Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

We were facing each other.

All I really wanted was sleep. I drew my feet out of my slippers and tucked them up underneath me. I also slid my hands up into the sleeves of my robe. “Why do people stay in relationships like that?”

“Some people need it. At least if someone’s yelling at you, they’re paying attention to you… and then there’s always the making up afterward. Some people think it’s romantic.”

It didn’t seem as if he thought so. At least we were in agreement about that.

A door slammed.

“Did you ever have a relationship like that?” The lateness of the hour must have loosened my tongue.

“Never really stayed in one long enough for it to deteriorate into something like that. I’ve always relied on more polite forms of communication.”

“Letters? Faxes?”

“E-mail.” He smiled and pushed back his chair. His hands joined behind his head and he closed his eyes. He looked tired, and his five-o’clock shadow made his face pale.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Surely you know that I don’t have a fabulous track record on relationships.”

I clamped my lips together so that I wouldn’t say anything I’d later regret.

“I’m not sure why. They’ve just never worked out.”

At that moment, I was biting my tongue so hard I thought I’d punched a hole in it. Clearly, it was not the time to talk; it was the time to listen.

“I’ve never felt like anyone has wanted to be with me for the simple reason that I am me. I’ve had people want to be with me because it makes them look good. I’ve wanted to be with people because they make me look good. I’ve been in relationships where both of us were using the other for some ulterior motive.”

At that point, he opened his eyes. They were empty. Denuded. And they made him look a hundred years old.

My heart reached out for him.

“It tends to make a person cynical.”

There was pounding on a door downstairs.

A corner of Cranwell’s mouth lifted. “See? She wants back in.”

“She can’t be older than twenty-one.”

“Nineteen.”

“She’s so young.”

“And tonight, they’ll be together. And they’ll drive back to Paris tomorrow, and they’ll fly out next week. And once they’re home, he’ll forget to call her. She’ll call him. He’ll promise her a weekend somewhere exotic. And then he’ll cancel: unforeseen circumstances. And she’ll still be waiting for a call when she reads in the paper about his latest girlfriend.”

“But she’s so innocent.”

“The problem with innocence is that once you pluck it, it’s all gone.”

We listened for a moment to the silence, felt the chateau go back to sleep around us.

I stretched and got up to leave.

“You’ve managed to keep yours, Freddie.”

Facing Cranwell, I found him looking at me as if I were a rare antique.

“My what?”

“Innocence.”

“I’ve been married.” If we were talking about sex, I’d had plenty.

“I’m not talking about that.” He stood beside me and cupped my chin in his hand. “I’m talking about your soul. And don’t tell me you don’t have a soul and that you don’t believe in God, because you do. You wouldn’t fight Him so hard if you didn’t. But you’re not jaded. I still haven’t figured out if you were well loved, but I can tell that you loved well.”

He kissed me on the forehead and led me out into the hall.

When I had been with Peter, I had felt well loved. In retrospect, I had given much more than I had received in return. Not that love is selfish, but the person I was now would have demanded better treatment.

Mid-stride, I paused as I walked up the stairs.

How had Cranwell known that?

And what did he mean that I believed in God?

Carl and Fran left the next morning, practically attached at the lips. The chauffeur bundled them into the limousine and sped away down the drive. I couldn’t help pitying her as I watched the car turn onto the road.

I didn’t think it was worth it.

The next week, my thoughts turned toward Christmas. And not voluntarily, for I hadn’t celebrated the holiday since Peter had died. There was no one I bought presents for and no one who bought them for me. There had been no one to cook for, no one to decorate for. I wasn’t even sure where I’d stored my Christmas tree ornaments. In fact, it was Cranwell who brought it up.

“What’s the plan for Christmas? Is Sévérine going to be around?” He’d been writing in the kitchen as I worked, but had slid back his chair and stood up for a stretch. His turmeric-colored chamois shirt was tucked and belted into a pair of olive twills. The month before, I might have thought he looked good, but by December, I was immune to his charms.

“I’m pretty sure it’s on the twenty-fifth, just like last year, Cranwell.” I gritted my teeth to answer his second question. “Sévérine’s going away for Christmas, but she’ll be back by New Year’s.” Why hadn’t he just asked her if he were so interested?

He bent down so he could scratch Lucy’s stomach. “You don’t do anything for Christmas?”

“What’s there to do?” I turned from the vegetables I was chopping and unsnapped the sleeves of my red denim shirt so that I could roll them up. The close-fitting cut of the shirt allowed it to stay close to my body and wear it untucked over my jeans without it becoming a hazard to cooking.

“I don’t know. Cut down a tree. Sing carols. Go to church. Drink eggnog.”

“What do you usually do for Christmas?”

He smiled. “Not a whole lot. Go out for dinner. Take a walk with Lucy. I’d hoped this year to go to church somewhere.”

“I’m planning on being here for Christmas, so I’ll definitely be cooking.” I shook some pistachios into a bowl and set them on the island.

Cranwell joined me at the island as I sat down on a stool.

“Seriously.”

“I am being serious. If you’d like a tree for your room and if I can find my ornaments, you can have them.”

“We should do something.”

“Like I said, I’ll cook dinner, but beyond that, it’s up to you.” I took a pistachio and used a thumbnail to pry it from the shell. As far as I was concerned, the full-blown Christmas experience was best saved for small children. I remembered my parents’ extravagant holiday parties and I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with them. When I was young, planning for Christmas began in October.

“How about I take care of the whole thing?”

“The whole thing?”

“Decorations, Christmas dinner. Everything.”

I felt my eyebrow lift in surprise. I took another pistachio and cracked it open, buying time to think about his proposal. I was no grinch. I had nothing against Christmas in general. It was the energy, the time, the pressure of tradition that made me pretend the holiday didn’t exist.

“Freddie?”

“Dinner too?”

“Dinner too.”

“Deal.”

The next morning I began to pay for my error in judgment. Every ten minutes, Cranwell came down to the kitchen to ask me for something: an axe, a hammer, nails, screws, wire, wire-cutters.

“Do you have a-”

Tu danse sur mon dernier nerf ! I tugged at the hem of my white tank top then gave my pot of soup a vigorous stir. “Cranwell, anything I have that’s tool-related is in the garage. Did you look there?” He was tap-dancing on my last nerve.

“No.”

“Then I probably don’t have one.”

“I’m sure you’ve got to at least have a couple.”

At that point I was very close to ripping my hair out. I put the ladle on the counter and turned to look at him.

He put a tentative hand up to his hair and came away with what looked like a few pine needles. There were a few more sprinkled on the shoulders of his plum zip-neck sweater too. He frowned, glared at them over the top of his reading glasses, and then let them drop to the floor. His eyes zoomed from the floor straight up toward mine. “What I wanted to know is if you have a minute to spare.”