Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch 54-55

 

Chapter 54

Boston and Brookline, Massachusetts

November

 

 

“THAT WAS STRANGE.” Gareth came out of his study into the living room. He was in his pajamas and dressing gown although it was only eight in the evening. A fire burned in the fireplace.

Daphne was curled up on the couch reading another Spenser mystery. She was in her fuzzy pajamas brought from Edinburgh where a chilly flat made them mandatory.

The couple could regulate the heat in the apartment, but Gareth believed it should be kept no more than 65° in rooms they were using and 60° in rooms they weren’t. They were not responsible for paying for either heat or electricity, but Gareth felt it was his responsibility to be financially prudent. The last two men in his position were legendary for running up huge bills and one of his mandates was to cut costs.

The bay window had double-glazed glass. During the day the sun added a natural heat but at night they shut the thick drapes to keep it in. For the fun of it, Daphne had put her hand first on the side of the drapes facing the living room and then on the side facing the window. There was barely a difference.

“What was strange.”

“That was Yves DuBois on the phone.”

Daphne waited for him to continue. Asking too many questions usually set him off about her being too impatient and if she would just let him speak, she wouldn’t need to ask. She’d developed the habit of cocking her head to indicate she was listening and waiting.

“He invited us to dinner on Thursday. Said it was very informal and we weren’t to discuss politics, strictly two couples relaxing and getting to know each other.”

“And …”

“I said yes.”

*****

Thursday night Gareth and Daphne caught the Greenline’s D Riverside bound car at Copley Square and got off at Brookline Village. A few minutes walk led them to the French Consul General house. There was a small sign on a post outside the metal spiked gate. A security guard sat in a small house just outside. He was reading a book and didn’t notice them.

Although Daphne was curious as to the title, she couldn’t see it through the foggy glass of the little house.

The soldier looked startled when he saw them before sliding the window open.

“We’re having dinner with Monsieur and Madame DuBois,” Gareth said.

“Mr. and Mrs. Andrews?”

If he knows who we are than he shouldn’t have been surprised when we showed up, she thought. And he should recognize me. I’ve been here enough. “Yes.”

“I need some identification, please.” He wore a local security guard company’s blue uniform. His accent was local.

As soon as they produced their passports and handed them through the glass window, the soldier used his phone to call the house. He spoke so softly and so rapidly in French that Daphne did not catch what he was saying. She suspected finding bilingual security guards in Boston was difficult. Probably gave him job security.

The soldier opened the gate and pointed them to the door. The house was a large three-story Victorian complete with turrets. Spotlights showed the color to be raspberry with black shutters.

The front door was open by the time they reached it.

Yves DuBois stood backlit by the hall light. He was dressed in ironed jeans and an Irish knit sweater. He wore a blue scarf around his neck. Florence was beside him. She wore a long denim skirt and a rose sweater that came down over her hips. Her scarf was a twirly pattern of rose, white and blue. Her silver earrings dangled a good two inches from her lobes.

Daphne was grateful that Gareth had listened about informal and hadn’t worn a suit and tie. He had on brown corduroy pants and a beige sweater. She’d worn tailored black slacks and a black and white checkered sweater.

Well, the first step, proper clothing, has gone smoothly, Daphne thought. There’s nothing in what we’re wearing to make us look out of place and cause Gareth to be upset.

The French couple led them into a library with wall-to-ceiling bookcases. There was a wooden ladder matching the wood of the shelves attached on a runner to help people reach the top shelves.

“Banyuls,” Yves said, pouring a red liquid into four small glasses. “It is from the Côte de Vermeille. My aunt has a place there and we try and spend at least a couple of weeks there each summer if we can.”

He didn’t ask us what we wanted to drink, Daphne thought. Gareth’s frown left her wondering if he would mention it on the way home. When he took a sip and pronounced it “good” she relaxed a bit. It did taste a bit like Porto, and she knew Gareth liked Porto.

A variety of olives and small crackers were passed around.

“We said no politics,” Yves said. “I’m trying to develop relationships with other couples and escape the protocols for a short time. I don’t know about you, but I do get tired of all the rituals.”

This brought a smile to Gareth’s face. “It’s the price we pay for our positions.”

“So, let’s find out about each other as people not posts,” Yves said. “Do you ski?”

“I’m afraid not. My family went to Chamonix when I was nine, and during my first lesson, I broke my leg so badly I was in traction for almost a month,” Gareth said.

“That would put me off skiing,” Florence said. “We’ve skied at Chamonix. We’ll be trying Vermont over Christmas.”

Before Daphne could mention that her husband played tennis and squash,” Gareth asked, “There wouldn’t be a chance you play squash?”

“Adore it. Great workout. Maybe we could arrange a date.”

The maid entered the room to say dinner was ready when they were.

Dinner was a simple bullion soup as a starter, maigret de canard as a main course with carrots and peas. When the dinner plates were cleared away, the maid brought a cheese platter. Yves named each one then passed a breadbasket with a baguette cut into thin slices and served red wine. “I miss my boulangerie, but I found a French bakery close by.”

“I’ve been there. You’re right,” Daphne said. She and Florence had developed the habit of stopping there after their meetings. She willed Florence not to say that.

“It’s not quite the same. I suspect the flour is different,” Yves said. “Never mind, it is still good.”

Conversation covered tennis, especially the younger players that were coming up to replace Murray, Federer, Nadel and Djokovic.

Yves spoke of the Boston Symphony. Gareth preferred classical music, but Florence said she loved pop.

Mostly, Daphne was glad there were no verbal traps until they returned to the library where the maid brought the decaf after-dinner espressos in floral china demitasses carried on a silver tray.

“I’m so proud of what my wife is doing with the historical comic books. You must be too,” Yves said when they were sipping the brews.

This is it. Trouble, Daphne thought

Gareth said nothing.

“Has you wife shown you the first panels?”

“No,” Gareth said.

“Florence, go get the first few pages.”

When she’d returned with the oversized drawings,” Yves pointed out the details of the houses, clothing, plants. “Your wife created such a wonderful story. It will be interlinked with a second comic, the story of Adam, Abigail’s twin. At first, I thought the idea of two comic books was … well, not practical, but when my wife showed me what these two talented women had done, I was convinced.” He placed his cup on a side table covered with decoupage and went behind where Florence sat to drop a kiss on top her head. She held her demitasse in one hand. With the other, she caressed Yves’ face.

Daphne was afraid to look at Gareth. Shut up, Yves. Shut up, Yves, a silent prayer.

“Now the idea to self-publish is probably better than trying to find a publisher. We need to get these books into school libraries around the country. I’ve already located some distributors for them.”

Florence hadn’t told him, then, about the publisher they were meeting Monday.

Yves went on about other comics the women could create. He had them running an educational publication empire.”

Gareth put down his demitasse. “This has been a wonderful evening and we thank you two for a great dinner.”

Florence smiled. “It is a joy to entertain you.”

The guard unlocked the gate for them when they left. Yves and Florence stayed by the front door waving. The light behind them turned them into silhouettes.

Gareth grabbed Daphne’s elbow and propelled her toward the Brookline Village T stop. He didn’t say a word as the T passed Fenway nor when they descended at Copley nor when they entered their flat. He went into his study and slammed the door.

The next day when Daphne woke, his side of the bed had not been slept in. She went looking for him only to discover the guest bedroom had been used and he’d left for work. 

Chapter 55

Argeles-sur-mer, France

June 

 I FINISHED ANOTHER review which I alternated with research. Until I had more information from that research, I couldn’t continue. It was obvious with or without that research that General Gage was growing more and more desperate. The pressure from London had to have added to it.

The question was how to portray Gage’s desperation. Since I have written nothing from Gage’s point of view, it makes more sense to show it through James’ point of view.

I didn’t want to write a scene where I send James with Colonel Leslie to Salem to seize the stolen cannons. The General would want him to stay in Boston and not risk him going on a mission.

The solution was to have James sit in on Leslie’s report to the General. This is the device I used to reveal much of the history. James makes a good reporter.

What surprised me was what I discovered about Leslie’s mission. Even being from New England and having visited Salem many times, I never knew about this preliminary skirmish, only about the big battle in Lexington. It was not taught in any of my American history classes.

When I visited Salem, it was more to look at the history of the witch trials and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s House of Seven Gables. The town itself relied heavily on tourists and as such has a commercial feel.

On visits, I admit I was more interested in a candy store that sold old-fashioned Molasses Sponge Toffee. Made with sour vinegar, sugar, butter and baking soda, it creates a bubbly foam, which hardens leaving air pockets. The candy melts in the mouth. It’s hard to find, but each Christmas my daughter tracks it down as a special present.

I don’t know if that candy existed in the days that the General was searching for weapons. If it had, I could have made it a favorite of Mrs. Gage.

This is what I find frustrating — work is going smoothly but in 45 minutes we need to take Sherlock to the vet. It is more a series of small things such as check if his ear infection is gone than anything serious. I’m sure every writer finds life interferes with writing.