Peter had the phone in his hand when they began talking about the tragedies of the Thatcher family, starting with Tom Thatcher being assassinated six years before, the son who died, and now Olivia Thatcher's tragic disappearance. They were already calling it tragic when the operator came on and asked how she could help Peter. And he was about to give her the number of the Thatchers' room, and then just as suddenly, he knew he couldn't do it. Not yet. He had to see for himself first. And if she wasn't there, then he would know something had happened to her, and he would call Andy as soon as he could. In truth, he didn't owe her anything, but after the night before, he felt he owed her his silence. He just hoped that he wasn't risking her life by stalling until he got there.
And as he put the phone down again, the announcer on CNN was saying that thus far her parents, Governor Douglas and his wife, had not been available for comment on the mysterious disappearance of their daughter in Paris. The voice droned on, and Peter went to grab a sweater from the closet. He only wished he had brought a pair of jeans with him, but there had been no way of knowing he would have anywhere to use them. It was hardly the kind of thing he wore to meetings.
He called the desk after that, and after being told there were no more flights to Nice at this time of night, and the last train was leaving in five minutes, he asked for a car, and a map that would get him from Paris to the south of France, and when they offered him a driver, he explained that he wanted to drive himself, although it would certainly have been faster and easier with a driver. But it would also be much less private. They told him they'd have everything ready for him in an hour, and he should come to the front door and pick up the car, and the maps would be in it. It was just after seven then, and at eight o'clock, when he went downstairs, a new Renault was waiting for him, with a stack of maps on the front seat. And the doorman very obligingly explained to him how to get out of Paris. He had no bags with him, no luggage at all. All he'd brought was an apple, a bottle of Evian water, and his toothbrush in his pocket. And as he got behind the wheel of the car, it had a little bit of the flavor of a wild-goose chase. He had already worked out at the desk that, if he needed to, he could abandon the car in Nice or Marseilles, and fly back to Paris. But that was only if he didn't find her. If he did, he wondered if she'd ride back with him. At least they could talk on the way back. She obviously had a lot on her mind, and maybe he could help her sort it out on the road to Paris.
The Autoroute du Soleil was still fairly well traveled at that time of night, and it was only after he reached Only that the traffic began to thin out and he picked up some speed for the next two hours, until he reached Pouilly. And by then, Peter felt strangely peaceful. He wasn't sure why, but he felt as though he was doing the right thing for her. And for the first time in days, he felt free of all his encumbrances and all his worries. There was something about getting in a car and driving hard through the night that made him feel he had left all his troubles behind. It had been wonderful talking to her the night before, like finding a friend in an unexpected place. And as he drove, all he could see was her face, her eyes haunting him, just as they had the first time he saw her. He thought of her the night he had seen her in the pool too, swimming away from him, like a small, lithe black fish …and then running across the Place Vendome the night before, to freedom …the hopeless look in her eyes when she'd gone back …the sense of peace about her when she spoke of the little fishing village. It was crazy to follow her across France, and he was aware of it. He scarcely knew her. And yet, just as he had to follow her from the square the night before, he knew he had to do this now. For reasons still unknown to him, or anyone at that point, he had to find her.
Chapter Five
The road to La Favière was boring and long, but thanks to the speeds he was able to achieve, it went faster than he expected, and it took him exactly ten hours. He drove slowly into town at six o'clock, just as the sun came up. The apple was long since gone, and the Evian bottle was almost empty on the seat beside him. He had stopped for coffee once or twice, and had left the radio on to keep him awake. He drove with all the windows down, but now that he had reached his destination, he was truly exhausted. He had been awake all night, for the second time in two days, and even his excitement at being there and the adrenaline that had spurred him on were beginning to fade, and he realized he had to sleep an hour before he began his search for her. It was too early to look for her anyway. Except for the fishermen beginning to arrive at the dock, everyone in La Favière was still sleeping. Peter pulled off to the side of the road, and climbed into the backseat. It was cramped, but it was exactly what he needed.
It was nine o'clock when he woke, and he heard children playing near the car. Their voices were raised as they ran by, and Peter could hear seagulls overhead. There were a variety of sounds and noises as he sat up, feeling as though he had died. It had been a long night, and a long drive. But if he found her, it would be worth it. As he sat up and stretched, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and laughed. He looked a mess, definitely enough to frighten small children.
He combed his hair, and brushed his teeth with the last of the Evian, and looked as respectable as he could as he got out of the car to begin his search. He had no idea where to begin, and he slowly followed the children he'd heard, to the bakery, where he bought a pain au chocolat, and walked back outside to look out over the water. The fishing boats were already out, small tugs and little sailboats were still in port, and there were clumps of old people huddled in groups, discussing the state of things, as the younger men continued their fishing. The sun was high in the sky by then, and as Peter looked around, he decided she'd been right. It was the perfect place to escape to, peaceful, beautiful, and there was something about it that was very rare and warm, like an embrace from an old friend. And near the port was a long sandy beach. He finished his pain au chocolat, and began to walk slowly along the sand, wishing he had a cup of coffee. He felt mesmerized by the sun and the sea, and wondered how he would find her. He walked almost all the way down the beach, and sat on a rock, thinking of her, and wondering if she'd be angry if he found her, if she was even here, when he looked up and saw a slip of a girl come around the point from another beach just beyond it. She was barefoot, in T-shirt and shorts, she was small and slim and her dark hair was blowing in the breeze as she looked up at him and smiled, and he could only stare. It was as it was meant to be. So effortless, so simple. She was there, smiling at him from across the beach, as though she'd been waiting for him. And with a smile meant only for him, Olivia Thatcher walked slowly toward him.
“I don't suppose this is a coincidence,” she said softly as she sat down on the rock beside him. He was still more than a little overwhelmed, and he hadn't moved since he'd first seen her. He was too bowled over by having found her.
“You told me you were going back,” he said, his eyes digging deep into hers, not angry, no longer surprised, simply there, and completely at ease with her.
“I was. I meant to. But when I got there, I found I couldn't.” She looked sad as she said it. “How did you know where I was?” she asked gently.