42. Amends
During the cab ride to Georgetown, Bear was reluctant to elaborate much on his startling revelation. He claimed not to know most of the particulars, and had no desire to remedy his ignorance. For all his childhood and well into his twenties, he had believed his mother was dead, and, although it had never been stated in so many words, the implication was strong that she had taken her own life. His father's "grief" had been such that all photos of his wife had been relegated to storage, if not outright destroyed, and it was understood that asking about her — what she'd been like, how she'd died — was to occasion the "widower" intolerable pain and was therefore not to be contemplated. After the "tragedy," father and son had gone to live with his grandmother Baer, and she had had the raising of him until her death shortly after his sixteenth birthday.
His father having never remarried or even shown much interest in the opposite sex, Bear had always seen him, rather romantically, as having remained faithful to his poor wife's memory, and had Karl Baer not been felled before his time by a massive heart attack, Bear might even yet have been operating under that false assumption. It was only upon going through his late father's personal effects that he had happened upon the letter from "Rosa Mundy" which revealed that not only was his mother very much alive, but his parents had not even divorced, despite Rosa's having urged Karl to institute proceedings on the grounds of desertion. Why his father had kept this damning letter, and whether he'd intentionally left it among his papers for his son to find were matters for speculation, but the fact was, Bear had found it, and with it, the defining episode of his family history had been exposed for what it was: a lie.
The kicker was that the letter did not date from shortly after the abandonment but a good fifteen years later, when Bear was a senior in high school. On the other side of the Atlantic, Rosa had begun making a name for herself as an artist, and, with her paintings commanding ever higher prices, she found herself in funds for the perhaps the first time in her life. The purpose of the letter had been to enclose a bank draft in the low six figures, a sum she ventured to hope would be useful in helping defray the costs of a university education, which she understood could be crippling, or, if that was not the path chosen, to give Bear a stake to invest in whatever endeavor he preferred. Bear would have liked to believe the check had been torn to shreds and the pieces returned to sender, but his father having always paid his tuition and fees without recourse to loans or financial aid argued against so appealing a notion.
"You were obviously in her thoughts," Bonnie pointed out, whether to comfort Bear or give Rosa her due, she could not have said. "She cared enough to do what she could to help you off to a great start."
But Bear was not disposed to be generous. "She was buying off a guilty conscience," he said. "As if any amount of money could make up for what she did!"
Rosa must have foreseen the futility of seeking forgiveness or understanding because the funds were offered without expectation of return, no strings attached. She assured Karl she had no plans to interfere in their son's life; she knew there was no coming back from the grave she had dug herself when she had encouraged Karl to think of her as dead. She asked only to be allowed to make this one contribution in complete anonymity, after which she promised never to impose on his notice again.
"So, when she approached you that time in Paris…"
"I had done enough research on Rosa Mundy to recognize her on sight. She had no idea I was on to her, though. That came as a rude surprise." A note of grim satisfaction soured his voice.
A picture formed in Bonnie's mind of Rosa standing nervously in the aisle of the rapidly-emptying auditorium as other attendees crowded Bear, offering their congratulations and asking follow-up questions. Perhaps she had sat through the lecture in the very last row, happy enough only to see and hear from afar the man her little boy had become. She would not have made heads or tails of his paper for drinking in the welcome sight and sound of him, her heart swelling with bittersweet pride at his rough good looks and confident manner. Maybe, the talk over, she had been on the point of slipping away when the temptation of a closer look, a brief exchange had proved too strong, and she had found herself moving toward him rather than out the exit. She had waited out all the others so she could have him for a few moments to herself only to be blasted with years of pent-up hostility and scorn. It must have been devastating. "Did you give her any chance at all to explain?"
"No. Why would I? So she could tell more lies? Besides, there's nothing she could possibly say to justify her actions. I don't owe her the time of day."
Later, tucked up snugly in Sonny and Adele's guest bedroom, Bonnie could not sleep for the thoughts and questions tumbling through her mind. She, whose sense of self and security was rooted in a tight-knit, loving family, could only boggle at the enormity of the betrayal Bear had suffered, and if anger and intransigence were his means of coping with that pain, it was not for her or anyone else to fault him. Nor, given his history, was it any wonder he was slow to trust others and quick to suspect the worst of them. When your own parents deceive you, who can you believe?
She understood, and she felt heartsick for him, but she was not prepared, on that account, to see Rosa as a thorough villain. Her own family background taught her that, while there is no more grievous offense than a parent's abandoning a child, there is always the possibility of mitigating circumstances and unsuspected grounds for compassion. Karl Baer might have been like her great-grandfather Booth, a violent man who physically abused his wife to the point where she had to choose between staying with her sons or preserving her own life. Or, unlikely as it seemed, Rosa might, like Max and Ruth Keenan, have disappeared and assumed a new identity in order to avoid exposing her loved ones to malefactors from her past. Bonnie felt practically certain something dire had forced Rosa to her desperate measure, and, while the evening's events had proved her not the best judge of character, she did not think she was wrong about Rosa's basic decency and good heart. Bear might have no interest in Rosa's side of the story, but Bonnie would not refuse a sympathetic ear if Rosa volunteered to share it, and, in the event she never did, Bonnie was determined to refrain from passing judgment. It was, in the end, none of her affair, and on that comforting realization, she finally drifted off to sleep.
It was only the next morning as she readied for work that Bonnie realized she had spared few if any thoughts to her regrettable tussle with Sébastien. Her preoccupation with Bear and Rosa's situation had distracted her powerfully from that unpleasantness, but, as she made her way to the Jeff and a likely encounter with Sébastien, Isabelle, or both at once, she could think of little else. Never having caused anyone physical harm, she had no idea what to expect, but more than enough remorse to anticipate any number of embarrassing scenarios. She easily pictured volatile Isabelle giving her a very public cold shoulder, or treating her to an ugly scene, and as for Sébastien, she imagined him, limping and disfigured, reproaching her long and loud, or, what was more worrisome, lodging a complaint against her. One thing was certain: whatever awaited her in that quarter was bound to be exceedingly awkward.
In the event, she was not obliged to remain in suspense very long. She had no sooner entered the workroom than Gabby greeted her with the news that Dr. Cummings had been looking for her and had left word she was to report to his office immediately upon arrival. "Not the best morning to be running late," Gabby said, hovering nearby as Bonnie stored her bag away. "I've got to say, he had a real stormy vibe about him. What's going on? Something happen last night?"
Bonnie's heart sank. She was, apparently, about to be called on the carpet, but, oddly enough, knowing this outcome, however unfortunate, went a long way to calming her nerves. If she was to be reproved, she very much preferred to face the fire at once and get it over with. She forced a reassuring smile for Gabby. "Tell you later."
On her way to the stairs, she noticed Bear was not in his office and wondered if he, too, had received a summons. If he were present, she knew he would take her side, and with that prospect to steady her, she paused before Dr. Cummings' door only long enough to straighten her spine and square her shoulders. She knocked smartly, twice in succession, and, on being enjoined to enter, let herself in. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
Dr. Cummings looked up at her from behind his desk, the warmth and humor Bonnie had come to associate with him conspicuously absent from his expression. With a flick of his eyes, he directed her attention to the farther of his visitors' chairs, and Bonnie, half-expecting Bear to have arrived before her, was doubly chagrined to see Sébastien struggling unsuccessfully to rise from its depths. She took an involuntary step back toward the door, and froze. Dr. Cummings was beside her in a moment, a supportive hand on her arm. "I understand completely, my dear, and no one's going to force you to stay against your will, but Beaumont here insists on making his apologies, so I leave it to you. Will you hear the man out? You're under no obligation to do so."
Sébastien had given up trying to clamber to his feet, and sat with his body angled in her direction, a pair of oversized sunglasses hiding much of his face. He was, for a man of his fashion sense, carelessly attired in an unremarkable tan suit over a plain white shirt, no silk tie, no trendy scarf at the open neck. "I won't keep you long," he promised quietly as she appeared to hesitate. "Please."
"I'll be here the whole time to guarantee his good behavior," Dr. Cummings assured her. "I won't leave you alone with him."
The very idea of Dr. Cummings' sitting in on a detailed rehash of the evening's fiasco was mortification enough for Bonnie. "Thank you, sir, but that isn't necessary. I trust M. Beaumont to keep his distance."
Cummings fixed her with a searching look. "You're sure? If you have any qualms at all… Very well, then," he said, when she shook her head decidedly. "I'll just step out in the hall, and return a few phone calls. I'll be in shouting range, if you need me." He shot a last admonitory scowl Sébastien's way, and walked out, leaving the office door open behind him.
"Won't you sit down?" Sébastien asked, as Bonnie continued to stand, shifting from foot to foot. "I am aware you owe me no consideration, but it would be easier for me to say my piece if I didn't have to crane my neck up at you the whole time."
Bonnie settled herself on the edge of the companion chair. Closer to, Sébastien's features looked pale and drawn. "How are you feeling? You know…" She circled a hand over the middle of her face.
In response, he slowly pulled the sunglasses off and exposed the damage. It was not so terrible as Bonnie had feared, but it was glaring: a stripe of red-purple bruising ran under both eyes and over a lightly-swollen nose, and the flesh over his cheek bones was puffy and pink. "Oh, Sébastien!" Bonnie gasped, horrified at the injury she'd inflicted. "I am so sorry!"
"No, Bonnie! You must not apologize. That blow was the best thing to happen to me in a long time! You might have squashed my nose past recognition, and still I would feel the same. I'm only sorry someone didn't see fit to clobber me many years ago."
Bonnie's fretful imagination had produced a variety of possible reactions, but this had not figured among them. "I... I don't understand."
"You see, after you and Baer left, and Isa stayed behind, we talked, she and I, openly, honestly for the first time in… forever. It might have been the wine, or the pain, or her sympathy — who can say? — all I can tell you is it all came pouring out of me like a flood, everything I had held dammed up in my heart for so long. I told her, as I had never had the courage to do before, how very much I love her, have always loved her, how all the other women I have been with were but poor consolation for not having her in my life. I spoke without hope or purpose other than to unburden myself at long last, to have done with the constant denying and hiding what I felt, and, do you know, Bonnie, just when I thought all was lost, that was when I gained all, because, would you believe, she confessed that she loves me, too, and has done since first we met. I never thought I could pity Albert Auteuil, but they were already married when he came to realize the truth, which is why they divorced after only a few years." Sébastien's eyes were suspiciously bright, and his smile was tired and slightly abashed. "We talked all night, straight through to sun up. All the misunderstandings, the false fronts, the bravado — cleared away as we talked and talked and talked. It was a magical, life-changing night, and would not have happened but for your knocking me flat. I can't thank you enough, Bonnie."
Bonnie was at something of a loss as to how to respond to this; her first impulse — 'you're welcome' — didn't seem quite right. "Well, I'm glad you and Isabelle were able to work out your differences. At least something good came out of the whole snafu."
"Something wonderful," he amended. "And a far greater reward than I deserve. You don't have to say so; I know it's true. When I think of the way I acted, the things I did…" A shudder of revulsion ran through him. "Let's call a spade a spade: I have behaved like a cad. I took advantage of your good nature, misled you as to my intentions, and practically assaulted you." He leaned a little toward her, a beseeching look in his eye. "I hope you believe I never would have forced you, Bonnie, even drunk as I was. I was too pushy, yes, but if you'd continued to resist, I would have let you go."
"I believe that, Sébastien; I do. I think I reacted so violently out of frustration, not so much with you but with myself for being so stupid and reckless. You were up front about being a leopard. I had no business believing you'd changed your spots."
"Maybe not, but the breach of trust is still mine. I do not know that you can ever forgive me, but please believe I am heartily sorry for the embarrassment and distress I've caused you. I have not been as good a friend I pretended to be, but, if you will allow, I will do better in the future. If I can help you in any way, personally, professionally, you must call on me, and I will do my very best for you. For now, by way of amends, knowing your great interest in the Lavallière photos, I engage to forward them by the end of the day to whatever account you specify. You need only give me the address."
Bonnie's spirits soared for a moment at the offer, but then she remembered. "The non-disclosure agreement…"
He regarded her sheepishly. "A lie. Part of the plot to lure you to my room. What can I say?" he added defensively, as she looked at him askance. "I've played at love so long, the moves are automatic." He smiled then, a quiet joy suffusing his battered, swollen face. "Those bad old days are all behind me now, thank God. From this day forward, love won't ever be just a game for me. At last, at long last!"