Authors: Erich Segal
Oliver's Story (7 page)
G
uidebooks give Le Méchant Loup in Bedford Hills an “adequate” for its cuisine. But for its rustic atmosphere and lodgings it receives an “excellent.” Nestled (as they say) within the green and tranquil trees, it offers an escape from all the pressures of our urban lives.
What the guidebooks need not even mention is Le Méchant Loup is perfect for a shack-up. Dinner may just barely pass, but up the stairs awaits the atmosphere that critics praise. Learning this would be our destination, I concluded that my chances for success were . . . “excellent.”
Yet in a way I was annoyed.
Who had chosen this locale? And who had made the reservation on whose own without consulting whom? And who was driving there so swiftly in
my
lovely Porsche?
We turned off the highway, entering a forest with a narrow road which seemed to stretch for miles. At last a light shone up ahead. A lantern. And the sign:
LE MéCHANT LOUP, A COUNTRY INN
.
Marcie slowed (at last) and turned into the courtyard. In the moonlight, all I could distinguish was the outline of a Swiss chalet. Visible within were two huge fireplaces flickering illumination on a dining room and living room. Nothing glimmered in the floors above. As we crossed the parking lot, I noticed but a single other car, a white Mercedes SLC. The place would not be overpopulated. Surely conversation could be . . . intimate.
“Hope the food is worth the drive,” I quipped (ho ho).
“Hope you won’t be disappointed,” Marcie said. And took my arm as we went in.
They sat us at a table by the fireplace. I ordered drinks.
“One orange juice and a carafe of any cheapo California white that isn’t Gallo.”
“Cesar Chavez would be proud of you,” said Marcie, as the waitress bustled off. “You should make her check to see the oranges are union-picked.”
“I’m not a watchdog for your morals, Marcie.”
Then I looked around. We were the only people there.
“Are we too early?” I inquired.
“I think because it’s so far out, the people mostly come on weekends.”
“Oh,” I said. And though I’d told myself I shouldn’t ask, I asked: “Have you been here before?”
“No,” Marcie said. But I figured she was lying.
“Why’d you pick it sight unseen?”
“I heard it was romantic. And it
is
romantic, don’t you think?”
“Oh . . . excellent,” I said. And took her hand.
“They’ve got a fireplace in every upstairs room,” she said.
“Sounds cool,” I said.
“Sounds warm to me.” She smiled.
A silence. Then as casually as possible I queried, “Are we also booked on high?”
She nodded yes. And added, “Just in case.”
I wondered why I wasn’t as elated as I thought I should be.
“Just in case of what?” I asked.
“Of snow,” she said. And squeezed my hand.
The waitress brought us Marcie’s glass and my carafe. The fire joining forces with the wine now warmed in me the feeling of my Right to Know.
“Say, Marcie, in what name did you reserve?”
“Donald Duck,” she answered, poker-faced.
“No, really, Marcie. I’m curious to know the names you pick for checking into different places.”
“Oh?”
“Like Cleveland, for example.”
“Are we back to Cleveland?” Marcie said.
“Just how were you registered in Cleveland?” lawyer Barrett barreled in.
“Actually, I wasn’t,” she replied. Unhesitatingly. And unabashedly.
Aha!
“I mean I didn’t stay in a hotel,” she added casually.
Oho?
“But were you actually there?”
She crinkled up her mouth.
“Oliver,” she said after a moment. “What’s the purpose of this inquisition?”
I smiled. I poured another glass, refueling in midair. And tried a different line of questioning.
“Marcie, friends should level with each other, don’t you think?” That had seemed effective. My use of “friends” evoked a spark.
“Obviously,” Marcie said.
Perhaps my flattery, my quiet tone of voice, softened her. And so I asked directly, showing no scintilla of emotional involvement:
“Marcie, are you hiding certain facts about yourself?”
“I really was in Cleveland, Oliver,” she said.
“Okay, but are you camouflaging other things?”
There was a pause.
And then she nodded yes.
See, I was right. The air was clear at last. Or clearing, anyway.
And yet the rest was silence. Marcie simply sat there and withheld all further comment. Yet now something of her aura of serene self-confidence had visibly diminished. She looked almost vulnerable. I felt a twinge of sympathy. Which I suppressed.
“Well . . . ?” I said.
She reached across the table and she touched my hand. “Hey, look. I know, I’ve been evasive. But please take it easy. I’ll come through.”
What was that supposed to mean? Her hand remained on mine.
“Can we order dinner?” Marcie said.
What now? I asked myself. Settle for a slight postponement? Run the risk of never getting back to where we were: the verge of truth?
“Marcie, can we cover one or two more little topics first?”
She hesitated. Then replied, “If you insist.”
“Please help me put the pieces of a puzzle in their place, okay?” She simply nodded. And I launched into a summary of the incriminating evidence.
“What would one conclude about a lady who gave no address or phone? Who traveled and sojourned in unknown places incognito? Who never specified—indeed avoided—all discussion of her occupation?”
Marcie offered no assistance. “What do you conclude?” she asked.
“You’re shacking up with someone,” I said. Calmly and without recrimination.
She smiled a slightly nervous smile. And shook her head.
“Or else you’re married. Or he’s married.”
She looked at me.
“Am I supposed to check the answer on your questionnaire?”
“Yes.”
“None of the above.”
Like hell, I thought.
“Why would I be seeing you?” she asked.
“Your contract’s nonexclusive.”
She did not seem flattered.
“Oliver, I’m not that kind of person.”
“All right, then what kind
are
you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “A little insecure.”
“You’re full of shit.”
That was uncalled for. And I instantly regretted saying it.
“Is that a sample of your courtroom manner, Mr. Barrett?”
“No,” I said politely. “But here I couldn’t nail you down for perjury.”
“Oliver, stop being such a creep! A marginally nice and not too unattractive woman throws herself right at you. And instead of acting like a normal man, you play the Grand Inquisitor!”
That “normal” zinger really sliced me. What a bitch. “Look, if you don’t like it, Marcie, you can call it off.”
“I didn’t notice anything was
on
. But if you feel the sudden need to go to court—or church—or to a monastery—
go!
”
“With pleasure,” I replied, and rose.
“Good-bye,” she said.
“Good-bye,” I said. But neither of us moved.
“Go on—I’ll take the check,” she said. And waved me off as if I was a fly.
But I would not be shooed.
“Hey, look, I’m not a total bastard. I won’t leave you all alone here, miles from nowhere.”
“Please don’t be gallant. I’ve got a car outside.”
Again a valve exploded in my brain. I’d caught this bitch red-handed in another lie!
“You claimed you’d never been here, Marcie. How the hell’d your car arrive—remote control?”
“Oliver,” she said, now flushed with anger, “it is none of your damn paranoiac business. But to set you on your way, I’ll simply tell you that a guy I work with dropped it off. Because regardless of the outcome of our rendezvous, I have to be in Hartford in the morning.”
“Why Hartford?” I demanded, though it really wasn’t any of my business.
“Because my fancy lover wants to buy me some insurance!” Marcie shouted. “Now go soak your head.”
I’d really gone too far too fast. I was confused. I mean I sensed that we should both stop shouting and sit down. But then we’d just exchanged a violent set of “go to hells.” And so I
had
to go.
A summer rain was falling as I fumbled trying to unlock my car.
“Hey—can we take a drive around the block?”
Marcie was behind me, looking very solemn. She had left the inn without a coat or anything.
“No, Marcie,” I replied. “We’ve already gone around in far too many circles.” I unlocked the car.
“Oliver, I’ve got a reason.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
“You didn’t give me half a chance.”
“You didn’t give me half a truth.”
I got in and closed the door. Marcie stood there as I revved the motor. Motionless and staring at me. As I slowly passed her, I rolled down the window.
“Will you call me?” she said quietly.
“You forget,” I answered, with no little irony, “I haven’t got your number. Think of that.”
At which I shifted gears and gunned it from the courtyard to the road.
And thence to New York City, to forget Miss Marcie Nash forever.
“W
hat were you frightened of?”
This was Dr. London’s only comment after I’d recounted everything.
“I never said that I was frightened.”
“But you ran off.”
“Look, it became as clear as day that Marcie was a not so nice girl on the make.”
“You mean seducing you?”
He was naïve.
“ ‘On the make.’ ” I then explained as patiently as possible, “because my name is Barrett, and it doesn’t take much research to discover that I come from money.”
There. I’d made my point. Now there was silence in the court.
“You don’t believe that,” Dr. London said at last. His certainty that I was not convinced forced me to think again.
“I guess I don’t,” I said.
There was another silence.
“All right, you’re the doctor. What exactly
did
I feel?”
“Oliver,” said London. “You are here precisely to improve communications with yourself.” He asked again, “How did you feel?”
“A little vulnerable.”
“And . . . ?”
“A little scared.”
“Of what?”
I couldn’t answer right away. In fact, I was incapable of answering out loud. I
was
afraid. But not because I thought she’d tell me: “Yeah, I’m living with an all-star fullback who’s a Ph.D. in astrophysics and who turns me on.”
No. I rather think that I was scared of hearing:
“Oliver, I like you.”
Which would shake me up much more.
Granted Marcie was a mystery. But she was neither Mata Hari nor the whore of Babylon. Indeed, her single fault was that she didn’t have an obvious, convenient fault. (I’d had to find her one!) And Marcie’s lies, whatever may have prompted them, did not excuse the falsehood that I told myself. That I was not . . . involved.
Because I nearly was. I very nearly was.
That’s why I panicked and I fled. Because in
almost
liking someone else I felt disloyal to the only girl I ever loved.
But how much longer could I live this way, forever on my guard lest human feelings catch me unaware? In point of fact, my turmoil now was multiplied. And I was torn by two dilemmas.
One: How could I deal with memories of Jenny?
Two: How could I find Marcie Nash?
