28
That night,our lovemaking has a desperate edge to it. The frenzy of unleashed wild animals that leaves my body sore and bruised in the morning.
My mind it leaves scraped clean. A pumpkin hollowed out by knives, awaiting its Halloween candle.
James left in the dark with a whispered word of farewell, kissing me as I laid nude under the sheets, my skin still slicked with sweat from our passion. I didn’t sleep a wink after that. I simply listened to the song of crickets and the lonely calls of night birds, the heady scent of the lavender fields drifting in through the open windows like the most comforting balm.
I told him I wanted to go with him on his lethal errand, but his no was unequivocal. It was too dangerous. He wouldn’t take the risk. But he would honor my other request.
He found the idea of bringing me a head on a platter pleasingly biblical.
Yes, we’re quite the pair, we two. A modern day Salome and Herod, happily lopping off their enemies’ noggins. I should start looking for competent couples counselors the moment the sun crests the flanks of the mountains.
But when that moment comes, I’m no longer in bed. I’m dressing in a hurry, pulling on my jeans and yanking my T-shirt impatiently over my head, because I’ve heard the sound of a car pulling up the long gravel driveway outside.
The throaty purr of the Mercedes’s engine is unmistakable.
With my heart in my throat, I run barefoot through the darkened house. The heavy wooden front door I fling open as if it weighs nothing. Then I watch breathlessly as James parks the Mercedes by the low stone wall that surrounds the circular drive court and cuts the engine.
When our gazes meet through the windshield, my heart stops dead in my chest.
A purple bruise darkens the hollow under his left eye. His lower lip is split and swollen.
He exits the car, closes the driver’s door, and walks around to the hatch in the back. Gravel crunches under his feet. The hatch lifts silently with a push of a button. Then James reaches inside the car and removes a leather satchel.
It’s black and rounded on either end with two short curved handles and a zipper that runs between them, front to back. It’s something you could carry over your shoulder, about the size of a big purse. It looks like a bag that might be used to store a bowling ball.
James shuts the rear hatch and turns to look at me. Carried on the sweet-smelling dawn air, his voice floats across the driveway. “Honey, I’m home.”
He lifts the bag like a trophy.
I press my shaking hands over my pounding heart.
Then my legs give out and I sink to my knees on the floor.
* * *
In the end,I couldn’t look at what the bag contained. I told James to bury it somewhere far out in the lavender fields, then I went inside and made coffee and omelets and waited for him to come back.
When he did, we didn’t talk about it. We never spoke of it again.
I stayed in Provence for the rest of the summer, telling Kelly that I’d broken it off with James and needed a change of scenery, and informing Estelle that I found Paris far too crowded and hot. I said I’d gone instead to a small fishing village on the coast that I loved and might want to relocate to.
Being good friends, they were both supportive. They didn’t ask too many questions. They just wanted me to be happy and could tell by my voice that I was.
James dealt with Christopher via a single phone call. I don’t know what was said, but Chris later sent me an email letting me know my name and face had been removed from the computers and security cameras at the hotel Saint Germaine, so I’d never be associated with the “incident” there. He told me he loved me and always would, and to contact him if I needed anything.
I never wrote back.
It’s September now. I’m almost finished with my novel. The lavender fields have been harvested. The briefly blooming rows of purple and blue have returned to their normal earthen shades of brown and green. They’ll lie fallow through winter and spring until bursting forth again in one glorious, short-lived riot of color next summer.
But not every field around here lies fallow. One small plot has proven itself surprisingly fertile. In one miniscule acre, a tiny bud of life grows.
“A baby?” whispers James, eyes wide as I show him the little plastic stick.
“A baby.” I laugh when he bursts into tears. It’s always the big tough guys who’re the mushiest inside.
“When?” he demands, excitedly pulling me into his arms. “We have to get ready!”
We’re outside in the garden. It’s a glorious fall day: the sky blue, the air crisp, the potted geraniums blooming in a burst of crimson around the burbling fountain. I’ve never been happier.
“It’s early,” I murmur, winding my arms around the solid mass of his shoulders. I press a kiss to his strong neck. “I don’t know exactly how far along I am, but I’ll make an appointment at the doctor’s.”
He pulls away and grins at me. His eyes are shining. His cheeks are wet. He’s so handsome it hurts my chest.
“Let’s look at a calendar and try to figure it out!”
“I’m glad you’re so happy about this.”