Angels and Thieves

Chapter Three Anne

CURLED UP WITH a childbirth book under a quilt hand-sewn by her mother-in-law, Anne savored the privacy of their quiet apartment. Anne had always been a loner—no one knew her well—and solitude suited her. Until she and André found each other and married within a short time, she had spent most of her time alone.

André didn't want to leave tonight, but she'd insisted, for both. His obsessive concern for her and the baby was stifling. Anne needed solitude. Just one evening.

Anne awoke when her book tumbled to the floor, her infant complaining by thumping her feet. What time was it? She was hungry and the leg she was lying on felt wooden. Stretching her legs out on the leather sofa, Anne tucked her hands behind her head and studied the paintings arrayed on the salon's two-story walls.

Aware she could redecorate or buy what she wanted, Anne had been reluctant to change anything. Would the fairy tale disappear if she messed with it?

Nothing from her apartment came to this apartment when she moved into André's home. She had sublet her beloved place fully furnished, to her replacement at the American Embassy in Paris. Sarah Adams had been grateful and urged Anne to visit. She hadn't been back. Now longing for her home manifested as an ache in her side just above the baby. She padded to André's kitchen in thick wool socks that muffled her steps. Should she have given up everything?

Reheating the Lentil and Carrot soup she had prepared earlier, Anne tore a piece from that morning's baguette. She'd found pleasure in cooking since her marriage—with the help of Sophia, her obliging mother-in-law. What did André and Madame Cloutier eat tonight? She was content with comfort food, soup, and bread.

When André left that evening dressed in black tie and achingly handsome, Anne sensed his irritation as he rubbed the back of his neck. Genevieve shouldn't have paid for their evening. André felt used. He should be able to tolerate the idiosyncrasies of an aging woman losing her grasp on the repertoire of her life. But it went against his character.

Imagine aging and having no control over how the life you had managed for decades could slip away in the nuances of time. Anne understood Genevieve even if her beloved husband did not.

Anne snipped grapes from a cluster and set a tray with her dinner. Picking up the remote, she flicked on the television, then turned it off, choosing classical music on André's sublime audio equipment. She thought about baby names as she ate her simple meal.

When she finished eating she checked the time on the audio system. Anne took her dishes into the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. Dinner for one was unsatisfying although she'd always eaten alone. Why was she restless?

Anne wandered into their bedroom and flopped onto the bed, smoothing her hands over her abdomen. Their baby responded with thuds against her soothing palms. How would their baby look? It would have dark hair—they both had dark hair. Her blue eyes or André's thick-lashed dark-brown eyes? Lying on her back with the baby pressing against her spine was uncomfortable. Anne scooched to the side of the bed and got up.

A full-length mirror on the back of their bedroom door reflected her body. She looked as big as a house in her thick socks and white nightgown. Is that how she seemed to André? Every time he glanced at her he said he loved her; she was beautiful. What did he think? French women were thinner than American women. Anne was huge. Was there more than one baby inside? André was a twin, but ultrasounds didn't lie. Anne smoothed her gown over her abdomen and turned sideways, shrugging.

Only two more months and she would be a mother. Overwhelming fear gripped her. Anne didn't know how to care for a baby. That book was complicated. How would she remember everything? Trembling, she wanted André to hold her and chase away her worries.