Danielle Steel - Honor Thyself

“I remember how much you loved it,” she said with a misty smile in response. “You worked crazy hours, and got calls all night long.” It was the way he wanted it. He wanted to know every detail of what was happening at all times. It had been an obsession with him.

And that morning he had stood in the room, hovering over the investigation, as though he were still in charge. Sometimes he forgot that he no longer was. And he was still deeply respected by the public and the men who had taken over his job. He took frequent stands on political issues, and was often quoted in the papers. They had called him several days before about his views on the tunnel attack and how the matter was being handled. He had been diplomatic, which was not always the case with him. When he was upset by something, or critical of the government, he did not mince words, and never had.

“France has always been my first love,” he responded. “Until you,” he added softly. But she wasn't sure that was true, or had ever been. As she saw it, she had been third in line, after his country and his marriage.

“Why did you retire?” Carole asked him quietly, and reached over for her tea again. This time she held the mug herself. She was feeling better and calmer again. The questioning had rattled her, but she was finally settling down. He could see it too.

“I thought it was time. I served my country for a long time. I had done my job. My term was over, the government changed. I had some health problems, which were probably work related. I'm fine now. I missed it terribly at first, and I've been offered some minor posts since, as a token gesture. I don't want that. I don't want a consolation prize. I had what I wanted. I thought it was time to give it up. And I enjoy practicing law. I've been asked several times to become a magistrate, a judge, but I would find that boring. It's more fun to be a lawyer than a judge. For me anyway. Although I'm planning to retire from that this year too.”

“Why?” She looked concerned for him. He was a man who needed to work. Even at sixty-eight, he had the drive and energy of a much younger man. She had seen it again when they were questioning her. He had been positively buzzing with electricity, like a live wire. It wasn't healthy for a man like him to retire. It was enough that he'd given up the ministry, it didn't seem wise to her for him to give up law as well.

“I'm old, my dear. It's time to do other things. Write, read, travel, think, discover new worlds. I'm planning to do some travel in South east Asia.” He'd been to Africa the year before. “I want to do things more slowly now, and savor them, before I can't do that anymore.”

“You have years ahead of you to do that. You're still a vital, youthful man.”

He laughed at her choice of words. “Yes, youthful, but not young. There is a difference. I want to enjoy my life, and the freedom I never had. I answer to no one now. There is a benefit to that, and a downside. My children are grown, even my grandchildren are grown.” He laughed. It was hard to imagine, but she realized it was true. “Arlette is gone. No one cares where I am or what I do, which is sad to admit, but true. I might as well take advantage of it while I can, before my children start calling the house to ask the maid if I ate my lunch or wet my bed.” He was a long way from there, and the picture he painted of his future touched her heart. In a way, she was there now too. Her children were much younger than his. She knew his oldest son must be well into his forties, and not much younger than she. He had married young and had children early, so he wasn't tied to relatively young children, as she was. But even hers were out of college, allegedly grown-up, and lived in other cities. Without Stevie to keep her company every day, her house would have been a tomb. There was no man in her life, no children at home, no one to answer to or spend time with, or take care of, no one who cared what time she ate dinner, or if. She was nearly twenty years younger than he was, but she was unfettered now too. It was what had led her to pursue the book, and the trip roaming around Europe, to find the answers that had eluded her till then.

“What about you?” He turned to her, with the same questions in his eyes that he saw in hers. “You haven't made a movie in a long time. I think I've seen them all.” He smiled again. It had been his treat to himself, to sit in a darkened theater, watching her and listening to her. He had seen some of them three and four times, and then watched them again on TV. His wife had never commented, and left the room quietly when Carole was on the screen. She knew. Right till the end. It was a subject they no longer touched on in the last years of their life together. She accepted his love for Carole, and the fact that he had never loved her in the same way, and never would. His feelings for his wife had been very different. They were about duty, responsibility, companionship, and respect. His feelings for Carole had been born of passion, desire, dreams, and hope. He had lost the dreams, but not the hope or the love. They were his forever, and he kept them locked in his heart, like a rare, precious jewel in a safe, out of harm's way, and out of sight. Carole could feel the emotions he still had for her, as they sat in her hospital room and talked. The room was alive with all that was unsaid, and still felt, by him at least.

“I haven't liked the scripts in the past few years. I don't want to do stupid roles, unless I do something really funny, which I've thought about lately too. I've always wanted to do comedy, and I might one of these days. I don't know how funny I am, but I'd love to give it a try and play with it. At this point, why not? Otherwise, I want to do roles that are meaningful to me and make a difference to the people who see the films. I can't see the point of just keeping my face on screen, so people don't forget who I am. I want to be really careful about what parts I accept. The role has to matter to me, or it's not worth doing. There aren't a lot of parts like that around, particularly at my age. And I didn't want to work for the year my husband was sick. Since then I haven't seen a single script I liked. It's all junk. I never did junk, and I don't want to start now. I don't need to do that. I've been trying to write a book,” she confessed to him with a smile. They had always had interesting conversations, about movies, politics, their work, views about the human condition, and life. He was an extremely cultured, well-read, philosophical person, with master's degrees in literature, psychology, and art and a doctorate in political science. He had many facets and a razor-sharp mind.

“Are you writing a book about your life?” He looked intrigued.

“Yes and no.” She smiled sheepishly. “It's a novel, about a woman coming of age and examining her life after her husband dies. I've had about a dozen false starts on it. I've written several chapters, from different angles, and I always get stuck at the same place. I can't figure out what the purpose of her life is, once he's gone. She's a brilliant neurosurgeon, and she couldn't save him from a brain tumor, in spite of all her knowledge. She's a woman accustomed to power and control, and her failure to alter destiny brings her to a crossroads in her life. It's about acceptance and surrender and understanding herself and what life is really about. She's made some important decisions in her past, which still impact her. She leaves her practice and goes on a journey, trying to find the answers to her own questions, the keys to the doors that she has left locked for most of her life, while she was moving forward. Now she has to go back, before she can go forward again.” She surprised herself with the recalled memories of her book.

“It sounds interesting,” he mused, looking pensive. He understood perfectly that it was about her, and the decisions she had made, and so did she. The choices, and the forks in the road she had taken, and not least of it, the decision she had made about him, to leave France, and the relationship she had seen as a dead end for her.