Danielle Steel - Leap of Faith

She set the table for him, and they chatted for a long time.

He was from Paris, and had lived in England briefly as a child, and then come back to France. And after they had talked for a while, he said that his little boy had been four years old when he died in the fire. He said he thought he would never recover from it, and he hadn't in some ways. He had never remarried, and admitted that he led a solitary life. But he didn't seem like a morose sort of man, and he made Marie-Ange laugh much of the time.

They left each other at ten o'clock, after he had made sure that there were clean sheets on the bed in the master suite. He made no overtures to her, did nothing inappropriate, wished her a good night, and disappeared to the guest suite on the opposite side of the house.

But it was harder than she thought sleeping in her parents' bed, and thinking about them, and to get there, she had walked past her own room, and Robert's. Her head and heart were full of them all through the night.

Chapter 8

W hen Marie-Ange came down for breakfast the next day, after making her bed, she looked tired.

“How did you sleep?” he asked with a look of concern. He was drinking café au lait, and reading the paper Alain had bought him in town.

“Oh … I have a lot of memories here, I guess,” she said thoughtfully, thinking that she shouldn't disturb him more than she had, and that she could get breakfast in town.

“I was afraid of that. I thought about it last night,” he said, as he poured her a huge cup of café au lait. “These things take time.”

“It's been ten years,” she said, sipping the coffee, and thinking of Robert's clandestine canards.

“But you've never come back here,” he said sensibly. “That is bound to be hard. Would you like to go for a walk in the woods today, or visit the farm?”

“No, you're very kind,” she smiled, “I should drive back to Paris today.” There was no point staying here anymore. She had had one night to touch her memories, but it was his house now, and time for her to move on.

“Do you have appointments in Paris?” he asked comfortably. “Or do you simply feel you ought to go?”

She smiled as she nodded, as he silently admired her long blond hair, but she saw nothing frightening in his eyes. The idea that she had spent a night alone in the house with him would have shocked most people, she knew, but it had been so chaste, and so harmless, and so polite.

“I think you ought to have time to enjoy your house, without a stranger camping out in your master suite,” she said with serious eyes as she looked at him. ‘You've been very kind, Monsieur le Comte, but I have no right to be here anymore.”

“You have every right to be here, as my guest. In fact, if you have the time, I would love your advice, and the benefit of your memory, to tell me exactly how the house was before. Do you have time for that?” In fact, she had nothing but time on her hands, and she couldn't believe his enormous kindness to her, in inviting her to stay on.

“Are you sure?” she asked him honestly.

“Very sure. And I would much prefer it if you called me Bernard.”

Before lunch, they took a walk in the fields, and she told him precisely how everything had been, as they walked all the way to the farm, and then he called Alain to pick them up, so he didn't wear her out walking back.

She went into town to buy groceries and bought several excellent bottles of wine for him, to thank him for his incredible hospitality. And this time, when she suggested she cook dinner for them, he offered to take her out. That night he took her to a cozy bistro nearby, which hadn't been there ten years before, and they had a very good time. He had a thousand tales to tell, and an easy way of speaking to her, as though they were old friends. He was a very charming, amusing, intelligent man.

They parted company outside her parents' room again, and this time, when she climbed into bed, she fell asleep at once. And the next day, when she got up, she told him a little more strenuously that she thought she should move on.

“I must have done something to offend you then,” he said, pretending to look wounded, and then smiled. “I told you, I would be so grateful for your help if you'd stay, Marie-Ange.” It was crazy. She had literally moved into the house with him, a complete stranger who had landed on him. And in spite of her embarrassment, which he dispelled easily, he didn't seem to mind.

“But won't you stay through next weekend?” he asked pleasantly. “I'm giving a dinner party, and I would love to introduce you to some friends. They'd be fascinated by what you know of Mar-mouton. One of them is the architect who is going to draw up my remodeling plans. I'd appreciate it so much if you'd stay. In fact, I don't know why you're leaving at all. There's no need for you to rush back to Paris. You said yourself you have time.”

“Aren't you tired of me yet?” She looked worried for a minute, and then smiled. He was so convincing about wanting her to hang around, almost as though he'd been expecting her, and didn't mind at all that she had taken over the master suite and invaded his house. He treated her like an expected houseguest and good friend, instead of the intruder she was.

“Why would I be tired of you? What a silly thing to say. You're charming company, and you've helped me immeasurably, explaining to me about the house.” She had even showed him a secret passage that she and Robert had loved, and he was fascinated by it. Even Alain hadn't known about it, and he had grown up at the farm. “Now, will you stay? If you must go, which I don't believe at all, at least put it off until after the weekend.”

“Are you quite sure you don't want me to go?”

“On the contrary, not at all. I want you to stay, Marie-Ange.”

She continued to buy groceries for him, and he cooked for her. They went back to the same bistro again, and then she cooked for him the next night. And by the time the weekend came, they had become old friends. They bantered easily in the morning over their café au lait, he discussed politics with her, and explained to her what had been going on in France. He told her about the people he knew, the friends he liked best, asked her about her family at length, and now and then reminisced about his late wife and son. He told her he had worked for a bank, and was now doing consulting work, which gave him a remarkable amount of free time. And he had worked so hard for so many years, and been so devastated after he lost his wife and son, that he was finally enjoying taking a break from the rat race for a while. It all sounded very sensible to Marie-Ange.

And by the time she'd been there a week, she decided to call Billy from the post office, just to tell him where she was. She called him from the telephone cabine , because she didn't want to make a transtlantic call on Bernard's phone.

“Guess where I am!” she chorded excitedly the moment Billy came to the phone.

“Let me guess. Paris. At the Sorbonne.” He was still hoping she'd come back to finish college in Iowa, and he felt a flicker of disappointment to think that she might have enrolled at the Sorbonne.

“Better than that. Guess again.” She loved teasing him, and had missed talking to him since she'd been gone.

“I give up,” he said easily.

“I'm in Marmouton. Staying at the chateau.”

“Have they turned it into a hotel?” He sounded pleased for her, and he hadn't heard her sound that happy in a long time. She sounded rested and content, and at peace with her memories. He was glad she had gone to Marmouton after all.

“No, it's still a private house. There's a terribly nice man living there, and he let me stay.”