The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [159]
Norah sat watching the flow of people against the dark shimmer of the river. She did not see Frederic arrive. But then his hand was on her shoulder, she was turning, and he was kissing her, one cheek, and then the other, and then his lips on hers.
“Hello,” he said, and sat down across the table. He was not a tall man, but he was very fit, with strong shoulders from years of swimming. He was a systems analyst, and Norah liked his sureness, his ability to grasp and discuss the larger whole and not get bogged down in the minutiae of the moment. Yet it was the very thing that sometimes irritated her too—his sense of the world as a steady and predictable place.
“Have you waited long?” he asked. “Have you eaten?”
“No.” She nodded at her wineglass, nearly full. “Not long at all. And I’m famished.”
He nodded. “Good. Sorry to be late. The train was delayed.”
“It’s all right. How was your day in Orléans?”
“Humdrum. But I had a nice lunch with my cousin.” He began to talk and Norah sat back, letting the words wash over her. Frederic’s hands were strong and deft. She remembered a day when he’d built her a set of bookshelves, working in the garage all weekend, curls of fresh wood falling off his planer. He was not afraid to work or to stop her in the kitchen while she cooked, sliding his hands around her waist and kissing her neck until she turned and kissed him back. He smoked a pipe, which she did not like, and worked too hard, and drove too fast on the highway.
“You told Paul?” Frederic asked. “Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. He’s meeting us for breakfast. He wants to complain to you about arrogant Americans.”
Frederic laughed. “Good,” he said. “I like your son.”
“He’s in love. And she’s quite lovely, this young woman he adores: Michelle. She’ll come tomorrow too.”
“Good,” Frederic said again, weaving his fingers through her own. “It’s good to be in love.”
They ordered dinner, brochettes of beef on rice pilaf, more wine. The river moved below, darkly, silently, and as they talked Norah thought how lovely it was to sit quietly anchored in one place. To sit drinking wine in Paris, watching the birds burst into flight from the silhouetted trees, the river moving calmly below. She remembered her wild drives to the Ohio as a young woman, the strangely iridescent skin of the water, the sheerness of the limestone banks, the wind lifting her hair.
But now she sat still, and the birds flew up darkly against the indigo sky. She smelled water, and exhaust, and meat roasting, and the dank mud of the river. Frederic relit his pipe and poured more wine and people strolled by on the sidewalk, moving through this evening that was giving way to night, the nearby buildings fading slowly into the darkening air. One by one lights came on in windows. Norah folded her napkin and stood up. The world wheeled away; she was dizzy from the wine, the height, the scent of food after this long day of grief and joy.
“Are you all right?” Frederic asked, from far away.
Norah touched the table with one hand, caught her breath. She nodded, unable to speak above the sound of the river, the smell of its dark banks, the stars roaring everywhere, swirling, alive.
November 1988
HIS NAME WAS ROBERT AND HE WAS HANDSOME, WITH A shock of dark hair that fell across his forehead. He went up and down the aisle of the bus, introducing himself to everyone and commenting on the route, the driver, the day. He reached the end of the row, turned around, and went through the whole thing again. “I’m having a great time here,” he announced, shaking Caroline’s hand on his way. She smiled, patient; his grip was firm and confident. Other people would not meet his eye. They studied their books, their newspapers, the