“You’d move back to Paris? Why?” She wanted to say “For me?” but she didn’t quite dare.

“I have a number of reasons for moving back, and you’re not least among them.”

“You’re serious?” She stood watching him and she liked what she saw.

“I am.”

“And in the meantime?”

“I might just let you stay here.” He wore a half-smile. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, she flew across the room and into his arms.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes, my darling, I do.”

30

Marc-Edouard parked his Jaguar at the corner and pulled the large plainly wrapped box off the seat. He had already sent her flowers, and they would have been awkward to carry down the street. The box was cumbersome, but discreet. He stopped at the narrow house tucked between the palaces on Nob Hill and pushed one of two buzzers. It was a quiet flat up a shallow flight of stairs. The floors were black-and-white marble, the fixtures all well-polished brass, and he waited in amusement as he heard her run to the door. They had rented it furnished from November until June. And they had found it in less than a week. She had been in it for exactly two days, but this would be their first dinner “at home.”

He listened to her footsteps hastening toward him, and couldn’t suppress a smile. It had been the right decision, even if she had forced his hand, but it would be good to have her there all winter. Spring. Deanna didn’t keep him company anymore; she hid in the studio most of the time, not that she seemed to be working there. She just sat.

“Alors!” He pushed the buzzer again. Suddenly the door flew open and there she was, dazzling in a white chiffon caftan with silvery sandals on her feet.

“Bonsoir, monsieur.” She curtsied low, then rose with a mischievous grin. The lights in the apartment were dim, and in the back room he saw a small round table set for dinner with flowers and candles.

“How pretty everything is!” He held her in one arm and looked around. It was all silver and candlelight; everything sparkled and shone. It was a pretty little apartment, owned by a decorator who was spending the winter with his lover in France. A perfect arrangement. He pulled her closer into his arms. “You are a beautiful woman, Chantal, ma chérie. And you smell heavenly too.” She laughed. He had sent her a huge bottle of Joy the day before. It was delightful having her so nearby. He could run away from the office at lunch meet her at night before he went home. He could stop by for coffee and a kiss in the morning or for love in the afternoon.

“What’s in the box?” She was eyeing the large package with curious amusement. He slipped a hand slowly up her leg. “Stop that! What’s in the box?” She was laughing, and he was running his hand up and down her bare legs.

“What box? I didn’t bring anything in a box.” He brought his mouth to the back of her knee, and then slowly upward, on the inside of her thigh. “I find you much more interesting, my love, than anonymous packages.” And so did she. In minutes the caftan lay crumpled on the floor.

“Merde!” She jumped away from his arms, as they lay drowsing on the bed. They had been asleep there for almost half an hour. Marc-Edouard sat up in surprise.

“Merde? What do you mean?” He tried to look offended as he stretched his long naked body across the bed. He looked like a very long, very pale cat. But she was already halfway across the room.

“The turkey! I forgot!” She sped into the kitchen, and he lay back on the bed with a grin. But she was back in a minute, looking relieved.

“Ça va?”

“Oui, oui. I’ve been cooking him for almost six hours, but he still looks all right.”

“They always do. They just taste like straw. And why, may I ask, after a mere three weeks in the States, have you already started cooking turkey?” He laughed at her as he sat up, and she came to sit next to him on the bed.

“I cooked it because tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am very thankful.”

“Are you? For what?” He lay back again, as he tousled her thick auburn hair. It touched her shoulders now and delicately framed her face. “What are you so thankful for, pretty girl?”

“You. Living here. Coming to the States. La vie est belle, mon amour.”

“Is it? Then go open your package.” He tried to conceal a smile.

“Oh, toi alors! You!” She ran into the other room and came back with the brown-paper-wrapped box. “What is it?” She looked like a little girl at Christmas and he smiled. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“Open it and see!” He was enjoying it now almost as much as she was as she tore off the brown paper and discovered a very plain-looking brown box. He was delighted at the ruses he had used. She sat staring at the box, afraid to open it, still enjoying the surprise.

“Is it something for the house?” Her eyes were enormous as they held his, but his gaze rapidly slipped down to the perfectly shaped breasts as she knelt, naked, next to him on the bed, clutching the large box.

“Go on, silly… vas-y.” She pulled off the lid and burrowed into the tissue paper to discover what was there. Her hands shot backward as though she had touched flame and instantly flew to her mouth.

“Ah, non! Marc-Edouard!”

“Oui, mademoiselle?”

“Oh…” Her hands burrowed back into the tissue, and her eyes grew even wider as slowly, carefully, with exquisite caution, she pulled it out. This time she gasped as she held it aloft, then ran her hand gently up and down the pelts. It was a very beautiful, bittersweet chocolate, Russian sable coat. “Oh, my God.”

“Let’s try it on.” He took it from her and slipped it carefully over her shoulders. She shrugged herself into it and buttoned it to her chin. It was beautifully cut and it looked magnificent on her as it fell in sleek lines over her tiny waist and narrow hips.

“Bon Dieu, chérie, que tu es belle. How incredibly beautiful you are, Chantal. Oh, my dear!” He looked on in mingled awe and ecstasy as she twirled on one foot, the coat opening subtly to reveal a bare leg.

“I’ve never had anything like this.” She looked stunned as she watched herself in the mirror and then back at him. “Marc-Edouard, it’s such… such an unbelievable gift!”

“So are you.” Without another word he left the room to get the bottle of champagne. He returned with the bottle and both glasses, set them down, and took her into his arms. “Shall we celebrate, my darling?”

With a golden smile she nodded and melted again into his arms.

“What’s Marc doing tonight?”

“Business meetings, as usual.” Deanna smiled at Kim. “He has clients here from Europe these days. I never see him.” It was the first time she had actually let Kim drag her out to dinner. Between the death of Pilar and her pregnancy, Deanna had been nowhere for months. They had decided, as usual, on Trader Vic’s. “Jesus, I hate to admit it, but it feels good to get out.” And here she had no qualms about running into Ben. She knew he hated places like this.

“How do you feel?”

“Not bad. It’s hard to believe I’m already almost five months.” But it was finally beginning to show, just the merest of bulges in the A-shaped dress of black wool crepe.

“Do you want a shower?” Kim looked at her with a grin over the hors d’oeuvres.

“A baby shower?” Deanna asked. Kim nodded, and Deanna rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I’m too old for that. My God, Kimberly!”

“You are not. If you’re not too old for a baby, you’re not too old for a shower.”

“Don’t start me on that one!” But Deanna was looking at her with a wry smile. There was no anger or pain in her eyes tonight. Kim hadn’t seen her looking this peaceful in weeks, and her sense of humor seemed to have returned. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving by the way? Anything special?”

“Nothing much. I’m having dinner with some friends. You?”

“The usual. Nothing.” Deanna shrugged. “Marc will be working.”

“Want to come with me?”

“No. I’ll probably manage to drag him out to dinner somewhere. I always did with Pilar. A restaurant or a hotel, it’s not what you’d call a real Thanksgiving, but it’ll do. And at least we won’t be stuck with turkey sandwiches for two weeks.” But suddenly she found herself wondering what Ben was doing. Probably going to Carmel, or maybe he was still back East. She didn’t want to ask Kim.

The conversation drifted on to other subjects then. It was ten-thirty when at last they stood up, a little tired, a lot full, and having spent a very pleasant evening without any strain.

“Can I lure you out for a drink?” Kim asked. But she didn’t look as though she wanted to drag out the evening any longer. And Deanna was tired.

“Maybe another time. I hate to admit it, but I’m beat. I’m still at the stage when I’m tired all the time.”

“When does that stop, or does it?”

“Usually almost exactly at four months, but this time it seems to have dragged on. I’m four and a half, and still sleepy all the time.”

“So enjoy it and be glad you don’t work.” But she wasn’t. She wished that she did. It would give her something to think of while she didn’t paint. She still hadn’t been able to start her work. Something stopped her every time she sat down. Her thoughts would shift instantly to Pilar or Ben, or she would find herself panicking about the baby. Hours would drift by while she did nothing but sit, staring blindly into space.

They brought Kim’s little red MG up to the door. With a groan Deanna got in as Kim tipped the valet and slid behind the wheel.

“I’m going to have to give up driving with you in a couple of months.” Her legs were cramped almost up to her chin and she laughed, as did Kim.