I wish now that we had had those sons. We have—we have no more children.” Deanna nodded silently, feeling more than ever the pain of his words. “I would do anything to—to have her back.”

  They sat there for a long time, holding each other. At last they went outside for a walk. It was dinnertime when they came back.

  “Do you want to go into the village to eat?” He looked at her with an expression of grief and fatigue, but she shook her head.

  “Why don’t I make something here? Is there any food?”

  “The caretaker said his wife left us some bread and cheese and eggs.”

  “How about that?” He nodded indifferently. She took off the sweater she had worn on their walk, set it on a large Louis XIV chair, and headed for the kitchen.

  She was back in twenty minutes with scrambled eggs, toast and Brie, and two cups of steaming black coffee. She wondered if they’d feel better after they ate, if it really made any difference. All week long, people had told them to eat, as though that would help. But she didn’t care anymore if she ever ate. She had made the dinner for Marc and because it gave them something to do. Neither of them seemed to want to talk, although there should have been a great deal to say.

  They ate in silence. After the meal they drifted apart, she to the long halls and galleries to study the collection of paintings, Marc to the library. At eleven o’clock they went to bed in silence, and in the morning he got out of bed as soon as she stirred. It was eleven before either of them spoke. Deanna had just gotten up and was feeling queasy as she sat on a dressing-room chair.

  “Ça ne va pas?” He looked at her with a frown of worry.

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it. Should I get you some coffee?” The very idea made her sick. She shook her head almost in desperation.

  “No, really. Thanks.”

  “Do you think something is wrong? You haven’t looked well in days.”

  She tried to smile, but it was a futile attempt. “I hate to say this, darling, but neither have you.”

  He only shrugged. “You don’t suppose you have an ulcer, Deanna?” She had had one after the death of their first little boy, but it had never recurred. She shook her head.

  “I don’t have any pain. I’m just exhausted all the time, and now and then I feel sick. It’s just fatigue,” she went on, forcing a smile. “It’s no wonder. Neither of us has had much sleep. We’re both fighting staggering time changes, long trips, the shock…. I suppose it’s a wonder we’re still on our feet. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  But Marc wasn’t sure he agreed. He saw her sway for a moment when she stood up. Emotions could do strange things to one. It made him think of Chantal again as Deanna disappeared into the shower. He wanted to call her again, but she wanted reports, she wanted to hear news, and he had none to give her, except that he was spending a weekend with his wife—and they both felt like hell.

  In the shower Deanna stood with her face turned up and the water racing down her back. She was thinking of Ben. In San Francisco it was two in the morning; he would still be asleep. She could see his face so clearly in his bed, the dark hair tousled, one hand on his chest, the other resting somewhere on her. … No, he was probably in Carmel, and she found herself thinking of their weekends there. How different it was from these days with Marc. It was as though she and Marc had nothing left to say. All they had was the past.

  She turned the shower off at last and stood thinking for a moment, looking out the open windows into the garden as she dried herself with thick raspberry-colored towels. This house was a far cry from Carmel. A château in France, and a cottage in Carmel. Raspberry silks, and comfortable old wools. She thought of the cozy plaid blanket on Ben’s country bed as she caught a glimpse of the ruffled silk bedspread in the other room. It was like the contrast between her two lives. There, the simple, easy reality of life with Ben in his “democracy” where they took turns making breakfast and putting the garbage outside the back door; and here, only the eternal empty splendor of her life with Marc. She ran a brush through her hair and let out a long sigh.

  In the bedroom beyond, Marc was reading the paper with a frown. “Will you join me in church?” He looked over the paper as she emerged from the bathroom, her robe firmly closed, and stood in front of the wardrobe. She nodded and pulled out a black skirt and a sweater. They were both wearing formal deuil, the solid black mourning still common in France. The only things she omitted were the black stockings, which her mother-in-law wore.

  Deanna looked strangely plain in the unalleviated black, with her dark hair pulled severely into a bun at the nape of her neck. Once again she wore no makeup. It was as though she no longer cared.

  “You look terribly pale.”

  “It’s just the contrast with all this black.”

  “Are you sure?” He stared at her for a moment before they left the house, but she only smiled. He acted as though he was afraid she were dying, but maybe he was afraid of that too. They had both lost so much.

  They drove in silence to the tiny country church of Sainte Isabelle. Deanna slipped quietly into the pew at Marc’s side. The church, tiny and pretty and warm, was filled with peasants, and a few weekenders like them, down from Paris. She suddenly remembered that it was still summer, not quite the end of August. In the States it would soon be Labor Day, heralding the fall. Her sense of time had vanished in the past week. She could not keep her mind on the service. She thought of Carmel, and of Ben, of Marc, and then Pilar; she thought of long walks in the country as a child, and then she stared fixedly at the back of someone’s head. It was stuffy in the small church, and the sermon droned on and on. Finally, gently, she touched Marc’s arm. She began to whisper that she was too warm, but suddenly his face swam before her eyes, and everything went dark.

  21

  “Marc?” She reached out to him as he and another man carried her to the car.

  “Quiet, darling, don’t talk.” His face was a pale, perspiring gray.

  “Put me down. Really, I’m all right.”

  “Never mind that.” He thanked the man who had helped him carry her to the car, and once more clarified their directions to the nearest hospital.

  “What? Don’t be crazy. I only fainted because it was so hot.”

  “It was not hot, it was quite cool. And I won’t discuss it.” He slammed the door on her side and got in behind the wheel.

  “Marc, I will not go to the hospital.” She put a hand on his arm. Her eyes implored him, but he shook his head. She was a pale, opaque kind of gray. He started the car.

  “I’m not interested in what you will ‘not’ do.” His face was set. He didn’t want to go to a hospital again, didn’t want to hear those sounds, or smell those odors around him. Never … never again. He felt his heart race. What if it were serious? What if she were very ill? What if. … He glanced at her again, trying to mask his fear, but she was looking away, staring out at the countryside. He glanced at her profile and then down at her shoulders, her hands, everything draped in so much black. Austere. It seemed symbolic of everything happening to them now, everything they said. Why could they not escape it? Why wasn’t this simply a weekend in the country, from which they would return relaxed and happy to find Pilar with that dazzling smile on her face. He looked over at Deanna once more, and let out a sigh. The sound dragged her eyes back from the road.

  “Don’t be so silly, Marc. Really, I’m perfectly all right.”

  “On verra.” We’ll see.

  “Would you rather we just go back to Paris?” Her hand trembled as she rested it in his, and he looked sharply at her again. Paris—and Chantal. Yes, he wanted to go back. But first he had to know that Deanna was all right.

  “We’ll go back to Paris once you’ve seen a doctor.” She was about to protest again, but a wave of dizziness swept over her. She put her head back on the seat. He looked at her nervously and stepped on the gas. She didn’t argue, she didn’t have t
he strength.

  It was another ten minutes before they pulled up in front of a small efficient-looking building with the sign HÔPITAL SAINT GÉRARD. Without a word, Marc got out of the car and came quickly to her side, but when he held open the door, Deanna made no move to get out.

  “Can you walk?” There was terror in his eyes again. What if this were the beginning of a stroke? Then what would he do? She’d be paralyzed and he’d have to stay with her always. But that was madness, he wanted to stay with Deanna, didn’t he? His pulse raced as he helped her out of the car.

  She was about to tell him again that she was all right. By now they both knew she was not. She took a deep breath and stood up with a tiny smile. She wanted to prove to him that she’d make it, that this was only nerves. For a moment, as they walked into the hospital, she felt better, and wondered why they had come. For a minute she even walked in her usual smooth, easy strides. Then, as she was about to boast of it to Marc-Edouard, an old man was rolled past them on a gurney. He was ancient and wrinkled, foul smelling, his mouth open, his face slack. She reached a hand out to Marc and passed out on the floor.

  He gave a shout and collected her in his arms. Two nurses and a man in a white coat came running. In less than a minute they had her on a table in a small, antiseptic-smelling room, and she was awake again. She looked around for a moment, confused. Then she saw Marc, standing horrified in the corner.

  “I’m sorry, but that man. …”

  “That’s enough.” Marc approached slowly, holding up one hand. “It wasn’t the old man, or the temperature in the church.” He stood next to her, very tall, very grim, and suddenly very old. “Let’s find out what it was—what it is. D’accord?” She didn’t answer as the doctor nodded to him, and he left.

  He haunted the corridor, looking strangely out of place and glancing at the phone. Should he call her? Why shouldn’t he? What difference did it make? Who would see? But he didn’t feel like it now. His thoughts were with Deanna. She had been his wife for eighteen years. They had just lost their only child. And now, perhaps…. He couldn’t bear the thought. He passed the phone once more, without even stopping this time.

  It seemed hours before a young woman doctor came to find him.

  And then he knew. And knew he could tell Deanna the truth. Or he could tell her a lie—a very small lie. He wondered if he owed it to her to tell her, to tell her that he knew—or if, instead, Deanna owed something to him.

  22

  Deanna sat up straight in her bed, looking paler than the whitewashed wall behind her head. “You’re wrong. It’s a lie!”

  Marc was staring at her and wearing a very small smile. He was completely calm. “It most certainly is not. And six months from now, my darling, you’ll have a very hard time convincing anyone of that, I’m afraid.”

  “But I can’t be.”

  “And why not?” His eyes searched her face.

  “I’m too old to be pregnant, for chrissake.”

  “At thirty-seven? Don’t be absurd. You will probably be able to have a child anytime in the next fifteen years.”

  “But I’m too old!” She was shrieking it at him and she looked near tears. Why had they not told her first, given her time to absorb the shock before she had to face Marc? But no, that was not the way of things here, in France, where the patient was always the last to know anything. And she could well imagine the scene Marc would have made: a determined man, an important man who must be informed of Madame’s condition first; he did not wish his wife to be upset, and they had just been through so much, such tragedy….

  “Darling, please don’t be foolish,” Marc was saying. He stood up and walked to the side of the bed, where he gently rested his hand on her head, and ran it slowly down the long silky black hair. “You’re not too old at all. May I sit down?” he asked. She nodded, and he sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “But … two months?” She looked at him with eyes filled with despair. She had wanted it to be Ben’s. She had thought of it too, for the first time just before she fell asleep. It had dawned on her, and she had argued with the thought, but as she drifted off to sleep she suddenly wondered—the dizziness, the nausea, the constant desire for sleep. All she had been able to think of was Ben. She didn’t want it to be Marc’s. She looked at him now in disappointment and pain. Two months pregnant meant it was Marc’s, not Ben’s.

  “It must have happened that last night before I left. Un petit au revoir.”

  “That is not funny.” Tears filled her eyes. She was far from pleased. Now he understood even more than she knew. But now he understood that there was not only another man, but someone she loved. It didn’t matter. She would forget him. She had something important to do in the next months. She owed Marc his son. “I don’t understand.”

  “Darling, don’t be naive.”

  “I haven’t gotten pregnant in years. Why now?”

  “Sometimes that’s how those things happen. In any case it makes no difference. We’re getting a whole new chance—another family, a child.”

  “We’ve already had a child.” She looked like a petulant little girl as she sat cross-legged in her hospital bed, wiping away tears with the palm of her hand. “I don’t want any more children.” At least not yours. Now she knew the truth too. If she had truly loved him, she would have wanted his baby. And she didn’t. She wanted Ben’s.

  Marc was looking embarrassingly pleased and painfully patient. “It’s normal to feel that way at first. All women do. But when it comes. … Remember Pilar?”

  Deanna’s eyes flashed into his. “Yes, I remember Pilar. And the others. I’ve done that, Marc. I won’t do it again. For what? For more heartbreak, more pain? For you to not be there for another eighteen years? At my age, you expect me to bring up a child alone? And another half-breed, another half-American, all French? You want me to go through that again, competing with you for the allegiance of our child? Dammit, I won’t do it!”

  “You most certainly will.” His voice was quiet and as solid as steel.

  “I don’t have to!” She was shouting at him now. “This isn’t the Dark Ages! I can have an abortion if I want to!”

  “No, you cannot!”

  “The hell I can’t!”

  “Deanna, I won’t discuss this with you. You’re upset.” She was lying in her bed now, crying into the pillow. “Upset” was barely adequate for what she felt. “You’ll get used to the idea. You’ll be pleased.”

  “You mean I don’t have a choice, is that it?” She glared at him. “What’ll you do to me if I get rid of it? Divorce me?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  “Then don’t push me around.”

  “I’m not pushing, I’m happy.” He looked at her with a smile and held out his arms, but there was something different in his eyes. She didn’t come to him. After a moment he took her hands and brought them one after the other to his lips. “I love you, Deanna. And I want our child. Our baby. Yours and mine.”

  She closed her eyes and almost cringed as he said it. She had been there before. But he said nothing; he only stood up and took her in his arms, then stroked her hair briefly. Then he pulled away. She watched him leave, looking pensive and distracted.

  Alone in the dark, she cried for a while, wondering what she should do. This changed everything. Why hadn’t she known? Why hadn’t she guessed? She should have figured it out before, but she’d only missed it once, and she thought that was nerves, there had been the opening of the gallery, her constant lovemaking with Ben, then the news of Pilar, the trip. … She thought it was just a matter of a couple of weeks. But two months? How could that be? And Jesus, it meant she had been pregnant by Marc the whole time she had been with Ben. Allowing that baby to stay in her now was like denying everything she’d had with Ben and tearing out her heart. This baby was a confirmation of her marriage to Marc.

  She lay awake in her bed all night long. The next morning Marc-Edouard checked her out of the hospital. They were driving straigh
t back to Paris, his mother’s, before he left the next day for Athens. “And this is it. I’ll be gone for five or six days. After that, I’ll have it all wrapped up in Greece. A week from now we’ll leave Paris, go home, and stay there.”

  “What does that mean? I stay there, and you travel?”

  “No. It means I stay there as much as I can.”

  “Five days a month? Five days a year? Something like that?” She stared out the window as she asked. She felt as though she had been condemned to a replay of her first eighteen years as his wife. “When will I see you, Marc? Twice a month for dinner, when you’re in town, and don’t have to have dinner somewhere else?”

  “It won’t be like that, Deanna. I promise.”

  “Why not? It always has been before.”

  “That was different. I’ve learned something now.”

  “Really? What?” She looked bitter as she watched him drive, but his voice was soft and sad when he spoke and he kept his eyes on the road.

  “I’ve learned how short life can be, how quickly gone. We had learned that together before, twice, but I had forgotten. Now I know. I have been reminded again.” Deanna hung her head and said nothing. But he knew he had hit his mark. “After Pilar, after the others, could you really have this one aborted?”

  She was shocked that he had read her thoughts, and she didn’t answer for a long time. “I’m not sure.”

  “I’m quite sure. It would destroy you.” The tone of his voice frightened her. Maybe he did know. “The guilt, the emotional pain, you’d be finished. You’d never be able to think or live or love, or even paint again. I guarantee it.” The very idea terrified her. And he was probably right. “You don’t have the temperament to be that cold-blooded.”

  “In other words,” she sighed, “I have no choice.”

  He didn’t answer.

  They were in bed at nine-thirty that night, and nothing more was said. He kissed her gently on the forehead as he left her in their room. He was taking a taxi to the airport.