I spun toward the sound of the voice, finding myself facing an oversized upholstered chaise longue filled with satin cushions and blankets, and in the middle of it all the diminutive form of Margot Lemouron. Her head seemed even smaller against the giant lace pillow behind her, the skin on her face sallow against the white linen. Yet, despite the purple circles under her eyes, they had a light that was all their own. I wondered for a moment if that meant death was near, that each failure of the body was like candles being snuffed out one by one, until the only light left was in the eyes. It had been that way with Kit.
“Of course,” I said, hurrying to her side, where a water pitcher had been filled and placed next to an empty glass. “And I don’t think you’re impertinent at all. I, too, could use a little company.” This last wasn’t completely true, but it should have been. Diana said I spent far too much time alone. Not that she’d recommend I spend time with a possibly dying woman, but at least I was trying.
I handed her the glass and watched as she took several sips, noticing again the pallor of her skin. “Are you sure you’re up to talking? If you’d prefer to rest, I’m happy to just sit here and keep you company.” I recalled how Kit in the last months of his illness had been too tired to talk, but had wanted me nearby, as if my presence might somehow make it all less frightening.
“You are very kind, and you don’t even know me. I promise to let you know if I get tired.” She looked at me closely, her dark eyes penetrating. “I would much prefer to get to know you, although I feel as if we’re already old friends, no?”
“I have that sort of face. I suppose it makes it easy for me to make friends.”
“Perhaps.” She indicated the chair next to the bed. “Please do sit.”
I glanced at the small gold clock on the side table by her chair. “It’s four o’clock. Shall I order tea?”
“That would be wonderful, thank you.”
I ordered tea and had sat down again when I noticed three framed photographs on the dressing table across the room. “If this is where you sit the most, wouldn’t you like your photographs closer?”
“That is a very good idea, Barbara, and so thoughtful. I imagine you’re an excellent mother. You have children, no?”
“Three,” I said proudly as I walked toward the dresser to retrieve the frames. “Two boys and one girl.” I looked down at the pictures. “Are these your children?”
“Oui. I also have three—but two girls and one boy.”
“They are very good-looking children,” I said. The oldest two, a girl and a boy, were both dark-haired and seemed to be in their middle to late twenties. The youngest girl, in her early twenties, also had dark hair, but it was lighter than her siblings’. Despite the difference in hair color, of the three she resembled their mother the most.
“Do they live here in France?” I asked as I arranged the frames on the small table.
Her face fell. “Sadly, no. They are in Canada. It is our home, and they have their lives there. I didn’t want them to fret while I was in Paris for treatment. My youngest daughter is still at university. They plan to visit at the end of term.”
“Something to look forward to, then,” I said, leaning over and adjusting the pillow behind her head. I noticed again how thin she was, how the veins in her hand were a startling blue against the whiteness of her skin. “Can I get you another blanket? Or perhaps a sweater?”
She laughed, bringing a welcome spot of color to her cheeks. “I’m perfectly fine, but thank you. The tea is here so if you would pour me a cup I would love to sit and listen to you tell me about your family.”
A waiter wheeled in the tea tray and I dismissed him so I could pour the tea. I fixed a plate of small sandwiches and pastries for Margot, although she didn’t touch them no matter how many times I pushed the plate toward her.
“Tell me more about your children,” I said. “Are the oldest two finished with school?”
“They are, but I’d rather not talk about them right now. It makes me miss them too much. Tell me instead about you. You said you are a widow?”
I nodded, and took a sip of my tea. “Yes. My late husband, Kit, died a year ago. He’d been ill for about a year so it wasn’t a shock, but still . . .”
“But it’s still as if your heart was ripped out of you without warning.”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
She plucked at the satin blanket covering her knees, her tea growing cool on the table beside her. “I see you still wear your wedding ring. Because you feel you are still married to him?”
I stared at the plain gold band on my hand, remembering Kit sliding it on my finger on our wedding day. I no longer wore the sapphire engagement ring, having long ago put it away to give to Penny on her twenty-first birthday. It was too dainty, too decorative for my hands, and I’d always felt as if it should have belonged to someone else.
I met her eyes again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I wear it because I don’t know who else I am supposed to be if I’m not Kit’s wife.”
Her intense gaze bored into me. “You are a strong woman, Barbara. I know this already about you. Sometimes we don’t know how strong we are until we are left with no other choice, yes?” She smiled. “What is it they say? Some women are lost in the fire, and some are built with it. It’s too easy to quit when our lives don’t turn out the way we expect. But you and I are strong enough to imagine a new life. Something different, perhaps, but even better than what we’d hoped.”
A most annoying lump had formed in my throat and I forced it down with a gulp of tea so I could speak and not embarrass myself with silly tears. “I’m not sure you’re right about me. I seem to have a particular gift for wallowing in my misery.” I frowned. “Why are you being so kind to me? You barely know me.”
She shrugged, her bony shoulders mere shadows under her bed jacket. “Perhaps because you appear to need someone to be kind to you.”
I laughed nervously. “And here I was, thinking it was the other way around.” Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, I pushed her plate closer to her. “You haven’t eaten a thing. Should you at least try? I imagine you need to keep up your strength.”
“I will try for you, although I have no appetite.” She picked up a small cucumber triangle and took a tiny bite. “You are very young to be a widow. How are your children coping with the loss of their father?”
“I’m thirty-eight, so not very young. Our youngest two, Penny and Rupert, are handling it as well as can be expected. Stiff upper lip and all that.” I tried to smile at my little joke, but failed miserably. “Our oldest, Robin, has had the hardest time. He and Kit—my husband—were very close. Robin was just sent down from Cambridge for drinking. He’s with my sister and her husband now, which is probably the best place for him since I’m not exactly the icon of strength at the moment.”
She put the little sandwich back on her plate without having taken another bite. “You do see, Barbara, that’s why you are strong. A weak woman would never have admitted that her son was hurting and needed help elsewhere. And, of course, you are here on a lovely vacation. So not exactly ‘wallowing in your misery,’ hmm?”