20

CONFESSIONS

Jack pulls back as if he’s been burned by fire. Michelle starts to move closer, the silk of her gown swishing like a soft wind in her wake.

He throws his hands up as if that will halt her motion and the words coming out of her mouth. He tries not to look at her body, every curve of which is accentuated. Her pale creamy skin is made even more exquisite by the ebony black of her gown. “Don’t. Please,” he says.

She stops, breathing hard. “I can’t go on pretending. I can no longer help myself, chéri … ”

Jack moves behind the couch, would that it could protect him. “You mustn’t say such things. It’s impossible.”

“I have to say what’s on my mind. I cannot keep my passion inside me for another second. I never meant for this to happen. You left me and I knew you would never return. But I still loved you and I thought you loved me. Even though you made it clear that you meant for us to be over.”

“Michelle, please. No more.” He thinks of Gladdy, trying to imagine what she might be doing now. What she’s imagining. Why he isn’t home yet.

She can’t stop herself. “When I knew I was coming to this book fair, I told myself I would not look you up, nor had I any intention to call. But when we met by accident, I took it to mean that fate wanted us to be together again.”

Jack thinks he must look a fool cowering behind this frilly couch. His mind is reeling.

Say something. Don’t just stand there, he tells himself. “Michelle, we were caught up in a fantasy. The confused American and you, amused by his awkwardness, coming to his rescue. An old guy easy to seduce. Mad passion on my side. Entertainment on yours. It was a game to play. Nothing more.”

She gazes lovingly across the room at him. “It might have been that at first. But not after we made love.”

Jack shakes his head. “Michelle, admit it. I was just an amusing fling to you. I even thought at times you felt sorry for me. You couldn’t possibly have fallen for this old man.”

She smiles. “But I did, and I know you loved me, too.”

Jack groans. He needs a drink to get through this soap opera discussion of their affair. He helps himself to the Scotch bottle on the bar near him and pours himself a double. He pulls his jacket off and tosses it onto the back of the chair.

“I thought so at the time, but how could I not be infatuated? Who wouldn’t be enchanted by your beauty and your youth? I was flattered, and grateful for your attention. I thought you were intentionally gifting me with what was probably going to be my last love affair.”

“You didn’t believe I loved you?”

“I imagined you thought you loved me. But it was timing. Another month or year, in a different mood, another man in your life, you wouldn’t have even looked at me. When I happened to appear, you were ready for someone like me.”

“Mais non,” she protests.

“Yes. You spoke so often of your beloved father. I felt that’s what I was to you—a father figure.” Jack thinks that his feet are hurting, that he wants to sit down like the old man he is. But he dares not move.

As if she reads his mind, she smiles. “Shall we sit down?” She seats herself gracefully on the couch, tucking her legs under her.

Gripping his drink as if it were a lifeline, Jack thankfully drops down into the armchair farthest from her.

“Being here with you again, being this close, moment by moment, made me realize this was no fantasy for me. It’s real,” she says.

“You tricked me into being alone with you.”

“Yes, because I wanted you to accept the fact that you still loved me, too.”

“Michelle. You can have any man in the world you please. You could do so much better than a beat-up old codger like me.”

“Non. Non. Non. Men want me for many reasons. My body. My success. My money. An entrée into my world in which they want to belong. I never met a man who truly loved me. Nor did I love any of them. But with you I was comfortable. I felt safe. You were the only honest man I ever met.”

Jack sets the drink down on a table. He thinks suddenly of his daughter, Lisa, and recognizes the similarity of feelings. He sighs in relief, like a puzzle has finally been solved in his head. He feels like a father to Michelle. He wants to wrap his arms around her and give her the comfort and safety she needs. Yes. But if he tried, she would misconstrue it.

She leans forward, fervently. “Do you know what happened to me after you left? I was angry and grew bitter and cynical. I changed. There would be no other man after you. I turned myself off. I became obsessed with work. No more good guys. What did I decide to love? I loved the idea of finding worthless, dishonest men and punishing them. And there were so many. The more I succeeded, the more arrogant and distant I became.”

“I’m sorry you felt you needed to do that,” he says quietly.

They are silent for a few moments. He stands and takes a deep breath. He has no other choice. He must break the thread between them forever. He did it wrong the first time. There was no closure. He’ll have to hurt her again, like a doctor cauterizing a wound, but hopefully she can go forward when it’s over.

“I do love you, Michelle, but not in the way you want. You have to get on with your life and leave the fantasy behind. I wish someday you’ll forgive me.”

She jumps up, gasping. “Don’t say that. Don’t.”

“I’m so sorry, Michelle, but I can’t stay here anymore. It’s wrong for you, and for me as well.” Jack gets up and reaches for his cell phone. “I need to call Morrie and find someone to replace me.”

He strides to the door, desperate now for some breathing space. “I’ll call from the hallway.”

As he reaches the door, Michelle runs to him and grabs his arm. “Kiss me, Jacques. Please.” She raises her lips to his. “Please.”

For a moment, neither one moves. Then Jack gently pries her away.

He opens the door. “I’ll be just outside, for a few minutes.”

He watches as her eyes tear up. “If there was no Gladdy, would your answer be different?”

He shakes his head and walks out, closing the door behind him.

The Snake watches the woman’s suite as usual. Leaning casually against the wall, near the elevator, gives him a quick exit if he needs it. He holds an open newspaper, his prop. Suddenly, he is hit with a sharp pain in one of his teeth. Now what? A toothache?

But never mind that. Abruptly, he is alert. The flic is coming out, punching a number on his cell phone as he does. The Snake quickly presses the elevator button, but the cop looks down the hallway and sees him. It’s too late to turn away. They lock glances with each other and The Snake sees recognition in the enemy’s eyes—a perfect match to the description of the man they are all looking for. He can almost read his mind—should he come after him? But what if he’s wrong? It leaves the woman vulnerable. But the cop thinks he is right. He reaches for his gun—but he’s left his gun inside the room.

The Snake is in luck. A trio of older women, laughing, round the corner and arrive at the elevator. He grins and immediately puts his arm around the waist of the woman nearest him. If she screams or slaps him, he will be a canard mort, a dead duck. And he will be forced to press the blade of his knife at the woman’s fleshy neck to take her hostage. Then it will get very messy. Fortunately, his luck holds. She is surprised and delighted at his attention, and her friends smile also. He whispers in her ear, softly, using his French accent charmingly, reassuringly, as the four of them cheerfully enter the elevator. He tells the woman he mistook her for his wife. The door closes on the women’s laughter. At which point he discovers she is wearing a gardenia corsage. He sneezes. Three times. Damn his allergies.

Jack stands in the hallway, unsure. For a moment he was certain that little guy fit the description of the assassin but it was a false alarm. The man had simply been waiting for his wife. Once again, Jack is upset with himself. How could he have walked out without his gun? Another mistake. What if the man near the elevator had been the wily killer? But, then again, if Jack had gone after him, he’d have put the ladies in the elevator at risk. Argh. He slaps his thigh in frustration. He is too involved to think clearly. He must bring someone else in here quickly, before his ineptness gets Michelle or someone else killed.

Jack reaches his son on the phone and explains what’s been going on. He listens impatiently as Morrie recites his version of I-told-you-so.

“Never mind the lecture. Get some men over here, fast. In fact, I’m not sure, but I might have just seen the guy—or at least someone who fits the general description.” Just to be on the safe side, when he hangs up, he alerts hotel security.

He unlocks the suite and goes back inside, but Michelle is no longer in the living room. Neither is the bottle of Merlot that had been on the kitchen counter. Her bedroom door is closed. He pauses, then walks over and calls out to her. “Michelle, are you all right?”

For a few minutes there is no answer. He knocks this time.

“Go home, Jacques. Go home to Gladeze, where you belong.”

“Come out, Michelle. Please.”

“Enough has been said. Leave me alone.”

He hears the sounds from her portable CD player. French love songs again. He sits down on the couch with his head in his hands, feeling like a rat. And wonders how long it will take for Morrie to find replacements.

He hopes that Gladdy won’t lock him out of her bedroom as well.