The Charmers: A Novel(53)

It took that war to rouse me from my self-pity, my lethargy, my small home. I had never returned to the Villa Romantica, simply left it exactly as it was, with a housekeeper to clean and her handyman-husband to maintain things. No doubt it had been gathering dust since I left, because without the owner on the premises, nothing would get done.

The enemy officers who’d occupied it seemed not to care. I was told they held parties, smashed my fine wineglasses in the fireplace after mammoth drinking bouts, took paintings off the walls and threw them into the fire; they chalked over my youthful portrait, making a caricature of the fine work by Paul Cesar Helleu, painted just before he died. Many artworks were ruined this way. By the end, there was little left to remember the good life at the villa. Only memories. Which are, of course, forever.

I lived out my life with those memories to sustain me, on the small farm in the Luberon valley, where no one recognized me, a gray-haired woman, old but still erect with that dancer’s posture that was to sustain me to the end. No one was left to care that the woman selling potatoes at the market, pulled by her hands from the earth that morning, was once the star who’d sung and danced on the stages of the world, whose lover was as famous if not more so than she herself. The woman who had killed him.

I, of course, remembered everything. Which is why I finally took up my pen and wrote it down here, for those that will come after me and who might have some curiosity, or think themselves related, or who might even be family, because, after all, I did have a daughter. Once upon a time. Isn’t that the way every fairy tale begins?

In the end, I was simply Madame Matthews, though of course I was never truly that. I could sit unrecognized in the local café after the market closed for the day, sipping my glass of red, and nodding cheerfully to those who took the time to bid me bonjour.

I made my preparations. I went to the local notaire and made a will. I left the Villa Romantica to Jolie Matthews, known as “Jolly,” though I was careful not to name her as my daughter.

The girl had been told the villa belonged to a distant relative. I knew she had visited several times and through the grapevine of local gossip, I also heard how she’d enjoyed it, how much she loved the villa, and how because of her, it had been restored gradually to if not glory, at least its former beauty. Simple. Pristine. Perfect.

It was all I could wish for. My daughter living in the villa I had created and built. They both had my love.

Of course I left her the pearls. And the sapphire ring. I liked to think of her wearing them, and of the pleasure they might give her, as they had given me.

I have also stipulated in my will that my beloved pets are to live in the villa. I am ready to go. The fact is, I have lived long enough anyway. I gave what I could, laughed, and have known the joy of being loved. It is, at last, enough.

My little brown dog lies on my lap, gazing soulfully into my faded blue eyes. My small gray cat sprawls his length against me. And the tiny canary sings its brave song.





Part IV

The Present





44

Verity

I don’t like the way I feel. As though I am heavy when I want to be weightless. As though my brain has deserted me when I need to think. As though my chest is still heaving with water, my ribs aflame with pain.

I’m guessing this is the way you feel when you are drugged into a sort of submissive state, with no will of your own, no way to make your limbs obey the brain’s commands. Or perhaps it’s that the brain is issuing the wrong commands. How am I to know? I’m simply lying here, trying desperately to begin to think. To remember. If I don’t, I think I might die and I don’t want that. I have things left to do before I go, and besides I’m too young. I want to make sure that my cheating husband gets to know what I really think of him. I want Mirabella to know that I am so glad she found me on the train and made me her friend. And I want to thank the Boss for saving my life. At least I hope it’s saved.

I do remember him lifting me from the waves, stroking my wet hair from my face, being held in his arms as he walked up the beach, calling out, “I found her.” I remember he said, “She drowned.”

So that’s why my chest felt full of water. I recall now the immense weight of it, but more, I remember the waves surging over me, going down beneath them. They were black not green, as they were when I’d swam so happily in them earlier. Yet I’d felt the sand under me, knew I wasn’t in deep water, I was merely resting there. Until the Boss came and hauled me up, lifted me in his strong arms the way the hero always does in movies. I almost expected him to be in the Superman suit, not dressed in a black turtleneck and running pants. God, I think I fell in love with him there and then. Never underestimate the attraction of power, whether it’s strength, as it was at that moment, or importance and wealth, as he’d always had. A double whammy, in fact.

And then Chad Prescott had me on the ground and was blasting my ribs until I felt sure I heard them crack, only I couldn’t speak to tell him it hurt. I could only hope he knew what he was doing.

He faded from my vision. Everything went black. I knew nothing until I woke up in the hospital, with Mirabella leaning over me, her face a picture of concern. I had no idea how much time had passed, what had happened, where I was, even. Mirabella understood at once.

“It’s okay, my little Verity,” she said, smoothing my hair from my hot head with a cool hand.