Page 33 of A Mother’s Love

The Warners had dinner at the Fontaine de Mars, Ryan’s favorite restaurant.

It was a high-end typical French bistro, with delicious food, which Bart always enjoyed too when he visited.

They skipped dessert and finished early, because Véro wasn’t feeling well.

She had just started having morning sickness at odd times, mostly in the evening, for the past week.

They decided to walk home to get some air, and Bart said he was going to visit Halley.

He hailed a cab outside the restaurant, and would be at her house in ten minutes. He called her from the cab.

“We ended dinner early, Véronique wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Pretty standard stuff, I think, but she wanted to go home. Are you up for a visit, or too tired?” It was only nine o’clock, but she had hardly slept the night before, after the midnight call from the thief, or whoever it was. It was most likely him.

“Actually, I’m wide awake. I’ve been snooping. I found some photo albums in the library, and there are photographs of my landlords’ home in Marrakesh. It looks like a palace.”

“A lot of the French go there, and I think there are some spectacular homes.”

“And yes, I would love to see you,” she said, answering his question.

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” He was pleased that she wanted to see him.

He had thought of her all day, and of how little he knew about her.

The things she said were intriguing, passing mentions of her childhood, her history with her daughters’ father, and the love of her life who had died of a brain tumor.

She didn’t say much about it, but he had the feeling that she had been through a lot.

She wasn’t bitter, and she had a positive outlook, but reading her books, he had always felt that she was a woman with deep feelings, a rich life experience, and compassionate nature.

And compassion often came from suffering.

Meeting her had confirmed it. She had a deep well of feelings that she kept carefully hidden.

He wanted to slowly unravel the protective layers, and get to know her better.

And he had a feeling that much of her writing came from her own experience.

He rang the outer bell when he got there, which buzzed in the house.

She answered through an intercom and let him in, and when he entered the inner courtyard, he saw her waiting for him in the doorway, smiling to welcome him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a surly-looking man watching him from behind a curtain in the lodging near the outer door, and he guessed that it was the guardian she had mentioned and didn’t like.

It was easy to see why. He looked unpleasant and menacing.

Bart paid no attention to him, walking swiftly toward Halley, and they went into the house and closed and locked the door.

As he had before, he found the house warm and inviting, and she led him into the library and offered him a glass of wine. It was cozy being with her in the handsome room, lined with leather-bound books. “I love this place,” he said, looking around and admiring it again.

“So do I. And the owners’ palace in Morocco looks amazing in the photographs.” She pulled out the big leather album and showed it to him. Their home in Marrakesh was enormous and spectacular, the interior filled with Asian art, and the décor had a faintly Moorish look to it. It was very exotic.

“They must be interesting people,” he said, intrigued.

“He’s a famous architect, I discovered, reading about them online. And she’s an interior designer.” The Paris house was beautifully done in classic French style, with some magnificent antiques and a few modern pieces and paintings that blended well.

Halley and Bart talked about a variety of topics, jumping from one subject to the next, favorite books, favorite cities, favorite vacation places, their college days.

He had gone to Harvard, and went to business school there for his MBA after he got his undergraduate degree.

“And where did you go to school?” he asked her.

“Connecticut College. It’s not an Ivy, but I got a good education, and was happy there,” she said modestly. He had to remind himself sometimes that she was a major best-selling author. She was so discreet that she never played the star or acted like a diva.

“Who did you live with after your father died when you were fourteen, or would you rather not talk about it?” he asked thoughtfully. She hesitated and then told him the truth.

“I didn’t live with anybody. He died in a car accident, in his fifties.

And his will provided for me after the age of eighteen.

He didn’t expect to die so young. He had no living relatives, and neither did my mother, who was dead by then too.

So I was sent to a state orphanage in New York City for four years.

” He looked shocked when she said it. He hadn’t expected that.

She looked as though she had always been comfortably brought up in the lap of luxury, but that was only true until she turned fourteen.

“I’m sorry, I know that sounds awful. But it wasn’t so bad really.

I was safe. I was the oldest girl there for most of the time.

The girls were very nice and a lot younger.

The younger ones always went to foster homes, or got adopted.

I was too old for anyone to want to adopt me.

They tried me out at two foster homes, but I didn’t fit in, so I got sent back.

I preferred it really, the two foster families were complicated, and they wanted someone younger.

I wasn’t really unhappy at the orphanage.

In a lot of ways it was better than living with my parents.

” That said volumes about what her family had been like, and touched him, and she said it very simply.

She wasn’t pathetic, and seemed strong to him.

“I led a very banal early life,” Bart said.

“I had adoring older parents, and an easy existence. They got along, they didn’t get divorced.

They weren’t unusual, they were very conservative and old-fashioned, which is why they made such a fuss when Ryan’s mother got pregnant.

They thought I should marry her, but they didn’t like her.

But they expected me to do the ‘honorable’ thing anyway.

They had a long list of concerns about her, and it turned out that they were right.

It was all pretty standard stuff. But your being sent to an orphanage when your father died sounds like something out of a novel. ”

“It wasn’t what I expected. I was shocked at first, like a prison sentence, but I tried to make the best of it, and it showed me another side of life.

There was nowhere else for me to go. I left the orphanage when I turned eighteen.

I had graduated from high school early, and the trust my father left for me kicked in.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to live on, and provided for my college education, so I took advantage of it, and put it to good use.

” She seemed very peaceful as she said it.

She seemed to have no bitterness about the situation her father left her in. She was matter-of-fact about it.

They talked for two hours, and then he put down his glass.

The red wine she had served him was an excellent French wine that she had bought herself.

She wasn’t emptying her landlords’ cellar, she purchased her own.

It struck him how resilient she had had to be to survive in a state-run orphanage.

It couldn’t have been as easy as she made it sound.

But she had definitely made her peace with it.

He heard no resentment in her tone, and she didn’t criticize her father for landing her in that situation.

It showed remarkable generosity on her part.

She walked him to the front door when he left, they stopped talking, and he kissed her gently and held her for a minute. She loved the feeling of being in his arms. It comforted her after the aggravations of her day.

“Will you call me if anything happens, Halley? I mean it. I don’t want you scared all night again. I can come over and sleep on the couch.”

“I’ll be fine now that the locks are changed,” she reassured him, and she looked happy and peaceful after chatting with him. Once again, they had covered a lot of ground.

She locked the door behind him and turned on the alarm, put their glasses in the kitchen, and went upstairs to her bedroom.

It was a pretty room. She sat on the bed and opened her computer.

She had no emails from the girls. They were still on the boat until the next day.

She was checking her other emails when the phone rang.

She didn’t look to see, but she thought it might be Bart, thanking her for the evening. She picked her phone up with a smile.

“I know you’re home. I saw your friend leave,” the same deep foreign voice said, the one she had heard the night before.

He was watching her house, maybe right outside.

“You won’t escape me. I know you want your bag back.

You’ll have to pay me for it. I know what it’s worth.

You’re just like all rich people, you think you can cheat the poor and use them.

You want to poison people’s minds with your trashy books. ”

“I don’t know what you want. If you return my bag, the police will stop looking for you. That must be worth something to you,” she said very directly, trying to sound calmer than she felt. Her hand was shaking again as she held the phone but her voice was steady.