Chapter Twelve

The sun was setting on the quaint little Alpine village where Claire and Bender lived. The nights got chilly at this altitude, but during the day the sunshine warmed the land. Relaxing on lounge chairs on the second-floor veranda of their villa, they gazed at the valley below.

The leaves were just starting to change color. Their blazing hue made Claire think of her hair, which had once been flaming red but was now a dull gray. It made her feel bittersweet. She was getting older, but at least she and Bender were growing old together. Bender was still a boy at heart, an aging juvenile delinquent with brilliant white streaks in what little was left of his once glorious mane of hair. Theirs was a good life: Claire wouldn't change a thing.

Their children had gone to boarding school in France and were all grown up now, with families of their own. Everyone except Bender was fluent in French. He refused to learn the language, although he did understand certain words and phrases. Claire found his obstinacy oddly endearing. Her man had always been a rebel.

Claire was a fashion designer in Paris, where she kept an apartment, but her home was here. Down in the village, Bender owned a custom-furniture shop. Business was sporadic, but he was happy. He had his Cherry, and life was good. He just wished he didn't have to go all the way to Paris for a Big Mac. French people poured mayonnaise on their fries. Bender thought that was disgusting. He liked spicy Dijon mustard, quiche (much to Claire's surprise), and baguettes, but he balked at eating cuisses de grenouille or escargots. He remained a provincial American at heart.

Claire's income—and the endowment she inherited after her parents died—allowed them to live in the most expensive house in the region. It was situated halfway up a low mountain, keeping watch over the village in the valley below. Beneath the villa, terraced rows of grape vineyards wound their way toward the cliffs. Their backyard was an elaborate garden with a winding footpath, a shaded water pond, a pagoda, and vintage statuary sculptures. Further up the mountain, near the summit, was an old castle, but no one lived in it. Their children used to play in the decaying fortress that loomed above their sprawling estate like a sentinel.

Bender got up and went inside. He returned with a pair of blankets and spread one over Claire. She smiled.

"Merci très beaucoup, mon amour."

Bender bowed with a flourish. "Anything for my beloved queen." He lay down, wriggled beneath his blanket, and opened a bottle of vintage red wine made from grapes grown in their vineyards. First he filled Claire's glass, then poured a measure for himself. They sipped as darkness spread across the valley, warm and cozy, tipsy and daydreaming. Claire had never felt such contentment in her entire life. She reached over and clasped Bender's hand. "Thank God we didn't turn out like our parents."

"I hear that."

Bender had always feared he would become just like his father, but that was not the case. Claire had a calming effect on him. He had disciplined their children when they misbehaved, but he had never struck them, and he had always made sure they knew he loved them with all his heart. Claire was so proud of him, it made her weep at times.

Claire sighed. "I'm the luckiest woman in the world. I've got all this and you by my side. What more could a girl ask for?"

Bender smiled but didn't say anything. He still tended to keep his thoughts to himself. Men were such peculiar creatures. Claire had learned not to let it bother her.

"Plus you haven't cheated on me once in all these years."

Bender leered at her. "That just means you never caught me."

Claire slapped his shoulder. "You're such an asshole—the world's oldest teenager. I can't believe you still listen to heavy metal. God! That headbanger stuff is so ancient."

Bender shrugged. "What can I say? I like the classics. Why, in this day and age, I'm something of a Renaissance man."

"More like a throwback to prehistoric times. Oh! And now you're losing all your hair. Poor John." Claire gave Bender a look of pity she knew would infuriate him. After decades of cohabitation, she had learned how to push all his buttons.

"Lay off, Cherry. It's not like I have any choice in the matter."

"I know." Claire smirked. "On the other hand, it gives you one more thing to bitch about."

Bender downed the rest of his wine and scowled. "That's it! If all you're gonna do is pick on me, I'm going inside." He waggled his eyebrows. "Care to join me, madame? S'il vous plaît."

"Certainement."

Bender stood up and held out his hand. Claire took hold of it and they went inside to settle in for the night. A fire crackled in the hearth.

They walked hand-in-hand downstairs and made love on a magnificent Persian rug laid out in front of the fireplace. Afterward, they cuddled on the couch, covered by a thick wool blanket, watching the flickering embers. They sipped champagne and resumed their long-running dispute about the relative merits of installing a heated outdoor whirlpool bath. Bender was all for it, but Claire was afraid it would spoil the villa's unique charm. She was starting to give in, though. The idea of soaking in a hot tub in the middle of an Alpine winter appealed to her romantic side. Also, being naked outdoors had always given her a secret, delicious thrill. It had taken a while for her to get over her embarrassment and go topless on the French Riviera beaches, wearing only a bikini bottom. There were totally nude beaches as well, but she had never been able to strip down all the way in public. It made her feel like a prude, but Bender was glad. He hated the idea of other men—especially horny French men—scoping out his Cherry.

After a while they went upstairs, holding hands, and got in bed without bothering to put on pajamas. Claire enjoyed sleeping in the nude: it felt so sensuous and forbidden. Bender was happy any time Claire was out of her clothes and in bed with him. They drifted off to sleep as the wind howled in the creaking eaves of the old villa.

Claire slept soundly, feeling secure with her man beside her. She rolled over to snuggle up against him and felt—

Nothing.

Claire awoke with a gasp, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. She groped around in the dark, frantic. Then reality washed over her like a flood tide, drowning her in woe.

Claire groaned. It all seemed so real. She wanted to live in that imaginary world forever. Her heart ached with despair.

Why did it have to turn out this way? God damn it!

Claire heard a soft snoring sound. She sat up and peered into the gloom. A sliver of light glimmered from the crack beneath the bathroom door. Allison had gotten up to pee, then crawled under the covers of the spare bed. She was sound asleep.

Claire pressed the light button on her Rolex wristwatch. It was only one o'clock in the morning but it seemed like much later. She sighed. This was going to be another long, lonely night. She got out of bed, sprawled on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. The dream lingered in her mind. It had all been so vivid, so perfect ... but only a dream. Bender was still rotting in his freshly-dug grave, and she would never see him again. Ever.

Claire was too emotionally drained to cry. She just lay there, wallowing in misery, trying to get it out of her system, like sweating out a virus. People died every day and life went on without them. The bleakness of such a thought struck her like a stone. Fortunately, she was so numb, she was practically impervious to pain.

After a while, Claire got up and went back to bed. She even managed to fall asleep again—finally—but she did not dream.

xxx

The ringing telephone startled Claire. She answered the phone, fearful and disoriented. It was her nine-thirty wake-up call.

Claire kicked off the covers, rolled over, and sat on the edge of the bed, giving her brain time to wake up. Bits and pieces of the dream came back to her in a series of mental pictures, like a slideshow. The valley was real; so was the hillside home. She had journeyed through that province on a train, captivated by the charming Alpine village and the estate with its majestic view overlooking the valley. The crumbling castle was there too, far above at the peak of the mountain, dizzyingly high and remote.

Claire switched on the lamp by her bed and got up.

The light shone on Allison. She writhed, blinked, and craned her head, groggy with sleep. She smacked her lips and made an expression of disgust. "My mouth tastes like shit." She clapped a hand on her forehead and moaned. "Oh, God, I've got such a hangover."

Claire was gazing out the window. She yawned. "Tell me about it."

Allison rubbed her eyes and regarded Claire. "You all right?"

Claire just stood there, staring off into space. "I had a dream." Her voice was rough and phlegmy. She covered her mouth and coughed, clearing her throat. "Ugh." The taste of snot repulsed her.

Allison sat up, staring at Claire. "What was it about?"

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't want to talk about it." She gazed at Allison. Her eyes begged for mercy.

Allison backed off. "Whatever you say." She threw off the covers and got out of bed.

Claire poured herself a glass of tap water and swished it around in her mouth, then spat in the wet bar's sink. She got some ice cubes from the small refrigerator and filled her glass with mineral water. "Want some water, Alli?"

"Sure." Allison preferred her full name instead of the shortened, informal nickname—but for some reason, it was different with Claire. She liked it when Claire called her "Alli." It was what her sister would have called her—if she actually had a sister. Of course, Claire was her sister now, but not by blood. In a way, that made their relationship easier. A real sister would have vied with Allison for the attention and approval of their parents. Claire couldn't care less about that. They weren't in competition for anything, which meant they could focus on their friendship, cultivating it like tenacious gardeners.

Claire handed Allison a glass of mineral water.

"Thanks." Allison sipped. The cold water refreshed her sour mouth and washed some of the fuzz off her tongue. She hated that sensation. It was so slimy and gross, it felt like there was fur growing on her taste buds. The mental imagery that thought conjured up made her nauseous.

They showered, got cleaned up, and put on their underwear. They stood beside each other in the hotel bathroom, fixing their hair and applying makeup. Claire marveled at Allison's gracile physique, toned from years of a grueling yoga regimen. "You're so petite," she said with a trace of envy. "Guys love that."

"Bullshit. They love long-legged women with curvy hips, huge breasts, and double-digit IQ's."

"Yeah, but you've that got slender body type designers love. You're beautiful, Alli. Don't sell yourself short—no pun intended. Besides, short men prefer petite girls. It makes them feel insecure if they have to look up at you."

Allison thought of Andy, who was the same height as she was, as though they had been made to fit each other. "I know what you mean," she said, concealing her lust behind an inscrutable mask.

Claire scrunched up her face. "You wouldn't believe how toxic the fashion industry is. I see all the behind-the-scenes stuff. It's fucked up, the way they use and manipulate people." She sighed. "I did a little modeling when I was in college. The photographer was this sick pervert. He kept trying to get me to take my clothes off. Models have it the worst. The pressure they put on them is insane. That's why I decided to become a designer and consultant instead." She lit a cigarette. "I love fashion, but I fucking hate the industry."

Allison couldn't picture herself as a fashion model. That kind of life would have bored her to death. No wonder so many models abused drugs and had serious eating disorders and issues with their self-esteem. Even wealthy, attractive celebrities who had everything—glamorous, lucrative careers; the adoration of millions of fans; and luxurious jet-set lifestyles—had troubles of their own. Money couldn't buy you love and happiness. Love was a rare, priceless gem, to be cherished forever by those lucky few who managed to find it. It was a lot harder to obtain than money, and much more valuable, in the long run.

xxx

Allison and Claire got dressed and trooped downstairs to the hotel restaurant. Claire wanted to unwind before she started packing. They were seated by a pretty young waitress—a lot prettier and younger than me, Claire brooded.

Allison perused her menu. "What're you gonna get?" She was in the mood for chocolate-chip pancakes with maple syrup and coffee—tons of coffee.

Claire placed her menu on the table and lit a cigarette. "I don't have much appetite."

"Order a Continental breakfast."

After ordering, they sat quietly, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee. Allison was becoming concerned about Claire's melancholia but was hesitant to broach the subject. Claire's privacy was sacrosanct.

The waitress brought them their meals. Allison dug in. She was not a morning person and tended to eschew eating breakfast, but she was peckish, for some reason. The food was delicious. She was afraid to ask how much it cost.

Claire had barely nibbled on her croissant. She set it down, pushed her plate away, and sighed.

Allison set her fork down and peered at Claire. "What was your dream about?"

Claire's dark eyes were two narrow slits. They locked on to Allison's like searchlights. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."

"It might make you feel better."

Claire became cross. "What did I just say?"

Allison reached across the table and squeezed Claire's hand. "I hate seeing you like this, all down and out. Been there, done that. All that shit does is lead you into a downward spiral."

Claire shook her head. "It's too personal."

"Okay." Allison reminded herself she hadn't mentioned the cassette tape with the eponymous song Bender wrote in tribute to her. That, too, was something too personal to share.

Poor Claire.

Allison squeezed Claire's hand again and let go. Claire smiled, her eyes red and puffy.

They went upstairs to get ready to leave.

xxx

Claire managed to cram all her stuff into a pair of leather suitcases and locked the clasps. "I guess that's everything." She picked up her mobile phone and gazed at Allison. "Ready?"

Allison nodded.

Claire called the chauffeur. He carried Claire's luggage downstairs and loaded it in the trunk of the limousine while Claire checked out at the front desk. Afterward, Allison and Claire exited the hotel, got aboard the limousine, and buckled their seatbelts.

"What's her address again?" Claire asked.

Allison told the chauffeur Mrs. Bender's street address and the big vehicle motored down the road. Allison looked back at the Airport Marriott. She had never stayed in such an opulent hotel before. Claire was accustomed to living the good life, but she was just as lonesome and unhappy as Allison, if not more so. They were quite a perplexing pair, the princess and the basket case. Even in her wildest dreams, Allison never would have imagined Claire Standish, of all people, would come back into her life and become a close friend and confidante—yet here they were. It seemed like in this life, death was the only sure bet.

Then, like a light switch was flicked on inside her head, illuminating the dark recesses of her mind, Allison realized life was about the journey, not the inevitable destination waiting at the final stop. It was about the people you loved, the experiences you shared, good times and bad. In the end, everyone was fertilizer. Bender had gotten there faster than the rest of them, but they would all be joining him eventually. She hoped Bender was in a happier place now, where he could finally relax and be himself, enjoying the peace of mind that had eluded him in life. He deserved to be at peace.

Claire twisted a strand of hair and smiled. "Penny for your thoughts."

Allison blew her bangs off her forehead. "I was just thinking about life, and death, and how it's all about the journey and the people you meet along the way." She touched Claire's arm. "And how lucky I am to have you for a friend."

Claire's eyes brimmed with tears. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "I had this—oh, what's the word—revelation. It's like, John sacrificed himself to save the rest of us."

"You mean like when he ran to the auditorium to distract Vernon while the rest of us snuck back to the library?"

Claire nodded. "He knew we needed each other; he just had to find a way to get us all back together."

Allison wrinkled her forehead. "John didn't commit suicide—a drunk driver killed him. It was an accident."

"I know, but, maybe the hand of fate reached out and took him. You know, destiny, fortune, whatever you want to call it."

"You think it was an act of divine intervention?"

"I don't know." Claire was frustrated. Her thoughts were difficult to put into words. "At least it makes sense that way, if there was a deeper meaning to his death; otherwise, he died for nothing. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and his luck ran out. I don't want to believe that."

Allison pursed her lips. "I've been thinking about something Mrs. Bender said."

Claire was intrigued. "What did she say?"

"She said she hoped we'd all get back together again and stay together this time. That way, at least something good would come out of all this. You know, like us. We're friends, and we're gonna stay that way. Right?"

"Damn right."

"Even if Andy and Brian blow us off, we have to stick together. We're sisters."

Claire hugged Allison. "I won't let you down."

Allison held Claire tight, enjoying the intimacy of the moment.

She hoped Claire meant it.