Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [78]
“You must show us this photograph,” says Cote.
“Perhaps I will,” she says, bringing her glass to her lips. And as she does so, she suddenly looks different to Olympia, physically different, as though a portrait had been altered. And Olympia thinks that possibly such adjustments might have to be made for everyone she knows. Upon meeting a person, a sketch is formed, and for the life of the relationship, however intimate or not, a portrait is painted, with oils or with pastels or with black ink or with watercolor, and only at the person’s death can the portrait be considered finished. Perhaps not even at the person’s death.
“It is a lovely story,” says Catherine, though Olympia is hard-pressed to see the value of having one’s destiny arbitrarily denied.
“I never knew what he said,” Olympia’s mother adds. “How often I have wished that I could just go back and hear him.”
Catherine reaches over and briefly holds Olympia’s mother’s hand.
“Doubtless you have been missing that handsome husband of yours,” says Cote to Catherine, changing the subject rather too soon, Olympia thinks.
“I do miss him terribly,” Catherine says. “Yes, of course I do. I cannot wait for the cottage to be finished. I am just on my way there now.”
Olympia can feel the perspiration trickling down her spine.
“And where is the good doctor this afternoon?” Cote asks.
“I believe he is working at the clinic,” Catherine answers. “In fact, he does not even know I am here. I mean to surprise him.”
“And he will, I am sure, be very much surprised,” Cote says. He turns to look over the porch railing. “My God, what a beautiful view. And, if I am not mistaken, I actually feel a breeze. What a relief to be on this lovely porch and not in Ely Falls.”
“You were in Ely Falls just now?” Olympia’s mother asks.
“I had need of a tailor. Some last-minute alterations. For the gala.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I must say, I cannot abide these Francos,” Cote says.
“Really?” asks Olympia’s mother, glancing quickly at Olympia.
“My tailor, such an impertinent little man with his oiled mustaches, pretending to be grander than he is. As do all the Francos, I might add.”
“Olympia, dear, do you know the time?” Olympia’s mother asks.
“It is common knowledge that they are all libertines and profoundly corrupt. Not to mention drunkards and dullards both.”
“Zachariah,” Olympia’s mother says finally in mild reproof, reminding him of Olympia’s presence.
“Forgive me, Rosamund. One does get carried away. But I will say they are a blight upon our Yankee cities. I fear their encroachment upon Ely and Fortune’s Rocks. Indeed, some days the beach is positively teeming with them.”
An odd comment, Olympia thinks, from someone who himself is not even a summer resident of Fortune’s Rocks. And then, as she studies his face — its handsome planes, the aquiline nose, the lavender eyes (possibly too close together?) — she has a sudden image of a sign she once passed on the way to Ely Falls: Coté and Reny. And then she has a thought that leads wickedly to another thought and a temptation she cannot resist.
“I am surprised at your distaste for the Franco-Americans, Mr. Cote,” Olympia says. “Indeed, I was just wondering: Is not Coté French?” she asks, giving the name its foreign pronunciation.
Her astute, though inexcusably rude, guess causes him to look rebuffed and to hold himself upright. He compresses his lips into a thin smile. “No, actually, it is an old English name,” he says, and Olympia is suddenly certain that he is lying.
There is an awkward silence, during which Olympia can feel her mother’s cold stare.
“Pity John is not here, Catherine,” says Cote, “for I know he bears Olympia, and of course Rosamund as well,