“That’s right. Our own Stephanie picked them,” she smiled at the girl, “plus the philosopher here,” she nudged Darby’s right shoulder with her left hip.
“Well, here’s a story for you,” Darby smiled with a fey sigh, “if that’s what you want. Maybe it’ll make all of us misérables happy. I forget the source—perhaps Durant—but once upon a time there was a philosopher who lived in the Duchy of Luxembourg, back in the era of Napoleon. He wrote philosophy books, all of which he dedicated to the Prince. One day the Prince called him into his study and demanded to know why the court’s critic constantly found fault with the philosopher’s works. ‘Doesn’t that make me look bad?’ questioned the Prince, ‘since they’re dedicated to me?’ ‘Well, your Excellence, you have to look at it this way,’ replied the philosopher. ‘A book is like a mirror. If an ass looks in, don’t expect to hear an angel sing.’”
“Now that’s more like it,” chuckled Linda. “The next time Jon Paul’s shaving, I’ll ask him if he’s ever seen an angel.”
“Well, wait till we’ve had our pie,” said Parker. “Then we can all look in the mirror.”
“Speak for yourself!” sighed Celeste, as she glanced, eyes down, toward Darby.
* * *
Following dinner, the guests migrated to the living room. Stephanie wandered over to a CD player and began sorting through a stack of CDs. She found several she liked and placed them in the player’s tray. Soon her selections filled the room with their hip-hop and light-rock sounds. Tunstan appeared a bit annoyed, until “Soul Sister” came on. Its spirited melody and hypnotic lyrics opened something deep of long ago in his being. He rose from the chair, in which he had slumped, and took Stephanie’s left hand. “May I have this dance?” he bowed.
“Of course!” the girl replied, as she rolled her eyes toward Darby. “I’d love to.”
Quickly Parker turned toward Celeste, where she was standing by the fireplace, and took her hands. “You know we haven’t in a long time,” he said. He drew her hungrily against his chest and began to move to the beat of the music. Her body submitted to his tug. Her feet stepped gracefully to the CD’s rhythm. Darby watched with envy.
About that time, Linda entered the room. He held his hands out to her. “Will Jon Paul mind?”
“Don’t think about it,” she smiled. “He’s a fabulous cook, but two feet in reverse on the dance floor.” She glanced up at Darby. “Hold me, Darby. Just hold me, that’s all,” she whispered.
More discs were placed in the player: shag, rock-n-roll, tunes from the 70s and 80s. Darby continued dancing with Linda, then Stephanie, and finally Celeste. He knew Parker’s eyes scrutinized their every gesture, glance, and movement.
“I guess he told you everything,” she looked up into Darby’s eyes. Her intense gray pupils bore into his manhood. It was as if they were inviting him to, to . . . he dismissed the thought. His chest rose and fell with silent pleasure. “He told me he talked with you earlier,” she whispered softly.
“I listened.”
“I bet you did!”
Darby didn’t answer.
“He didn’t tell you why. Did he? Why I came back?”
“Not really.”
“I loved it. I couldn’t get enough. But I was slipping, slipping into something I couldn’t control.” She leaned out, pulling away from him slightly, before placing her hot cheek against his shoulder. “He’s watching. I can feel it. I’ll have to go to him. I was becoming a whore and loving every moment of it with any and every man. I knew I had to stop.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Something died in me that night. I just stood there in the shower as it died. I don’t know what it was or if it’ll ever come back. I just knew I had to stop.” She brushed her eyelashes with the back of her fingertips, smiled, and slid away toward her husband.
Parker opened his arms and clasped them about her waist. He looked silently toward Darby. Darby couldn’t discern what the man’s thoughts were or even imagine his feelings.
As he turned to leave through the French doors he felt a nudge at his elbow. Tunstan was struggling into a leather jacket and adjusting his tan beret. “May I exit with you?” he clasped Darby’s arm. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. I want to show you something. I want you to take it.” He bowed his head, almost ushering Darby along.
Outside, Darby followed the now dour-faced art investigator toward a Mercedes, parked alongside Parker and Celeste’s Lexus. Hughes fumbled in his jacket’s pocket, found his keys and unlocked the passenger’s side front door. He opened the glove compartment, hesitated momentarily, then handed Darby a small handgun—a 9 mm, semi-automatic Beretta. “Here! Take it!” he glanced up at Darby with remorse in his voice. “I was going to use it. What the hell! You might need it some day. It’s registered, but no one will know.”
Darby examined the gun carefully before slipping it into his pocket.
“I need to get on back to Philly, visit some relatives there, and return to Boston. I want to get started again on the only thing I love.” He hesitated; then clicked his keypad, as his trunk door snapped open and rose upward. He smiled. “A little something for Stephanie before I depart. I plan to give it to her in the morning.”
Darby stared into the trunk. There lay a watercolor of Montesereno’s villa. Tunstan had captured its Italian beige and golden-pink hues, its ornate door and iron grillwork with a whimsical flair all its own. Nor had he left out the Villa’s spacious grounds, pebbled approach, sprawling lawn, and ancient oaks.
“Take it to your cottage,” stated Tunstan. “It needs to dry more. We’ll both present it to her tomorrow, at breakfast, or whenever she gets up.”
Darby lifted the canvas with extreme caution so as not to smear a single brush stroke.
“Maybe it’ll inspire her to paint one day. She’s a sweet kid. If I could afford to stay longer, I’d teach her how to paint. I need to get back. There’s an art show coming up, and I need to be seen again. Art dealers will be there from all over. Wish you could come yourself.”
“I, too.”
“Maybe I’ll paint you one day. I rarely, if ever, forget a face. ‘The Professor’s Cottage!’ Or maybe better ‘The Chaplain’s Garden.’ I can see it now.” He waved his right hand in a majestic arc. “The ginkgo tree; the petit maison; the garden, and, voilà, yourself, seated in contemplation beside the laurel!”
“Sounds rather cruel to mar nature so. Maybe you’d better stick with still life or poring over lacquered layers of brush strokes and fingerprints.”
Tunstan shut the trunk door with a loud thump. “In the morning,” he said. “Besides, I think someone else wants to see you,” he nodded toward the house.
Darby looked back. Celeste stood in the door light, cloaked in a fur coat that covered her slender shoulders down to her ankles. She clutched the collar of the fur, enwrapping herself in its shiny sheen, and stepped down.
“Goodnight!” whispered Tunstan. “Get that painting in the cottage.” He tipped his beret to Celeste and returned indoors.
“I’m glad he’s gone!” Celeste said. “Has Parker come out?”
“No! Not that I can see.” Darby leaned the painting against Tunstan’s car. “I’ve got to get this painting inside. Did you want to talk?” he asked, lamely. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He didn’t want his stay at Montesereno to begin like this, or end this way, either.
“I need more than talk.” She reached for his hands, clasped them, and clenched her fingers about his. “At least, let’s walk.” She put her forearm under his coat’s left sleeve and began walking slowly toward the Garden. “Sometimes, I never