They looked at each other across the sofa, the firelight dancing on their faces, the chill that had driven them inside gone and replaced with warmth and the sadness of the conversation. In his face, she saw not only the way he looked in the flicker of the fire, but the way he had looked the day they had first met, leaning forward to convince her she must stay in Paris, and the way he rested his chin in his hand when he was listening, really listening, to one of his friends at a café, or the way he looked in the lamplight when they strolled the streets at night, and the memory of those things coupled with the look of him at that moment, tragic and lovely in the firelight, made him irresistible. And he must have been thinking the same thing about her, because when she leaned forward, he met her halfway and they kissed, their bodies leaning toward each other without touching, their lips the only point of contact. The wine she had drunk with dinner, the touch of his clothes on her skin, the heat of the fire, and the taste of him made Margie feel giddy and overwhelmed, as though she had drunk a bottle of champagne, and when he pulled her closer, she came to him eagerly.
They kissed until the heat of their desire coupled with the fire was too much to bear, and then Margie drew back, and slowly, staring boldly into Sebastien’s eyes as though it were a dare, she pulled the shirt he had given her over her head. Underneath, she was bare, and she felt her body respond to the rush of air. For a moment, he didn’t break his gaze with hers, their eyes locked together, and Margie held her breath. Would he refuse her? Then he lowered his eyes and took her in, and she could see him breathe, long and slow, and he whispered something in French as he moved across the distance to her and lowered his mouth to her breasts.
She knew she was doing something daring, something shocking, even, but she felt no shame. Instead, she felt beautiful and desirable and powerful, as though there were nothing she could do wrong. And when he pulled off the rest of her clothes and she stood there, naked in the firelight while the rain beat on outside and he knelt as if to worship her, she felt reborn.
“Marguerite,” he whispered, his breath a kiss against her skin.
“Yes,” she replied, and she knelt down to meet him.
twenty-one
MADELEINE
1999
My mother and I had been at a committee meeting at Ashley Hathaway’s house for approximately ten thousand years, and I was starting to act like a toddler, pulling at my mother’s skirt and begging for us to leave. Ashley’s house was exactly what I would have imagined it to be if you had asked me to draw it in the sixth grade. When we played MASH on the school bus on field trips, Ashley inevitably ended up living in a mansion, married to Scott Baio with four kids, which was pretty much how her life had turned out. Well, not the Scott Baio part exactly, but her husband was a good-looking doctor, so that was pretty much a wash. There were family portraits everywhere, sitting on the hall table where everyone had left their handbags, lining the stairs going up to the second floor, perfect black-and-white pictures of Ashley in her little cardigans, the boys and her husband in sweater vests, as though they were passing through on a visit from the 1950s. The familiar taste of copper sat on my tongue.
“Aren’t you just the sweetest to stay and help your mother for such a long time,” Ashley said when my mother finally assented to leaving. She took me by the elbows and dropped air kisses on both my cheeks. I wrinkled my forehead at her. There was an insult in there somewhere.
I decided to return her backhanded compliment with one of my own. “Thanks for hosting. Your house looks exactly like the Pottery Barn catalog.”
“Thank you!” Ashley said, clasping her hands together over her heart as though I had told her she had won the Miss America pageant. I should have known. Houses that look like the Pottery Barn catalog don’t get that way by accident. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her it would be okay if little Grayson poured chocolate milk on the raffia carpet, or if she ate a pastry without feeling guilty about it for once. And then I wanted to hug her even more when I realized she wouldn’t understand if I did.
My mother, spotting my sarcasm, changed the subject loudly. “You’re doing really lovely work on this fundraiser, Ashley. I’m honored to be a part of it.”
“We’re honored to have you, Simone. You always make such an impact,” Ashley said.
“Well, we’d better be going.” I picked up my clutch, which I’d left on the table in the foyer (Pottery Barn Sophia Console Table, $799 in the winter catalog).
“You don’t have to be rude,” my mother said when we were outside, walking down the steep steps to the car. It was just like Ashley to buy a house on a hill, so everyone would be winded by the time they got to the front door.
“She started it.” I hopped off the last step onto the sidewalk and headed to the car. My mother stepped delicately behind me and clicked open the car doors with the remote.
“How long are you staying?” she asked, settling herself behind the wheel, avoiding my eyes by pretending to adjust the rearview mirror.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already tired of my witty banter and charming company.”
“Be serious, Madeleine. You still haven’t talked to Phillip, at least not that I know, and you haven’t even mentioned going home.”
“Maybe I don’t want to go,” I said sullenly, dragging my hand over the seat belt so the rough edge grated on the tender web of flesh between my thumb and my forefinger. “Maybe I’ll move back here. I’ll live in the high-rise with you and Lydia Endicott. Won’t that be a barrel of laughs?” I bared my teeth at her in an evil grin, but she was looking at the road.