Double Happiness by Mary-Beth Hughes

Author:Mary-Beth Hughes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2010-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

She’s a love? Patty asked, That’s a new expression for you.

But Brad wasn’t listening. And then, so soon, these planned conversations were over.

Patty fixed a light supper and laid the table in the kitchen and waited for Coren to come tell her all the things she’d been keeping to herself. When Guy knocked on the door, it was already dark. She lit tapers as if keeping a vigil and when he sat down long shadows made gray slashes on his flat cheeks. Marie-Noelle and her mother had offered their best but it was clear Coren needed a hospital. Guy had driven her to Saint Cyprien. She would spend a night or two.

Alone? asked Patty.

No, said Guy, her guardians are with her. I just came to tell you, so you wouldn’t worry.

And the baby?

Already fragile; she probably shouldn’t have come here.

I see, said Patty.

Guy nodded, watched her.

May I offer you something? Patty said.

I won’t stay long. I want to check back.

At first he was very quiet, then said, Coren mentioned you were having some trouble?

Patty served the small salad without speaking. She looked at him, kept her eyes very plain, very open. It’s nothing, she said.

He shook his head. Let his hands cup the knobs of his knees, the long forearms taut. She could see a tremble there. But when the chicken was on the platter he said some things about the strange place they’d all come to. As if that was the whole story.

Marie-Noelle had told him about the planned outing to the widow. And Patty listened but wished he would stop. Why talk about that? Why talk about her at all, hadn’t they learned a thing? Now the village square where the soldiers hung the entrails had mosaics of bright pink flowers. And bauble shops enticed money from the pockets of tourists. Always French tourists. Few foreigners ventured here. Those who did bought up the deserted houses and stayed, because they were safe. They were out of range.

The widow and the war doesn’t apply to us, to our happiness, said Guy, and he had that watchful look again, as if there was a correct answer. So why take her there?

Patty kept quiet. He was accusing her of what? Of wrecking a pregnancy with the suggestion of a walk in the woods?

The houses aren’t right for us, either, are they?

Patty knew this, too. No, she said, they aren’t. Something was always wrong. And if she thought about it, the list was long. Walnuts lost their bitterness but twisted the belly. Her fragrant roses failed to please an inner palette. Good candles carried into the forest did nothing to offset night terrors. And the men who came to comfort lay down and got up again, restless. Her housekeeper was sad and haunted and resentful. The guest who finally arrived after repeated invitation left without thanks or farewell. Later on she just might push the blankets low, the moonlight a flat square in the high window. His face would be a cloudy shape beside her.

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