“I’m sure we will. In the meantime, consider yourself off this project. And, unless you want me to pound the crap out of your face, I suggest you stay away from me until you’re gone for good.”
* * *
Debra’s adversary was boredom. Their first few months in France, she had occupied herself with decorating the apartment on a shoestring budget and had succeeded as far as the limitations of the building permitted.
They had discussed the possibility of her getting a job, but it wasn’t feasible. There were no openings for teachers in the English-speaking schools, and shopkeepers preferred to hire their own rather than employ an American. So she wiled away the daytime hours by reading, strolling the narrow, quaint streets, and writing long letters to her many relatives. Although she tried to hide it from Dillon, she became homesick and listless. She had to forcibly stave off depression.
Her pregnancy rejuvenated her. She suffered no unpleasant side effects and swore she had never felt better. She was imbued with energy. Daily, she and Dillon marveled over the subtle changes in her body. This new kind of intimacy deepened their love for each other.
To help pass the time until the baby came, she enrolled in a cooking class that was held within walking distance of the apartment. There were four other women in the class and two men, all of retirement age. They, along with the grandmotherly chef, fussed over her like mother hens. Afterward her days were spent either in class or in her tiny apartment kitchen practicing what she had learned, or shopping in the neighborhood markets for the ingredients necessary to audition her culinary skills for Dillon. She would arrive home with her arms loaded with purchases and take them up by the creaky elevator that Dillon had forbidden her to use.
That particular afternoon she almost got caught, arriving home only moments before he did. Immediately he hugged her and planted a firm kiss on her cold lips. Then, grinning, he released her and said, “Let’s go to Switzerland.”
“Switzerland?”
“Yeah, you know, one of the countries that shares a border with France—goats and Heidi, Alps and snow, yo-do-la-dee-ho.”
“Of course I know Switzerland. Remember our weekend in Geneva?”
“Was that where our room had the mirror on the ceiling?”
“So you do remember.”
“How could I forget?” he growled, reaching for her again. Their mouths melded into a kiss.
“We don’t need mirrors on the ceiling,” she whispered when they finally pulled apart.
“But I need to get out of town and celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“I fired Haskell Scanlan today.”
Debra’s smiled faltered.
Dillon told her what had happened. “I hated like hell having to go to that extreme, but he left me no choice.” He studied her worried expression. “You don’t think I did the right thing?”
“I think you did exactly the right thing. Unfortunately, my opinion doesn’t carry as much weight as Forrest G. Pilot’s.”
“That’s why I want to leave for Switzerland tonight. If he agrees with my decision, we’ll have had a terrific weekend in the Alps. If he reverses it, I’ll have to quit on principal, in which case we can no longer afford a trip to Switzerland. And if he fires me, the above is also true. So, while I’m still gainfully employed and feeling as good as I do, let’s say to hell with everything else and go.”
They took an express train to Lausanne and another to Zermatt. They joked with students, chatted with a grandmother from Montreux who was knitting a cap for her tenth grandchild, and snacked on the food Debra had had the foresight to bring along.
Dillon drank strong red wine from a bota one of the students offered him, but declined to take a toke of marijuana. When the couple sitting across from them began to neck, Dillon and Debra asked each other why not, and cuddled and kissed until they fell asleep.
In Zermatt, Dillon skied the expert slopes. Debra’s pregnancy prohibited her from that, so she consoled herself by browsing in the glitzy shops and watching the endless parade of jetsetters. Together she and Dillon rode in a horse-drawn sleigh and watched skaters gliding on silver blades across a frozen pond. They gorged on cheese fondue, thick, dark bread, white wine, and Swiss chocolate.
During the train ride home, Dillon pulled her against him and tucked her head beneath his chin. “This was our real honeymoon.”
“What was wrong with our trip to Bermuda?”
“Absolutely nothing. But then you were merely my bride. Now you’re my wife.” He slipped his hand into her coat and laid it on her swollen belly. “I love you.”
While they were waiting to switch trains in Lausanne, she bought a tin of aspirin. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“My throat’s getting sore.”
She slept fitfully for the remainder of the trip to Paris and was frequently awakened by chills. “It hurts to swallow,” she complained.