Flowers of darkness, p.24
Flowers of Darkness,
p.24
“You didn’t seem surprised to see me turn up on your doorstep,” she said.
“I have a special radar where you’re concerned, Blue. And that radar has made a lot of progress.”
She stood up as well, and they were side by side, facing the ocean.
“If you hadn’t come, I would have gone to Paris.”
“What for?”
“For a while now, my radar was telling me you weren’t in a good spot.”
“So you agree with our daughter, then, is that it?”
Toby paid no heed to the anxiety in her quivering voice. For a couple of moments, he did not speak. Then he said that when she had needed him the most, all those years ago, he had not been there for her. He had never been able to forget the fact he had let her down. It had taken him a while to accept that he hadn’t measured up, that their son’s death had affected him in such a way, he had not known how to help Clarissa, and had felt powerless. He had failed in extricating her from her sorrow, and another man had done just that. It had cost him dearly. He blamed himself terribly. Clarissa said nothing, moved to tears by his confession and the feelings it was sparking within her.
A phone ringing interrupted his monologue. Toby bent over to rummage around in his backpack. A smile lit up his face.
“Here,” he said, handing her his mobile, “take this call from little Miss Sunshine.”
It was a video call from Andy.
Clarissa slid her finger over the icon. Andy’s face showed up. She was on a bus, her earphones in place. She let out an astonished yelp when she saw her grandparents together. What the hell were they doing? Wearing bathing suits? Were they swimming, or what? This was insane! When did Mums get there?
Clarissa laughed through her tears. She said it was all very simple. She was going to spend a couple of days, or more, here in Guéthary. She was going to take her time.
“That’s it,” said Toby with a serious tone. “Your granny is getting surfing lessons.”
Andy roared with laughter.
“You guys are incredible. I love you both to the moon and back. Was this planned?”
“Yes,” said Clarissa.
“No,” said Toby.
“I don’t want to spoil the party,” said Andy, “but Mummy blew a fuse. She’s looking for you everywhere, Mums! Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“I’ll handle your mother, missy,” said Toby. “You leave that up to me.”
They chatted cheerily for a few minutes more. Andy had to go; she was on her way to class. She’d call soon.
Toby and Clarissa returned to Guetharia. The streets were now bustling with pedestrians, joggers, cyclists, people getting on with their chores. Several people greeted Toby, who responded with a smile. Inquisitive and friendly glances were shot at Clarissa.
“Are you hungry?” asked Toby in the elevator.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you wait on the terrace? I’ll rustle something together. And I’ll call Jordan.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“That you’re here. Safe and sound.”
She sat on the terrace, facing the sea. When they were married, Toby was the one who enjoyed cooking. She remembered the delicious smells coming from the small kitchen on the rue d’Alésia. Clarissa let her eyes rove over the water and its shifting highlights. Paris and the C.A.S.A. residence seemed far away. She thought of her phone, placed on the kitchen table. She thought of Chablis being cuddled by Adelka. She thought of François’s letter lying at the bottom of her bag. She thought of her father, and how he was able to send all that energy, even from another country.
Toby came out carrying a tray. She helped him set the table. Tomato salad, cured ham, Basque cheese, bread, and grapes. Red wine.
“If I’d known you were coming, I would have gone shopping. That was very short notice.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, sitting down.
She asked him if he had managed to get hold of Jordan.
By way of response, he poured a glass of wine and handed it to her.
“Tell me what you think. Irouléguy, domaine Ilarria.”
She took a sip. It was good, she told him.
“It’s not too bad,” he agreed. “I told Jordan I was watching over you. Okay by you?”
She said yes.
During their meal, Toby said that ever since he’d met her, ever since that very first day, he’d understood she soaked up emotions like a sponge, everything going straight to her heart. He remembered listening to Clarissa on a podcast, several years ago, talking about Virginia Woolf. She had referred to how her favorite writer liked to dig out “beautiful caves” behind her characters, so as to give them humanity, humor, and depth. That figure of speech struck him. He didn’t know, truthfully, what lurked in Clarissa’s subterranean caves, but he did know this. It didn’t matter why Clarissa had come here today, what François had done, why she’d left her flat, what Jordan truly thought about her mother’s state of mind. What did matter was that Clarissa was going to have to learn, over again, how to put down her weapons, how to find her own peace. Thinking about her father filled him with hope. The old fellow certainly led by example, with his optimism and his wit taunting the passage of time. He never moped, never looked behind, never complained. He still knew how to laugh. He still found delight in life, at his age.
Toby paused. Then he said in a gentle, affectionate voice, “So what’s in those ‘beautiful caves’ of yours, Blue?”
“Two things. A divorce and a move.”
“Now that’s clear.”
“You don’t want to know why?”
“You’ll tell me in due course, if you need to.”
“And what if I don’t tell you anything?”
“Not important.”
They put the dishes away together, then had tea and coffee inside, discussing Adriana, Aunt Serena’s brooch, and the holidays Jordan was organizing.
“The wind is changing,” said Toby suddenly. “Look at those gray clouds scurrying in from Spain. You’ll see how fast the rain comes. It’s quite spectacular. We have front-row seats.”
They went outside to observe the clouds and the light interlacing. The breeze had turned cool; the sea became rougher before their very eyes. The storm was gaining strength as it drew nearer, and Clarissa felt she was witnessing what happened inside her whenever she yielded to her worst fears.
“Do you think of him sometimes?” she asked.
Toby didn’t need to ask her whom she meant.
“Every day, in some way or another.”
“How do you think of him?”
“I see him the way he would be now. I see a man. I like the idea of him being forty-something. Maybe a dad. Maybe not. Sometimes, I see him in nature, up there in that sky, in that ocean. He’s out there somewhere; I’m not sure where, but I know he’s there.”
Clarissa said that for so long, she had not been able to mention their son. She hadn’t been able to put into words what his death meant to her. Hypnosis helped, but it had at the same time drawn her away from her memories of him. She now wanted to be able to utter his name without trembling, and she wanted that name to find its own place. She wanted to be able to visit their son’s grave.
She whispered, “Glenn.”
Toby’s hand settled on her shoulder.
Clarissa watched the ocean churn and swell, listened to the wind picking up. The downpour was coming in from offshore, heralded by huge black shadows encroaching upon the water’s silvery surface, like long threatening claws sliding their way, like those flowers of darkness growing inside her head.
Even if the storm came, she knew she was no longer afraid, like that day, years ago, on Virginia Woolf’s bed at Monk’s House, when she had felt the soothing touch of timid hope. She had reached safe harbor.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you
Nicolas, for his patience and his ideas.
Dr. Laura Varnam, for her precious advice and her enthusiasm.
Laure du Pavillon and Catherine Rambaud, my faithful early readers.
Jean-Marie Catonné, for all the Romain Gary data.
AT and his team, because, thanks to them, I was able to sit on Virginia Woolf’s bed at Monk’s House.
ALSO BY TATIANA DE ROSNAY
The Rain Watcher
Manderley Forever
A Paris Affair
The Other Story
The House I Loved
A Secret Kept
Sarah’s Key
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tatiana de Rosnay is the author of ten novels, including the New York Times bestseller Sarah’s Key, an international sensation with over 11 million copies sold in 44 countries. Together with Dan Brown, Stephenie Meyer, and Stieg Larsson, she has been named one of the top ten fiction writers in Europe. De Rosnay lives in Paris. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
1. Key
2. Lake
3. Tower
4. Tongue
5. Powder
6. Ink
7. Blonde
8. Heat Wave
9. Meltdown
Acknowledgments
Also by Tatiana De Rosnay
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
FLOWERS OF DARKNESS. Copyright © 2021 by Tatiana de Rosnay. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design: Michael Storrings
Cover photograph: woman © Wessel Wessels/Arcangel; room © BertrandB/Getty
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-27255-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-27290-4 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250272904
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
Originally published in France by Éditions Robert Laffont
First Edition: 2020
First U.S. Edition: 2021
Tatiana de Rosnay, Flowers of Darkness
