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.”
“Does he have a family?” Billy sounded concerned, and she laughed at the tone of his voice.
“He did. He lost his wife and son in a fire.”
“Recently?”
“Ten years ago,” she said confidently. She knew she had nothing to fear from Bernard. He had proven himself ever since she'd arrived, and she trusted him as her friend. But it was hard to explain that to Billy over the phone. It was just something she felt, and she trusted her instincts about the man.
“How old is he?”
“He's forty,” she said, as though he were a hundred years old. And compared to her, he was.
“Marie-Ange, that's dangerous,” Billy scolded her sensibly. “You're living alone at the chateau with a forty-year-old widower? What exactly is going on?”
“We're friends. I'm helping him remodel the house, by telling him how it used to be.”
“Why can't you stay at a hotel?”
“Because I'd rather stay at the chateau, and he wants me there. He says it will save him a lot of time.”
“I think you're taking a hell of a chance,” Billy said, sounding worried. “What if he jumps on you, or makes a pass at you? You're alone with him in the house.”
“He's not going to do that, I promise you. And he has friends coming down for the weekend.” On the one hand he was pleased for her, but on the other, Billy thought she was being very foolish to trust the man. But the more he said, the more she laughed at him, and she was suddenly sounding very French.
“Just be careful, for God's sake. You don't even know who he is, except that he's living in your old house. That's not enough.”
“He's a very respectable man.” She was quick to defend Bernard.
“There's no such thing,” Billy said suspiciously, but she sounded happy and independent, and so pleased to be back home. And it was obvious to both of them, from what she said, and so evidently felt, that to her it was still home. She told him about Sophie's letters then, and he said he wasn't surprised. It sounded like just the kind of thing her Aunt Carole would have done. “Anyway, be careful, and let me know how you are.”
“I will. But don't worry about me, Billy. I'm fine.” And he could certainly hear that she was. “I miss you.” That was true, and he missed her too. And now more than ever, he was worried about her.
She went back to the chateau, and that night she and Bernard went out again. And the following morning, his friends arrived. They were a lively group, the women were sophisticated and fashionable, and all of them were well dressed, and extremely nice to Marie-Ange. Bernard explained who she was, and that she and her family had lived at the chateau when she was a child. One of the men recognized her name, and knew of her father's enterprise. He commented that John Hawkins had been an extremely respected and successful man. She told Bernard how her parents had met, and he was touched by it, but even more impressed by what his friend had said about her father's success in exporting wines. And she realized that men were more intrigued by business than romance.
It was an idyllic weekend for all of them, and when she packed her bags after the weekend, Bernard begged her not to go. But she knew she had been there long enough, and had told him all she could about the chateau. It was definitely time for her to leave, and she wanted to visit the Sorbonne, but she would cherish the memory of the ten days she had spent at Marmouton with him, and she thanked him profusely before she left, and was touched when he kissed her on both cheeks and told her how sad he was to see her go.
She drove back to Paris that day, and had dinner alone at her hotel, thinking of him, and the days she had just spent in what had once been her family's chateau. It was a precious gift Bernard had given her, and she was deeply grateful to him. The next day, she wrote him a long thank-you note, as she sat at the Deux Magots. She mailed it that night. In the morning she went to the Sorbonne to see about classes. She still hadn't decided whether to enroll, or go back to Iowa to finish her last year of college there. And she was thinking seriously about it, as she took a walk along the Boulevard Saint-Germain that afternoon to decide what to do, and ran smack into Bernard de Beauchamp on her way back to her hotel.
“What are you doing here?” she asked with a look of surprise. “I thought you were staying in Marmouton?”
“I was,” he said sheepishly. “But I came to Paris to see you. The place was like a tomb once you left.” She was touched and flattered by what he said, and assumed he had other things to do in town, but she was as happy to see him as he was to see her.
He took her to Lucas Carton for dinner that night, and Chez Laurent the next day for lunch, and she told him all about her visit to the Sorbonne. And he begged her to come back to Marmouton with him, for a few days at least, and after resisting for as long as she thought reasonable, she finally packed her bags and went. She had given up her rented car by then, and drove back down to Marmouton with him, and was amazed by how much she enjoyed his company, and how much there always was to say. They were never bored for an instant talking to each other, and when they reached Marmouton, she felt as though she had come home.
She stayed there for a week the second time, and they grew more comfortable with each other every day, as they walked in the woods, and spent hours wandering the grounds.
It was nearly the end of the month when she went back to her hotel in Paris finally, and he went back to his house there after a few days, and came to see her at her hotel. They were together constantly, for meals, and long walks in the Bois de Boulogne. She was more comfortable with him than she had been with anyone in a long time. Other than Billy in Iowa, Bernard had become her only friend. And the only thing that worried her was deciding what to do about the Sorbonne. She was having a hard time making up her mind. She wasn't sure if she should go back to Iowa, or stay in France.
They were sitting at the Tuileries, when she brought up the subject. “I have a better idea, of something else you should do before you decide,” he said cryptically. She had no idea what he would suggest, and was stunned when he suggested she come to London with him. He had some business to do there. “We can go to the theater, and have dinner at Harry's Bar, dance at Annabel's. Marie-Ange, it will do you good. And afterward, we can go to Marmouton for the weekend and then you can decide what to do.” It was as though she had suddenly become swept up in his life. And there was no romance between them, they were just good friends.