seat
and placed her palms on the transom behind. After straightening her elbows for
support she leaned back, more relaxed. Some distance ahead they neared an
intersecting waterway. "This is the Petit Canal," she half-shouted.
"Why don't you stop here?"
After an additional pull and surge Conley lowered the oar handles to his
knees, lifting blades above gunwales. They coasted over long meters, silent
except for the gurgling of water. Finally he dropped the oars with a splash.
Claire noticed traces of perspiration around his neck, and suggested he
relax a moment. Conley pulled off his scarf.
"Enjoying it, Steve?"
"Very much."
"In the mood for a little detour?"
"What do you propose?"
"We can take the Petite Canal that way," she said, pointing to her
right. "That will bring us to Grand Trianon."
Conley looked along this somewhat narrower passage. The Trianon gardens and
palace were visible at the end.
"Some people think Trianon palace is just as magnificent as Versailles
itself," she added.
Just then a gust of wind swept across the water and splattered raindrops on
the surface. Claire looked skyward. A bank of threatening clouds had
formed.
"Oh no…"
Conley also looked upward. Another gust swept a sheet of rain over them,
heavier this time. Drops splattered on their faces.
"We may not get the chance to do either," he said.
"I agree. We'd better turn around and go back."
When they were up to speed in the other direction, rain became constant.
Claire raised her coat collar, re-gripped her seat, and hunched forward to
stay warm. With new disquiet she observed raindrops exploding on the
scabbed-over scrapes on Conley's face. His wool overcoat was already soaking
moisture.
"We should dry ourselves and warm up after this," she half-shouted,
her body rocking with the hull. "I know an old café in the town of
Versailles with a big fireplace…built before the Revolution. We have
plenty of time before dinner. We can go there."
Conley nodded, but didn't break his rhythm. He gazed over Claire's head and
shoulders down the Grand Canal. "Too bad…," surge, thunk,
rattle, exhalation, "…we didn't at least…" surge,
thunk, rattle, exhalation, "…make it to the end."
"I know. It wouldn't have taken much longer."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In subsequent days, Conley tried to determine when he'd taken leave of his
full faculties. Front to front in the rowboat, Claire close-by in the stern?
Before blazing hearth at the inn, Claire with slacks plastered dry and face
lustrous from heat? Hobbling out in tandem after goblets of brandy?
At least one feature was clear. By time he found himself sitting alone on a
marble bench in her lobby, back in Paris, while she parked her car, his maxim
had flipped.
Anyone but Claire no longer applied.
It had become something like: Claire is all that matters just now.
Conley caught his image in the lobby mirror. Hair windblown from the Grand
Canal, then dried into a wild thicket at fireside. Eyes shiny and euphoric.
"It just won't stop," Claire said as she entered.
Rain drummed on the sidewalk outside. The iron and glass door clanged shut
as she shook the rainwater from her umbrella.
"…Anyway…we're back indoors."
Conley propelled himself to his feet before she could help. She looked at
him, curious.
"It suddenly feels better," he said.
She formed a smile.
However when they entered the elevator compartment and she pressed the floor
button, lingering rose drained from her cheeks. She averted her eyes. Several
seconds passed before Conley remembered why. As they ascended, elevator whirring
and clanking in keeping with an earlier epoch, his impulses gained a sudden and
fatuous rationale. Simple human closeness. That was just what she needed.
When the door opened on the sixth floor there was no going back.
"This way," she said, leading him out and around a corner at a
slow pace because of his limp. Her apartment stood alone at the end of a side
corridor. When they reached it
and placed her palms on the transom behind. After straightening her elbows for
support she leaned back, more relaxed. Some distance ahead they neared an
intersecting waterway. "This is the Petit Canal," she half-shouted.
"Why don't you stop here?"
After an additional pull and surge Conley lowered the oar handles to his
knees, lifting blades above gunwales. They coasted over long meters, silent
except for the gurgling of water. Finally he dropped the oars with a splash.
Claire noticed traces of perspiration around his neck, and suggested he
relax a moment. Conley pulled off his scarf.
"Enjoying it, Steve?"
"Very much."
"In the mood for a little detour?"
"What do you propose?"
"We can take the Petite Canal that way," she said, pointing to her
right. "That will bring us to Grand Trianon."
Conley looked along this somewhat narrower passage. The Trianon gardens and
palace were visible at the end.
"Some people think Trianon palace is just as magnificent as Versailles
itself," she added.
Just then a gust of wind swept across the water and splattered raindrops on
the surface. Claire looked skyward. A bank of threatening clouds had
formed.
"Oh no…"
Conley also looked upward. Another gust swept a sheet of rain over them,
heavier this time. Drops splattered on their faces.
"We may not get the chance to do either," he said.
"I agree. We'd better turn around and go back."
When they were up to speed in the other direction, rain became constant.
Claire raised her coat collar, re-gripped her seat, and hunched forward to
stay warm. With new disquiet she observed raindrops exploding on the
scabbed-over scrapes on Conley's face. His wool overcoat was already soaking
moisture.
"We should dry ourselves and warm up after this," she half-shouted,
her body rocking with the hull. "I know an old café in the town of
Versailles with a big fireplace…built before the Revolution. We have
plenty of time before dinner. We can go there."
Conley nodded, but didn't break his rhythm. He gazed over Claire's head and
shoulders down the Grand Canal. "Too bad…," surge, thunk,
rattle, exhalation, "…we didn't at least…" surge,
thunk, rattle, exhalation, "…make it to the end."
"I know. It wouldn't have taken much longer."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In subsequent days, Conley tried to determine when he'd taken leave of his
full faculties. Front to front in the rowboat, Claire close-by in the stern?
Before blazing hearth at the inn, Claire with slacks plastered dry and face
lustrous from heat? Hobbling out in tandem after goblets of brandy?
At least one feature was clear. By time he found himself sitting alone on a
marble bench in her lobby, back in Paris, while she parked her car, his maxim
had flipped.
Anyone but Claire no longer applied.
It had become something like: Claire is all that matters just now.
Conley caught his image in the lobby mirror. Hair windblown from the Grand
Canal, then dried into a wild thicket at fireside. Eyes shiny and euphoric.
"It just won't stop," Claire said as she entered.
Rain drummed on the sidewalk outside. The iron and glass door clanged shut
as she shook the rainwater from her umbrella.
"…Anyway…we're back indoors."
Conley propelled himself to his feet before she could help. She looked at
him, curious.
"It suddenly feels better," he said.
She formed a smile.
However when they entered the elevator compartment and she pressed the floor
button, lingering rose drained from her cheeks. She averted her eyes. Several
seconds passed before Conley remembered why. As they ascended, elevator whirring
and clanking in keeping with an earlier epoch, his impulses gained a sudden and
fatuous rationale. Simple human closeness. That was just what she needed.
When the door opened on the sixth floor there was no going back.
"This way," she said, leading him out and around a corner at a
slow pace because of his limp. Her apartment stood alone at the end of a side
corridor. When they reached it
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