Lovers and Liars Trilogy Read Free

six inches square. The string binding had been knotted at intervals, the knots sealed with red wax. He had not seen, let alone received, such a parcel in years. His name and address, he saw, had been printed by hand in capitals with precise care. He looked more closely, and then realized that the precision could be explained—a stencil had been used.
    He was careful to betray no reaction, but thinking back afterward, he realized he had moved too quickly, scraping back his chair. Perhaps he paled—there must have been some hint of his feelings, and Marianne picked up on it. She had an only child’s thin-skinned sensitivity to nuance, a sixth sense for trouble that had been honed by years of parental arguments behind closed doors. Now, as he casually picked up the parcel and began to move away, her face clouded. She looked at him uncertainly.
    “Papa, what’s wrong?”
    “Nothing, darling. Nothing.” He kept his voice level. “I’ve just realized the time, that’s all. Run and get your coat, will you?”
    She sat for a moment, watching him. She watched him leave the cigarette burning in the ashtray. She watched him carry the parcel through into the kitchen and place it on the stainless steel countertop. She watched him start to run the water in the sink. Then, suddenly obedient, she climbed down from her chair.
    When he next looked around, she had fetched her coat and returned to the kitchen. She stood in the center of the large room, watching him, the light from the tall windows striking her hair. On her face was an expression Pascal had not seen for months, an expression he had promised himself he would never provoke again once the divorce was over: a pinched expression of confusion and guilt. Leaving the package, Pascal returned to her. He kissed the top of her head, put his arm around her, and began to steer her gently toward the front door. She stopped just inside it and looked up at him, her face pink with anxiety.
    “Something’s wrong,” she said again. “Papa, what did I do?”
    The question cut Pascal to the heart. He wondered if this was the fate of all children of divorced parents—to go through life blaming themselves for their parents’ failings.
    “Nothing, darling,” he replied, catching her against him.
    “I told you—we’re terribly late, and I just realized how late, that’s all. Listen, Marianne …” He opened the doorway onto the landing and edged her gently outside. “I’ll open that stupid package later, when I get back from London. And if it’s anything exciting, I’ll phone and tell you, I promise. On with the coat, that’s it. What have we here? One bear, one rabbit, one kangaroo—now, I have an idea. You run downstairs and wait for me there, will you do that? Wait right by the door, don’t go outside, and I’ll be down in a second. Papa just has to find a few papers, his airline ticket. …”
    It was working. Marianne’s face had cleared. “Can I say hello to Madame Lavalle, like I did last time?”
    Pascal smiled. He silently blessed an amiable concierge, who was devoted to his daughter. “Of course, darling. Introduce her to the animals, I bet she’d like that.”
    Marianne nodded, and ran to the staircase. Pascal listened to the clatter of her shoes as she descended, the sound of a door opening, then Madame Lavalle’s voice.
    “My goodness, and what have we here today? A rabbit. A bear and—Mon Dieu, what can this be? I never saw such an animal!”
    “It’s a kangaroo, madame. ” Marianne’s high voice floated up the stairwell. “And you see, look, she can keep her baby very close, safe in this little pouch. …”
    Pascal closed the door. He wiped the sweat from his brow. He walked back into the kitchen and stood looking at that neat old-fashioned parcel, foursquare on the counter, the knots neatly sealed. It was five years since he had covered the PLO story, six since he had been in Northern Ireland. His work now might be very different, but the