revealed in the stiff breeze, the tips of his ears red with the cold. Marguerite almost didn’t recognize him. He looked older in winter clothes, minus his tan and aura of just-off-the-tennis-court good health. Porter, under the influence of who knew how many martinis, took a bumbling step backward, squinting at Marguerite’s form in the gathering dark.
“Daisy?” he said. She stood up, feeling cold, tired, and utterly stupid. He opened his arms and she went to him, but his embrace felt different; it felt brotherly. “What on earth are you doing here? You should have called me.”
Of course he was right—she should have called. But she had wanted to take him by surprise; it was a test, of sorts, and she could see right away that he was going to fail or she was or they were.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said. “How long can you stay?” Thequestion contained a tinge of worry; she could hear it, though he did his best to try to make it sound like excited interest.
“Just until tomorrow,” she said quickly. In truth, she had packed enough clothes for a week.
His face brightened. He was relieved. He wheeled her toward the front door and held on to her shoulders as they trudged up the stairs. “I have just enough time for a celebratory drink,” he said. “But then, unfortunately, I have to make an appearance down at Avery Fisher. I can’t possibly get out of it. And I don’t have a spare ticket.” He squeezed her. “I’m sorry, Daisy. You should have called me.”
“I know,” she said. She was close to tears, thirty-three years old and as naïve as she had been at eight, with her knobby knees, standing in front of Madame Verge’s mirrored wall. She felt she would break into pieces. Did he not remember the one hundred days of their summer? The one hundred nights they had spent sleeping together in the rope bed? They had made love everywhere in that cottage: on the front porch, on the kitchen table. He was always so hungry for her; those were his words. The only thing that kept Marguerite together was the keen interest she felt when the door to his brownstone swung open. This was his home, a part of him she’d never seen.
Porter’s house was all she imagined. It was both classic and eclectic, the house of an art history professor—so many books, so many framed prints, and a few original sketches and studies, perfectly lit—and yet scattered throughout were Porter’s crazy touches: a vase of peacock feathers, an accordion lying open in its case.
“Do you play the accordion?” Marguerite asked.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Very badly.”
Marguerite wandered from room to room, picking up objets , studying photographs. There were two pictures of her and Porter: one of them inParis in their wigs at Père Lachaise Cemetery (the picture was blurry; the boy who had taken it had been stoned) and one of them in front of Les Parapluies on its opening night. There were pictures of Porter with other women—but only in groups, and no one face appeared more than any other. Or was Marguerite missing something? She didn’t want to appear to be checking too closely. Porter appeared with a drink, a flute of something pink and bubbly.
“I’ve kept this on hand for a very special occasion,” he said, kissing her. “Such as a surprise visit from my sweet Daisy.”
She wanted to believe him. But the fact was, things were stilted between them. Porter, who had never in his life run out of things to say, seemed reserved, distracted. Marguerite tried to fill the void, she tried to sparkle, but she couldn’t quite capture Porter’s attention. She talked about the restaurant—it felt like the only thing they had in common but also sadly irrelevant, here in the city—then she told him she’d been reading Proust (which was a bit of a stretch; she’d gotten through ten pages, then put it down, frustrated)—but even Proust didn’t get Porter going. He was somewhere else. As the
“Daisy?” he said. She stood up, feeling cold, tired, and utterly stupid. He opened his arms and she went to him, but his embrace felt different; it felt brotherly. “What on earth are you doing here? You should have called me.”
Of course he was right—she should have called. But she had wanted to take him by surprise; it was a test, of sorts, and she could see right away that he was going to fail or she was or they were.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said. “How long can you stay?” Thequestion contained a tinge of worry; she could hear it, though he did his best to try to make it sound like excited interest.
“Just until tomorrow,” she said quickly. In truth, she had packed enough clothes for a week.
His face brightened. He was relieved. He wheeled her toward the front door and held on to her shoulders as they trudged up the stairs. “I have just enough time for a celebratory drink,” he said. “But then, unfortunately, I have to make an appearance down at Avery Fisher. I can’t possibly get out of it. And I don’t have a spare ticket.” He squeezed her. “I’m sorry, Daisy. You should have called me.”
“I know,” she said. She was close to tears, thirty-three years old and as naïve as she had been at eight, with her knobby knees, standing in front of Madame Verge’s mirrored wall. She felt she would break into pieces. Did he not remember the one hundred days of their summer? The one hundred nights they had spent sleeping together in the rope bed? They had made love everywhere in that cottage: on the front porch, on the kitchen table. He was always so hungry for her; those were his words. The only thing that kept Marguerite together was the keen interest she felt when the door to his brownstone swung open. This was his home, a part of him she’d never seen.
Porter’s house was all she imagined. It was both classic and eclectic, the house of an art history professor—so many books, so many framed prints, and a few original sketches and studies, perfectly lit—and yet scattered throughout were Porter’s crazy touches: a vase of peacock feathers, an accordion lying open in its case.
“Do you play the accordion?” Marguerite asked.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Very badly.”
Marguerite wandered from room to room, picking up objets , studying photographs. There were two pictures of her and Porter: one of them inParis in their wigs at Père Lachaise Cemetery (the picture was blurry; the boy who had taken it had been stoned) and one of them in front of Les Parapluies on its opening night. There were pictures of Porter with other women—but only in groups, and no one face appeared more than any other. Or was Marguerite missing something? She didn’t want to appear to be checking too closely. Porter appeared with a drink, a flute of something pink and bubbly.
“I’ve kept this on hand for a very special occasion,” he said, kissing her. “Such as a surprise visit from my sweet Daisy.”
She wanted to believe him. But the fact was, things were stilted between them. Porter, who had never in his life run out of things to say, seemed reserved, distracted. Marguerite tried to fill the void, she tried to sparkle, but she couldn’t quite capture Porter’s attention. She talked about the restaurant—it felt like the only thing they had in common but also sadly irrelevant, here in the city—then she told him she’d been reading Proust (which was a bit of a stretch; she’d gotten through ten pages, then put it down, frustrated)—but even Proust didn’t get Porter going. He was somewhere else. As the
Similar Books
