“Thank you. I'll let you know. I'm scared I'm going to say yes.”
“Maybe you're ready,” Carole said, looking at her with affection, trying to reassure her. “I think you are. You've been talking about it a lot lately.”
“That's because he has. He's obsessed with it.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Carole said warmly.
“You'd better be there to hold my hand if I do it,” Stevie said ominously, but she was smiling and looked happy.
“You bet,” Carole promised. “I wouldn't miss it.”
* * *
Carole had dinner with Matthieu again that night. For the first time, they went out. They went to L'Orangerie on the Ile Saint Louis, in the Seine, and she wore the only skirt she'd brought. Matthieu wore a dark suit and had had a haircut. He looked very proper, and extremely handsome, although he was still furious about the comments in the Herald Tribune. He was righteous indignation itself.
“For heaven's sake,” Carole said, laughing at him. “They're right. It's true. How can you be so outraged?” He was like a whore pretending to be a virgin, although she didn't say that to him.
“But no one knew!” He had been so proud of that, and it always irked her. She had hated being hidden and not sharing his life.
“We were lucky.”
“And careful.” He was right, they had been. They both knew they could have turned into a full-blown scandal at any moment. It was a miracle that they hadn't.
They talked about other things over dinner, and the food was delicious. He waited until dessert to open a delicate subject with her. Their future. He had been awake the night before, thinking about it. And the insinuation in the paper did it for him. It was time. They had been clandestine for too long in the past, and deserved respectability at least now, at their age. He said as much to her as they shared a tarte tatin with caramel ice cream that melted in her mouth.
“We are respectable,” Carole pointed out. “Extremely respectable. At least I am. I don't know what you've been up to lately. But I am a very proper widow.”
“So am I,” he said primly. “I haven't been involved with anyone since you left,” he added, and looking at him, she believed him. He had always claimed that she was the only woman he'd been involved with, other than his wife. “The piece in the Tribune makes us look dishonest and sly,” he complained.
“No, it doesn't. You are one of the most respected men in France, and I'm a movie star. What do you expect them to say? Has-been actress and washed-up politician seen going for a walk like two old farts? That's what we are.”
“Carole!” He laughed at what she said, looking shocked.
“They have to sell newspapers, so they tried to make us look more interesting than we are. And they made a lucky guess, or raised a lucky question. Unless you or I tell them, they'll never know for sure.”
“We know. That's enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to build the life we should have had years ago, and didn't, because I couldn't get out of my own way, and do what I promised.” He admitted it readily now, but hadn't then.
“What are you saying?” She looked worried.
He went right to the point. “Will you marry me, Carole?” He took her hand as he asked the question and looked deep into her eyes. She sat in silence for a long moment, and then shook her head. It took a superhuman effort to do it.
“No, Matthieu, I won't.” She sounded certain, and his face fell. He had been afraid that she would say that, and that it was too late.
“Why not?” He looked sad, but hoped he could change her mind.
“Because I don't want to be married,” she said, sounding tired. “I like my life the way it is. I was married twice. That's enough. I loved my late husband. He was a wonderful man. And I had ten good years with Jason. Maybe that's all you get. And I loved you with all my heart, and lost you.” It had nearly killed her, but she didn't say it. He knew it anyway, and had regretted it for fifteen years. She had gotten over it eventually. He never had.
“You didn't lose me. You left,” he reminded her, and she nodded.
“I never had you,” she corrected. “Your wife did. France did.”
“Now I'm widowed, and retired,” he pointed out.
“Yes, you are. I'm not. Widowed. But not retired. I want to make some more movies, if I get decent parts.” She was excited about that again. “I could be traveling all over the place, just like I did when I was married to Jason, and even when I was with you. I don't want someone at home complaining about it, or maybe even following me around. I want my own life. And even if I don't go back to making movies, I want to be free to do what I want. For me, the UN, the causes I believe in. I want to spend time with my children, and write this book, if I can ever get my computer turned on again. I wouldn't be a good wife.”
“I love you just the way you are.”
“And so do I, love you, I mean. But I don't want to be tied down, or make that kind of commitment. And more than anything, I don't want my heart broken again.” That was the essence of it for her, more than her career and her causes. She was too afraid. She already knew she was in love with him again. It was dangerous for her. She didn't want to abandon herself to him now. It had been too painful last time, although he was no longer married.
“I wouldn't break your heart this time,” he said, looking guilty.
“You might. People do that to each other. That's what love is all about. Being willing to risk a broken heart. I'm not. I've had one. I didn't like it. I don't want another one, particularly delivered by the same man who gave me the first one. I don't want to hurt that much again, or love that much again. I'm fifty years old, I'm too old to start that.” She didn't look it, but she felt it, particularly since the bombing.
“That's ridiculous. You're a young woman. People older than we are get married all the time.” He was desperate to convince her, but he could see he wasn't succeeding.
“They're braver than I am. I lived through you, Sean, and Jason. That's enough. I don't want to do it again.” She was adamant about what she was saying, and he knew she meant it. And he was equally determined to change her mind. They were still arguing about it when they left the restaurant, and he had gotten nowhere with her. This wasn't the way he wanted it to turn out. “And I like my life in L.A. I don't want to live in France again.”
“Why not?”
“I'm not French. You are. I'm American. I don't want to live in someone else's country.”
“You did before. You loved it here,” he insisted, trying to remind her, but she remembered it only too well. That's why he scared her. She was more afraid of herself than him this time. She didn't want to make a bad decision.
“Yes, I did. But I was happy when I got home. I realized then that I didn't belong here. That was part of the trouble with us. Cultural differences, you used to call them. That made it okay for you to live with me and be married to her, and even have our baby out of wedlock. I don't want to live somewhere where they think that differently than I do. In the end, you get hurt trying to be something you're not in a place you don't belong.” He could see now that the pain he had caused her had wounded her so deeply that even fifteen years later, the scars were still raw, even more so than the one on her cheek. The ones he had inflicted had gone too deep. It had even affected how she felt about France and the French. All she wanted was to go home, and live out the rest of her years alone in peace. He wondered how Sean had convinced her to marry him. And then she was abandoned again when he died. Now she had closed the doors to her heart.
They talked about it all the way back to the hotel, and said goodnight in his car. She didn't want him to come upstairs this time. She kissed him lightly on the lips, thanked him for dinner, and slipped out of the car quickly.