There was a window at the top of the final flight of stairs, looking out over the rain-drenched Paris skyline. Claire paused, gasping for breath, to peer out over the rooftops. This was more like the Paris of her imaginings, the artist’s garret, the metal roofs, the old buildings, and the trees about to bloom. Up here she could imagine that Paris was hers. Down on the streets she knew she was separated from all she longed to enjoy by an impenetrable wall of silence, of incomprehension and confusion. Leaning against the streaked, ancient glass, she closed her eyes and listened to her labored breathing, feeling completely, unutterably alone.
She’d been a fool to come. The only thing she could do to retrieve the situation was to turn around and leave, not bother to find out whether she’d chosen the right building or not, whether that was Tom’s garret apartment behind the flimsy, scarred door or if it belonged to some impoverished student.
She turned and started back down the stairs, moving quietly this time, trying to stifle her still-labored breathing. She was only halfway down one flight when she heard the door open at the top of the stairs, heard the clatter of heavy feet start down after her.
He moved so quickly she didn’t have time to duck. Tom barreled into her, knocking her against the wall, and the two of them collapsed on the stairs in a tangle of arms and legs. It took him only a second to recognize her.
“Are you all right?” he demanded breathlessly, his hands, his large, clever hands, running over her, checking for damage.
“I’m fine.” She tried to move away, but he was lying on top of her, pinning her there, seemingly oblivious to the blatant impropriety, not to mention sexuality, of the situation. “Please, let me up.”
He stopped his seemingly careless inventory of her body, holding himself very still as he looked down at her. The window at the top of the stairs let in only a murky amount of light on such a rainy day, and the shadows surrounded them.
“You were leaving,” he said quietly.
Unable to deny it, she said nothing, lying quiescent beneath him. She was soaked to the skin—the relentless downpour had penetrated the thin wool dress and silk raincoat she’d worn in deference to Nicole’s grandmother. A shiver swept over her, one, and then another, and then she was trembling beneath Tom, shivering, and her eyes filled with sudden, useless tears.
He felt and saw everything. Before she had time to realize what he was doing he’d pulled himself upright and her with him, lifting her into his arms and starting back up the stairs, kicking open his door and angling her into the garret apartment.
Through her tears she saw the huge skylight with the rivulets of rain racing
down it. She saw the hot plate and the dirty dishes, the table with the old typewriter and stacks of paper beside it, the bare floor and dusty corners. And the bed, sagging mattress, leaking pillows, tattered blankets and all, as he laid her down carefully upon it.
“What is this?” she gulped through her tears, “the road company for La Boheme?”
He sat down beside her, grinning. “It looked even more authentic in my painting stage. If you try you can still smell the turpentine.”
“I can’t smell anything,” she wailed. “I’m crying.”
“I noticed.”
God, the man was dear. Without another word he leaned over and pulled her into his lap, leaning back against the iron bedstead and cradling her as she drenched him in tears. Somehow or other the raincoat got dumped on the floor, his own jacket followed, and their shoes joined them. Somehow or other she ended up curled up against him, her hand clenching his shirt, her body weary, her tears spent. Somehow or other she slid down in the bed, wrapped around him, sighing with the release of tension and something else. Somehow or other she fell sound asleep.
It was still raining when she woke up, and for a moment she lay there in the gloomy darkness, trying to orient herself. Her body was cramped, uncomfortable from lying on a sagging mattress, but there was a curious feeling in her chest, half relieved buoyancy, half gloomy apprehension. She moved a fraction of an inch and recognized the cause of the happier part of her emotions. Tom Parkhurst was lying beside her, sound asleep, his thick brown hair tumbled over his high forehead, his eyes closed, his expressive mouth slack and emitting faint, regular snores.
Her gloomy apprehension belonged with the man she usually woke with, she thought, not moving. A man with a great deal more sophistication, charm, and good looks than the shaggy giant next to her. A man any fool could see through, she thought. But then, Claire MacIntyre wasn’t just any fool. She was the queen of fools, and deserved everything she got.
She realized suddenly that the snoring had stopped and his startlingly blue eyes were open, watching her. She tried to summon a calm smile, but the attempt failed miserably, and to her annoyance she could feel tears stinging at the back of her eyes. She would have thought she’d cried enough by now. It had never been her habit to turn into a watering pot.
“You want to tell me what precipitated all this?” he inquired, scooting back and sitting up against the pillows. He made no move to touch her this time, but his long leg rested against her thigh, sending warmth and a dangerous sort of comfort through her. “Why were you going to leave without seeing me?”
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she said with sudden decisiveness, sitting up and scrambling off the bed.
This time he did touch her, reaching out and stopping her, hauling her back onto the bed with a bare minimum of effort. “If you’re here you came for a reason.” He was very calm, sensible, and that pragmatic quality soothed her. “And I have my stubborn moments. I’m not about to let you go until you tell me what’s wrong.”
She believed him. She sank back with a sigh, next to him on the sagging bed. It was all she could do to keep from falling into the middle, but she dug her fingers into the mattress and kept to her tenuous perch, unwilling to give in to temptation.
“The man I’ve been living with lied to me,” she said, not looking at her companion, keeping her eyes trained on the sloping window and the steady raindrops. She fell silent for a moment, uncertain how to continue.
“He’s been seeing someone else?” Tom prodded gently.
“Oh, God, if only that were true. It would make things so simple,” Claire said, her voice weary. “But I don’t think so. As far as I can tell, he only wants me.”
“I can understand that.” The comment was casual, almost thrown away, and Claire wished she dare look at him, to see whether he meant it or not. She kept staring at the rain.
“He lied about the apartment. He said it was his, had been in his family for generations. But it wasn’t, it belonged to his dead wife.
“That doesn’t seem that terrible a lie. A lot of people make up things to feel more important.”