by Nancy Thayer
“Who?” Diane asked.
“The scientists. Brown and—was it Oshevnev? Coming so close to a breakthrough that would change the world, only to have their work cut off.”
“Yes, but now that their formula’s been found, their work might be a success!” Diane pointed out.
“But they’re not alive to see it. They won’t know. They died without …” His voice trailed off.
Diane studied Jim, who looked very tired, gray with defeat. She hadn’t realized that he dreamed of recognition as well as discovery, but of course he did. That was only natural.
“Oh, Jim,” she said with a sigh, covering his hand with hers, “you’re young. You have years and years ahead of you in which to work. You’re bound to have success in your lifetime.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jim said. He sighed. “It’s late. I’m going to bed.”
“I’ll be up in a moment,” Diane told him. As she watched him move down the hall, she realized with a pang that for the first time in years he wasn’t interested in the news. Automatically she rinsed their plates and set them in the dishwasher, then walked back through the house to the front door. She checked to be sure the front door was locked; it was. Looking out the leaded glass window at the side of the door, she saw a solitary car pass along the street, its lights flashing through the dark night, much like the discontent and desire that flickered and flared within her heart.
Chapter 11
Jean
Thursday was windy and rainy, carrying with it a sharp bite of winter chill. Jean sat in the warmth of her favorite cafe with her kir, a croque-monsieur, and a Maigret mystery, and now she paused to rest her eyes. Leaning her chin in her hand, she stared out at the people hurrying past, heads bent against the wind and rain. She was just beginning to feel restless. Perhaps she should move on to Amsterdam before true winter hit, or on down to the warmth of southern France and then to Italy.
A young man entered the cafe, looked around, and came toward her table. His Burberry raincoat fit him perfectly, yet he had the air of a man trying hard to match the perfection of his clothes. This reminded her of her older son as an earnest young naval officer, and so she smiled.
“Excuse me, please. Are you Jean White?” He stood a proper few feet from her table, almost bowing as he spoke.
Later it would occur to her to wonder why she had felt no dread at the suddenness of his appearance, why she didn’t instantly think: Oh, no, a disaster, one of the children—! Perhaps it was because as he approached he was smiling.
“Yes. I’m Jean White.”
He held out a card for her to read as he spoke. “I’m Timothy Thompson, an attaché with the American embassy here in Paris. Would you mind if I sat down?” Jean nodded and gestured toward a chair.
“I’ve been asked to bring you some news. Nothing bad, I assure you. Something rather marvelous, actually. It has something to do with your life before you were married. It’s a bit complicated. Do you have some time now, or would you rather I made an appointment for a later date?”
“Goodness, with an introduction like that, how could I bear to wait?” Jean laughed. “Won’t you have a drink?”
After the waiter had taken his order, the young man leaned forward. He spoke quietly, as if taking her into his confidence.
“This is about a locket you once were given,” he said. Then he stopped, and he blushed.
This young man could be my grandson, Jean thought, amused, before his words sank in.
A locket she once was given.
It had been years since she’d thought about that gold locket—decades. Now here was this young man seated across from her in a Left Bank cafe, with his hair cut too short for the size of his ears.
“What about the locket?” she asked.
Again he blushed. The tips of his ears turned red.
“It was given to you by a man named Erich Mellor. It contained a paper you had given to Mr. Mellor, a document of possible international importance. Mr. Mellor would like to meet with you to discuss this. He was hoping that you would be willing to come to Helsinki to meet with him—of course all expenses will be paid and all arrangements taken care of for you. It’s a matter of convenience and time since he must come from Moscow.”
Jean smiled and leaned forward toward the attaché. Any woman in her seventies has sustained all manner of shocks in her life, but the news that Erich Mellor was alive and wanted to see her was moving her in a way she’d forgotten. All of its own accord, her body was trembling, her heart was leaping.
“I didn’t know he was still alive. What on earth is he doing in Moscow?”
“Well, he lives there.” Timothy Thompson looked perplexed. “You knew he was Russian.”
Jean stared at the young man. “Ah, yes, of course,” she lied, wanting to relieve him of any more anxiety and very much wanting to keep him talking; she couldn’t wait to hear what else he had to tell her.
“I assumed you would be willing to fly to Helsinki. We’ve been told by your relatives that you’re on vacation, so we were hoping your schedule would be flexible enough to let us arrange a meeting very soon.”
“Yes. All right,” Jean agreed, nodding, thinking it couldn’t be soon enough for her. There was so much she wanted to find out.
Erich was Russian! Of course, after he disappeared, she’d suspected that he wasn’t an American; in her worst imaginings she’d feared he was German. She’d spent many apprehensive hours during the first year of her married life wondering what the code had really been about, whose hands it had really fallen into, and whether or not she’d stupidly brought about some kind of disaster. But during those long, exciting, exhausting days and nights when her father lectured them during meals about the course of the war, met with other officers in the secrecy of his study, listened to the radio, read the newspapers, and grew pale with worry or effusive with elation over the turn the war was taking, never during all those days and nights did anything happen that even slightly seemed to involve the missing code. And of course after the war, when both her husband and her brother were safely home, and she quickly became pregnant again, she forgot all about the locket and the strip of paper.
Erich Mellor, a Russian! She had made love with him! She was glad her father and mother would never know. And thank God Al was dead. Oh, what a dreadful thought; she didn’t mean it, but she was glad he wasn’t around to find out about all this. Few things would have crushed him more than to know that Jean had had a lover before him, and that that lover was a Russian. Even during the dramatic events of the past few years, Al had never believed the Russians wanted peace. It would be bad enough if Bert found out. The girls would probably think it was all romantic, and anarchist Art would be simply gleeful.
Timothy Thompson gave her the afternoon to pack her few things at the auberge, then drove her to Orly and put her on a flight to Helsinki, which arrived very late that night. Otto Kaarinen, a kind man in a three-piece suit and a trench coat who looked like an older version of Timothy Thompson, met Jean as she came off the plane. He drove her to the Intercontinental Hotel. She was to order whatever she wished from room service at any time, he told her as he escorted her to the desk and checked her in. They would come for her at noon tomorrow to take her to her meeting with Erich Mellor.
Fresh flowers and a selection of liqueurs, including a bottle of Courvoisier, had been placed in her large, airy suite. She poured herself some cognac and took a long shower, then brought the snifter with her to sip in bed. She was afraid she’d never be able to fall asleep, but as she slid down into the deep covers she found sleep waiting for her there.
In the morning, she treated herself to an enormous breakfast, which she ate in her room next to a window looking out over the harbor. She’d never been to Helsinki before and considered going out for a quick walking tour before lunch. Instead she found herself standing in the bathroom in an idiotic panic, scrutinizing her ancient face and body and desperately trying to think up some way to improve on what she sa
w.
Erich Mellor. After all these years!
Of course he would be older, too, she reminded herself, and hadn’t it been only a few days ago when she’d been preening, congratulating herself on her fine good looks and obvious attractiveness in the Jardin du Luxembourg? She couldn’t spend much time deciding what to wear since she’d brought mostly skirts and blouses and blazers, but she did try on her two silk dresses and the tweed suit with the velvet collar. Which made her sexy? Oh, forget sexy. Which made her look as if she still knew what sex meant? But no, she didn’t want to look sexy; she wanted to look elegant and unapproachable and serene. He had, after all, dumped her, and she wanted to show him that she’d led quite a successful life in spite of it. He hadn’t broken her spirit. He hadn’t broken her heart.
Any minute now a knock would come on the door, and she would be ushered off to meet her former lover. Jean inspected every inch of face and hair and bodice. She’d chosen the tweed suit; the jacket slimmed her nicely and gave her another layer over her silk blouse, a purely illusory sense of added protection. She put on her pearls, then took them off. She didn’t want to look like some Republican committeewoman.
Oh, why should she care about presenting a pretty picture to this man! He had been a cad. He’d romanced her to get what he wanted, then disappeared without a word of explanation, leaving her heartsick.
Yet he had also been her first lover, her first romance. She had no regrets, really.
She blew a kiss at her image in the mirror and went out to wait for the knock on the door.
The knock came at noon precisely. The same pleasant man who had met her at the airport escorted her to a waiting limousine. As they rode along, he pointed out Helsinki’s historic sights. They came to a vast square and stopped in front of a rather dauntingly handsome building. Would Erich come down these marble steps to greet her?
No. The driver opened her door, the official escorted her up the steps, through a massive doorway, down an endless corridor lined with epic-sized oils and bronze statues, and finally, into a private salon. With its thick Turkish carpet, glittering chandelier, red silk sofas, gilt-trimmed escritoires, and Chinese vases, the room was magnificent.
“If you would kindly wait here,” Mr. Kaarinen said, gesturing her toward a chair. “Mr. Mellor will be with you immediately.”
She didn’t have time to be nervous. Only moments after the door closed behind Mr. Kaarinen, it opened again, and Erich Mellor entered the room.
Jean’s first thought was: Oh, good! He’s kept his beautiful hair!
Erich’s hair was white, but it was full and thick and wavy. It offset the appearance of old age that his walk gave him. He moved slowly, bent slightly, leaning on a cane.
My God, Jean thought, rising, he moves like an old man. Why, he is an old man! I’m in my seventies. He must be close to eighty!
In spite of emotions so powerful they made her weak at the knees, she stood facing him as he approached. Anger, resentment, pride, curiosity, and also a great whirl of joy at the sight of him buffeted her like gusts of wind. She reached out and rested a hand on the back of a sofa for support.
“Hello, Jean.” His voice was deep and sonorous.
“Hello, Erich.”
He paused just before her, not attempting a civilized kiss on the cheek. She did not offer her hand. Even stooped as he was, he was taller than Jean, and she had to bend her head back to face him. They stood in silence, studying each other. His suit was immaculately cut of expensive gray wool; there was a patina of wealth and well-being about him. His face was wrinkled and spotted with age, and the bones of his hands showed through skin thin as crepe.
“Shall we sit?” He gestured to the sofa.
Jean sat at one end, Erich at the other. As they turned to face each other, their knees did not quite touch.
“It’s good to see you again, Jean,” Erich said.
“It’s good to see you again, too, Erich. Although the circumstances surprise me. And confuse me.” She smiled to offset any disapproval in her words.
“Yes. I owe you some explanations. I think you will be quite pleased once you’ve heard me out. Shall we have lunch while we talk?”
He was so urbane, it almost made her laugh. He’d always been suave, but the measured courtliness of his words and manners made her feel as if they were in a play.
But of course we are in a play, Jean thought. His play. That’s what I’ve been caught up in all along. But she found she couldn’t summon up any righteous indignation at this. She was just so pleased to be with him again.
He turned to press a button inlaid in a table near him. Almost immediately the door opened again, and two men wheeled in a cart. They began to set the table next to the window. Jean saw the black gleam of caviar, the etched glasses, the bottle of Zubrowka.
“Shall we?”
Erich rose, and while leaning with one hand on his cane, with the other he gently took Jean just beneath her elbow, a gentlemanly gesture, to escort her to the table. That simple touch, even after all those decades, made her skin tingle.
She did not turn to look at him. They made slow, stately progress across the room to the table. The waiters had remained to help Jean into her chair, to pour the vodka and remove the silver domes from the plates. Then they bowed silently and left the room.
Erich lifted his glass in a toast. “To our past.”
Jean looked at him. “I’m not certain I want to toast to that.”
He smiled. “Then, to our future.”
“To our future,” she agreed, lifting her glass.
The vodka shocked her with its aromatic, dry bite. Their first course was caviar on toast points with slivers of lemon decorating the gold-rimmed plate.
“Whoever you are, you must be quite important,” Jean observed.
“Ah, well, I deserve all this. I’ve devoted my life to my country, you see. I’ve made more than the normal amount of sacrifices.” He smiled, but his dark eyes seemed sad. Then the sadness lifted. “And you, my dear Jean, are quite important, too.”
She waited. She kept her hands in her lap and stared at Erich. After all these years, at least she could be dignified.
“All right,” he said, nodding, as if having caught her message. “Small talk later. Explanations now.” He took another sip of vodka, then leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know how much you may have guessed.”
“Nothing! Until yesterday I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. Now I know you’re alive, and Russian. Perhaps I should have guessed that long ago, but I didn’t—though I wondered.”
“I was well trained. I’d lived in the States for so many years by that point that my accent and bearing were perfectly American. It says nothing against your intelligence or intuition that you didn’t guess that. No, I meant about the locket. Well, I won’t speak in mysteries. My dear Jean,” he said, suddenly warm and personal, leaning across the table toward her.
“You see, when we met I was working for my country. In short, I needed to get something from your father’s safekeeping. The key to a code. When you found what I asked for, a formulalike message on a strip of paper, you assumed you’d found what I wanted, and so did I. I was delighted. I was so young, and I had accomplished a major coup!
“However, when I took it to my colleagues, they began to decipher it and very quickly realized it wasn’t at all what we were looking for. In fact, it was a worthless piece of scientific mumbo jumbo. I was embarrassed. I was immediately sent home—to Russia—and had to work very hard to prove I wasn’t the dunce I’d made myself out to be.”
Erich paused, took a bite of caviar, touched his white linen napkin to his mouth, and took a sip of vodka. He considered a moment, and Jean sat in silence, waiting.
“I didn’t want to leave the country without seeing you. But I was given no choice. The best I could do was to send the locket to you with the strip of paper tucked inside, so that you could return it to your father’s safe. In this way I hoped to avert trouble for you
.”
“ ‘Avert trouble.’ ” Jean repeated dryly. This man had broken her heart. She lifted her chin. “My father never seemed to notice that the paper was missing. I was in the house often during that time—I moved back in with my parents. I always knew if my father was in a fury about something. Of course I was afraid he would get into some kind of trouble with the code missing—or that I would get into some kind of trouble. But nothing ever happened.”
“Ah. That’s probably because the message was considered worthless. At that time. All the papers related to that matter were discarded, thrown away as so much trash. Fortunately, you never opened the locket. You never found the crucial strip of paper and returned it to your father’s safe. It’s remained in the locket all these years.”
“Yes. But, Erich, I lost the locket.” Jean leaned forward, suddenly apprehensive. If something significant rested on having the locket, after all these years, he would be crushed to know she had no way of finding it for him.
“But your daughter found it.”
“What? My daughter? Which daughter? Where?”
“Diane. In her attic. In the hem of your raccoon coat. It had fallen through a hole in the pocket.”
“Good Lord.” Jean sat in wonderment, remembering back to those stormy days of her youth, when she’d lost Erich, and married Al, when the globe of her life had turned on its axis. She sipped her vodka. “And this precious piece of paper has been sitting in that locket in my old raccoon coat all these years?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t give that coat to the thrift shop as I’d always intended to. The old rag. But it has such sentimental value for me, and then I suppose Diane thought Julia, her daughter, might wear it for fun. Although it’s in terrible shape … but I’m babbling. Erich, what on earth is on that strip of paper?”
Erich smiled. “A formula. A formula that might change the world.”
“Good heavens. I hope you mean a change for the better.”