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| Part Three. |
| III. �Daddy has a very important meeting to attend to, Isa,� Frank said, straightening his tie in the mirror as he watched her hop behind him in their tiny apartment. �Will you pick me up?� Isa asked, her dark ringlets bunching together and falling over her face. She walked into the room and put her arms around Frank�s waist the best she could and looked up at him in the mirror from his hip. �Of course, darling,� he said, crouching slightly and picking her up from the ground as if she was weightless. He nuzzled her close to his face and kissed her cheek as she laid her head on his shoulder and locked her arms around his neck. �Good,� she said. �I don�t like that mean old lady.� �Mrs. Lawrence?� Frank asked, walking her to the next room and sitting her down at the dinner table. He poured her a glass of milk and sunk some toast into the toaster. �Yes,� Isabelle said, making a face. �She is just a very nice lady helping Daddy, Isa,� Frank said. �You have to be nice to her because she is doing us a favor.� �Why should I?� Isabelle said. �She�s not nice to me!� �No?� Frank asked, watching the toast brown. �No sir,� Isabelle said, trying to follow his lead from the table. It popped up and surprised her, forcing her to swallow her words. �No sir�she�s not nice to me, so why should I be nice to her?� �Because that is how the world works,� Frank said, sliding a plate in front of her along with a jar of jam. �Well�too bad,� she said. Frank laughed at her and kissed her cheek as she began getting jam on her fingers and licked them off, one by one. �Do you want me to tell her we don�t need her help?� Frank asked. Isabelle looked up at him with a large, jam smeared smile and nodded. �Yes!� �You�ll need to be a big girl,� Frank said. �I have a lot of work to do, and I need you to be on your best behavior.� �I promise, daddy!� �It is just the two of us, so we really need to work hard at keeping everything together and taking care of things.� �What kind of things?� Isabelle asked. �Just normal things, sweetie,� he said. �When I need to work, you need to work quietly. You need to get your homework done everyday and help around the house�keep your things neat.� Isabelle nodded at him and giggled. �It is like I am the mommy,� Isabelle said. Frank forced out a small smile for her sake, and turned with a pout to watch his toast turn black under the red-fiery coils. �You got a letter!� Isabelle said, rushing towards Frank with the mail. He was sitting in his armchair with the newspaper as she ran towards him excitedly. He took it from her with a warm smile and sat her on his lap. �Oh,� Frank said. �This is from one of Daddy�s friends in New York.� �New York?� Isabelle asked. �Yes, silly. Where we used to live.� �OH!� she said. �What does it say?� Frank opened the letter and read it with a smile. Isabelle looked at him funny when he giggled, or tried to keep himself from laughing. She watched his face as he teared up with a smile and took a deep breath to smother it. Isabelle tried to read the small cursive writing as it sprawled tightly between the two pages. Her nose almost met the corner of the letter as Frank held it and she searched for any words she might know. �Love Anna,� Isabelle said. �That was all I could read.� �That�s right,� Frank said. �What did the rest say? And who is Anna?� �Anna is an old friend of daddy�s�and she wanted to see how we were doing here because we are closer to Hawaii than she is.� �Where the explosion was?� �Yes dear,� Frank said. �But we are still far away.� �Yeah�you told me that already. Doesn�t she know that?� �I�m sure she does,� Frank said with a smile, �But she just wanted to make sure we were okay.� �That�s nice of her,� Isabelle said. �Now open the rest.� Frank slid the letter from Anna into his shirt pocket and grabbed the stack of letters on Isabelle�s lap. �You open that one and tell me what it says,� Frank said. He watched Isabelle fumble with the envelope and grinned from ear to ear. �How come you never take me to see the picture shows?� Isabelle asked, stomping her foot at her father in their dimly lit apartment. �I�ve taken you before,� he said. �Remember the show about the Joads?� �That�s not the right kind,� Isabelle said. �The kids in my class go see shows all the time and they aren�t boring like that one.� �It wasn�t boring,� Frank said. �You just didn�t understand. It was very important.� �Important to you!� �Yes, dear. Very,� he said. �The man who wrote that story is someone daddy is trying very hard to work with.� �Oh?� Isabelle said. �He makes the films?� �No,� Frank said. �He wrote a book. That is where they got the idea for the film.� �Oh,� Isabelle said. �Was the book as boring as the film?� �Not boring, no. It was longer, though.� He said, standing up and walking toward the book shelf. He ran his index finger along the titles and pulled out a thick volume and handed it to Isabelle. She took it in her hands and looked at it with large eyes. �That�s the whole thing?� �Yes ma�am,� Frank said. �But they stopped before it was over.� �I�m glad they did!� Isabelle said, handing the book back to Frank with a small grunt. �I suppose so,� he said, laughing at her. �If you didn�t read so much maybe you�d be more interested in seeing the picture shows,� she said. �Reading is like having a picture show in your brain,� Frank said. �I can see everything I want to whenever I want to.� �You are kidding me,� Isabelle said. �You can not.� �I can so,� he said. �And so can you. You only have to use your imagination when you read things.� �Hmm,� Isabelle said, looking at him suspiciously. �You can make everything into one big film if you want to,� he said. �It never hurts.� Frank walked quickly to pick Isabelle up from the schoolyard. She was hanging on the gate, timing his arrival perfectly when he appeared across the street in his shiny black car. He watched the ground as he walked, ignoring the people passing by him as he followed the worn path. �Good afternoon, Father,� Isabelle said, taking his hand. She rattled off information about her day at school as he led her back to the car and drove her home silently. As Frank opened the door to the apartment Isabelle stared up at him and refused to go in. �You go in first,� she said. �You need to rest, I think.� �I need a lot of things, dear,� he said. Isabelle took his hand and led him to his chair and kissed his cheek. He took her in his arms and she curled onto his lap. He took a deep breath and Isabelle looked up at him. �Did I do something wrong?� she asked. He kissed her forehead so hard she had to close her eyes and he let a soothing �No� escape his throat. �Daddy had a bad day at work,� he said. �A bad time of everything, really.� Isabelle closed her eyes and listened to him breath with a small whimper. She held his hand and patted it. �It will be okay,� she said. �I�ll make sure of it.� �That damned bastard accepted a job in Europe. Europe! After I moved here to work with him, he moves on the other end of the world!� Frank said. Isabelle sat quietly and listened. �What am I supposed to do now? He was the backbone of my prospects! That blasted war is ruining everything.� �Which war?� Isabelle asked. �The one in Europe, sweetie,� he said. �Is there a war in New York?� she asked. He looked at her curiously. �No,� he said. �I thought there was. I thought that was why we had to leave.� �No dear,� he said. �We left because there was nothing there for us anymore.� �Your friend lives there!� Isabelle said. Frank�s face relaxed. �Yes,� Frank said. �You are right. She does.� �Did you write her back yet?� Isabelle asked. �Didn�t you get a letter from her again the other day?� �I did,� Frank said. �I write as quickly as possible so I can get another letter from her.� �I like letters,� Isabelle said. �I wish I had someone to write to.� �I wish you did too,� Frank said. He hugged her and made her hop off his lap as he stood up and walked into the kitchen. �Hungry?� �Yes sir,� Isabelle said, following him. �Mr. Marot,� the young woman said, greeting him as he entered her classroom. She tucked the hair behind her ears and smiled at him as he walked his lanky body across the floor and at a desk facing hers. Isabelle walked behind him slowly, almost hiding behind his leg completely. �Mrs. Forester, nice to see you,� Frank said, tipping his hat at her before taking it off and holding it at his lap. They sat down in unison while Isabelle stood alongside him, her hand on his shoulder. �Isabelle has been a darling student, Mr. Marot,� Mrs. Forester began, �I really don�t have much to say by means of concerns. She reads at a higher level than the rest of the class and she is quite proficient in her writing and articulating.� �Fantastic,� Frank said, smiling at Isabelle. �What I did want to speak to you about is some programs we have happening in the school by means of war relief and fund raising,� she said. �I thought perhaps you could relay the information to Mrs. Marot and she could get into contact with the other mothers.� �I AM Miss Marot,� Isabelle said. Frank looked at her with a sad expression and asked her to leave the room. She kicked the carpet and walked out mumbling �well, I am!� �Oh my,� Mrs. Forester said. �What did I say?� �Mrs. Forester,� Frank said. �Isabelle is Miss Marot. My wife died a few years ago.� �Oh!� she said. �I�m terribly sorry.� �Isabelle was very small�she doesn�t much realize the void,� Frank said. �And I�d like to keep it that way.� �I see,� she said, folding her hands in front of her. �I don�t want to tell you how to do your job,� he said, �But I feel rather strongly that this is not the time to be discussing family functions within the classroom. You have a great mix of students here, and they are all touched by the war in some way or another.� �I understand your concern.� �If you wish to contact the parents, contact the parents�but don�t make the children do the footwork.� �I will take that into consideration.� Frank stood up, holding his hat in his arm, and extended his hand for a shake. Mrs. Forester stood up and met his hand with a nervous tremble. �Thank you for meeting with me and letting me know how well my Isa is doing,� he said. �I hope she continues to be successful in your class.� �I think she will be, sir,� Mrs. Forester said, seriously. �If she knows what is good for her,� Frank laughed, putting his hat on and walking out the door. Frank walked out the door and offered his arm to Isabelle. �Miss Marot, shall we?� he said. She giggled, linking her arm into his the best she could, and they walked away from the school. �When do you think the war will end?� Isabelle asked her father, looking at the front page of the paper he was reading. She sat up on her knees alongside his chair and poked his knee until he paid attention to her. She had grown tall in the passing years and nearly looked him in the eye as he sat. �Well,� Frank said, �It could be awhile. We just barely got involved in it, baby.� �But what is there to be done?� �Well,� he said. �A lot of these problems have been growing for a long time. Before I was born, even.� �Really?� �Yes ma�am. The things people are fighting over now are a little different, but they are rooted in the same thing.� �Do you know any Nazis?� �No dear,� he said, patting her head. �I don�t ever want to go to Europe,� she said. Frank sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh and put the paper down. �Don�t say that Isabelle,� he said. �We would be living in Paris right now if the goddamned Germans weren�t over there.� �Paris?� Isabelle said. �Why Paris?� �Because it is my favorite city, dear.� He said. �There is so many wonderful things there. Some of my best memories are from when I was in Paris.� �I don�t know how to speak French,� Isabelle said. �So�I cant live there.� �You�d learn fast,� he said. �You�d be amazed.� �Yes?� she asked. �Of course,� he said. �Instead of �yes� say �oui.�� �Weeee,� she said. �That means �yes� in French,� he said. �What about �no�?� �It is the same�just pronounced a little differently. Short. �No.�� Isabelle repeated some additional words and phrases he said. She giggled when she said them because they tickled her throat and nose. �They are kind of silly,� Isabelle said. �It is a lovely language,� he said. �I can�t wait to take you there someday.� �Someday. When there aren�t any more Nazi�s.� �Yes, dear,� he said, sighing and stroking his chin. �Though, there aren�t many things in the world you can take away completely. There will always be Nazis now�just not necessarily in power.� �You can keep them away from me,� she smiled, hugging him. �I will,� he said. �I�ll always keep you safe.� Dear Anna, September 25th, 1944 Thank you again for all your kind wishes concerning Isabelle and myself. She asks about you every time she sees a letter from you, and we proceed to talk about the working of the world right now and what she doesn�t remember about NYC. I also thank you for your prayers concerning my luck in not being called to service�I�m amazed. I figure, somewhat, that my luck has been so rotten lately all I could top it off with is to be fighting in a war for the wrong country�though, I suppose the end result is the same�protecting France and the rest of civilized nations. All of that brings me to your letter and your asking when I intend on returning to NYC. I fear it could be some time before I get the chance; once the war is over I intend on putting in for a transfer to Paris again, when I can enjoy it on my own terms. Isabelle, though scared of the war now, is curious about new places and I know she would love it. We would both learn so much, Anna. I miss you considerably and hope to see you sometime soon. You are far away but not forgotten. With love, Frank. �Father,� Isabelle asked. �We have to do a report for school on heroes. We�re supposed to ask someone at home about their heroes. Like an interview.� �Then I expect you to get your questions ready and do it properly,� Frank said, sitting up and winking at her, dashing his cigarette ash in the tray at his right side. �Mr. Frank Marot,� Isabelle said, her papers shuffling in her hands as she stood before him. �My name is Isabelle and I am doing a project for school about heroes. Can I ask you a few questions?� �Yes miss,� he said. �I�d be delighted if you did.� �Who are some of your heroes, Mr. Marot?� �Goodness,� he said. �Well�lately I�ve found myself mighty fond of Prime Minister Churchill. In a more intimate way�Marx is an incredible mind to follow. OH! My ultimate hero�is a man named Nietzsche,� Frank said. �Can you spell that?� Isabelle said, handing him the paper and pencil. He scribbled down the name and handed it back to her. �What makes someone heroic?� Isabelle asked. He crossed his legs and sat back calmly. �Someone who is articulate, confident, powerful�but not because of guns or because they can kill anyone, but because of their minds.� �Hmm. What about�people. Are they just normal people, or artists or political people?� �They are kind of a little bit of each, Isabelle,� he said. �That is interesting.� �Do you think most heroes are a combination of all those kinds?� �I think they might be,� he said. �Otherwise we would never be fascinated by them.� *** �Father,� Isabelle said, stomping her foot at the inside of their flat in Paris. �You taught me all of these French words but I still can�t read anything around here.� �Give it some time, doll,� he said, laying his jacket over the chair, inspecting the new flat they had rented. �I think I�m going to be eaten alive by the French,� Isabelle said. �I�m not ready to talk to them. Not to anyone.� �So you are going to be silent, then?� he asked. She nodded and turned to close herself inside her room realizing that there were three doors to select from, and her father would not indicate which was hers. She let out a muffled groan and turned toward Frank with little patience. �Which of these rooms is mine?� she asked. Frank laughed at her and responded in French, watching her listen carefully and react to his statements. She stormed into the room and closed the door with a thud, only to come back out minutes later and cuddle against Frank�s arm in exhaustion. Frank always stopped for the street vendors selling books on the bank of the Seine. Isabelle would look onto the table with little ability to read or understand the titles. The covers were always interesting, and despite the clich� she had been raised with, she supported that the cover must say something about the book itself. Sometimes Frank would go to the office and allow Isabelle to wander the streets below on her own, insisting that a 13 year old girl couldn�t get into trouble. Isabelle, in the habit, would also stop at the tables of books and look over them with a silent critique like her father did. She didn�t gloss over them as her father did, but she searched for the cover of one she had seen with her father once. It was a crab, holding a woman in its claws, over a distorted globe. She was anxious to read the insides, assuming it would be a novel about giant crabs taking over the world. Crab domination�crawling on the streets and stealing the women away to take care of the crab babies. She laughed as she went from table to table until she happened to pass by it, stopping with alarm. She dug in her pocket for the few francs her father had given her for the afternoon and put her hand on it politely to purchase it from the young man behind the stacks. She walked away with general elation and affixed herself to the park bench adjacent from her father�s office. She opened the first page with excitement and began to read. When it came time for her father to pick her up she carefully wrapped and hid the book inside her pack and waited with patience, images she had read about swimming through her head at a rapid pace. It was most certainly not a novel about Crab Domination�not even crabs could make her blush and squirm the way this man Miller did. She decided not to mention it to her father, even though she wanted to know whom these crazy people were that he worked with and made books for. As he walked toward her with his suit fastened tightly she decided that her father would not associate with a text of that caliber, and she smiled at him sweetly, greeting him, knowing the burning curiosity was only growing in her pack. Isabelle snuck into her room quietly as her father prepared dinner for the two of them. She unwrapped the book from her pack, sneaking a look at a few more pages, and slid it under her mattress carefully and deeply. She vowed to give it the attention it deserved later that evening, when everyone was asleep. When she could roll on her bed and fully appreciate the things this Miller fellow had to say to her. *** �It will only be two nights,� Isabelle said, kissing her father�s face as she ceased packing a small snap case box. �And you promise to be careful?� he asked. �I don�t trust Spain.� �Oh father, don�t be silly,� she said. �I�ll be just fine. Jean and Luc are coming along, and Marcia, too. You know them.� �You stay away from the boys,� Frank said. �Every year that passes they seem to come around more often�looking at you closer.� �Let them look,� Isabelle said, twirling around in her father�s arms. �And besides! It is a school trip! There will be plenty of supervision.� �How come I didn�t get a notice to chaperone?� Frank asked. �You are too busy, silly,� Isabelle said as she tried to push one more silky dress in the case. �And you don�t speak Spanish!� �I suppose,� he said, running his fingers over his scruffy jaw. �My little girl isn�t so little anymore. Just yesterday you were 4 months old and I was holding you in my arms�now you are 14 and running around foreign countries on your own.� Isabelle pushed her dark ringlets behind her ears and blushed. �I�ll miss you,� she said. �And I�m far more worried about how you�ll do without me than how I will do without you.� Frank grinned, hugged her, and excused himself from the room as the tears began to build and collect on his cheek. Isabelle double checked the door and pushed her copy of Tropic of Capricorn further between her mattresses. She looked across the room at all her little hiding spaces and left with the confidence that her room would be virtually speechless in her absence. �Isa!� Luc called out, rushing behind her and Marcia with a sudden immediacy. The group was strolling down the cobblestone pathways on a guided tour. Isabelle�s instructor at school had met and married a Spanish man while visiting a family flat in Biarritz. He was finishing the school year teaching in Pamplona before moving to Paris. The teachers walked together and watched the 8 or 9 pairs that scattered across the streets, completely preoccupied and blinded by the companionship novelty. �Isa!� Luc called out again, pulling on her sleeve. �We were walking with Senor Cavallo�s brother and heard him ask about you!� �Really? Isa! He�s so attractive,� Marcia rattled off in French quickly, pulling on her arm and looking at the topic of conversation with fluttering eyes. She and Luc mapped out the possibilities as Isabelle watched him walk, slightly apart from the group. He was tall and slim, and had maturing sharp features that flowed with his honey golden skin. His hands were squished into his pockets and he walked aimlessly, tuning out Mr. and Mrs. Cavallo. He looked at her casually, catching her glance. His 17-year-old demeanor kept him from shying away and he smiled. Isabelle returned the sentiment with a small giggle and rushed to catch up with the others. �This is my favorite part,� Alvaro said approaching Isabelle calmly, watching her standing alone and observing the cathedral square. �It is better at night, though.� �I bet so,� Isabelle said, not looking at him. His hands were behind his back and his foot tapped softly in nervousness. �Maybe I can show you,� he said. �I�m sure my brother wouldn�t mind.� �That would be lovely,� Isabelle said, sending a smile in his direction without stopping to look at him directly for any moment of time. His eyes burned into her and created a fuzzy sensation in her and she giggled. �What?� he asked coyly. She shook her head as she wandered off from him. He rushed to catch up with her and walked a few steps before saying anything. �So you are American, yes?� he asked. She nodded. �Where are you from? Why are you living in Paris?� Isabelle kept quiet as long as possible but found herself talking to him nonstop and trying to clarify the translation by late-afternoon. At 10:15 p.m. Alvaro tapped against the window of Isabelle�s room and she carefully slid out the window without waking Marcia, sleeping in the bed feet from hers. He took her hand as they ran down the road quickly, both shaking slightly in nervousness and because of the cold glow of the silent street. He led her through the streets to the illuminated, majestic cathedral. �Amazing,� she said. �I never would have imagined what a difference the darkness would make. The night!� he held her hand gently and watched her watch the shadows and lights on the edifice before her. �The night can make a lot of difference,� he said. He moved in closer and took her face in his hands before kissing her. �The night�or one night?� Isabelle asked, sliding under his arm closely. His arm linked against her waist and they kissed again as he ushered them away from the square to a more sparsely populated area. �The church shouldn�t make me feel like this,� he said, backing her against a cool wall in a dark passageway. �Like what?� she asked. He kissed her again and let his hand move up her waist and over her breasts. She gasped slightly and let out a small groan as he pressed against her. She slid her hands against the small of his back and pulled him against her harder and she began to unbutton her dress. Alvaro grabbed her thigh roughly and brought it high against his leg and wrapped it around his hip as he excitedly grasped her skirt and gathered it high on her hips. He listened to Isabelle beg him to press against her harder, and followed directions clumsily as her hot breath entered his ears and her hands ran through his hair. �Spain will never be the same,� she whispered in his ear as she kissed his neck and abruptly called out his name. *** �And this is my daughter Isabelle,� Frank said, introducing her lanky-15 year old hand to a large warm one that had just been pulled from a suit coat pocket. �Nice to meet you Isabelle,� the man said, looking down at her with a sparkle in his eye. �My name is Lawrence.� �Mr. Ferlinghetti is finishing up his Ph.D. here, Isabelle,� Frank said. He turned to Lawrence and smiled. �She is always discussing her education and how she wants to study literature to the fullest like that.� �It is a fine goal,� he said to her. Frank had his arm around her and squeezed her lovingly before continuing his conversation over drinks in the next room and allowing Isabelle to return to her room. Isabelle closed the door to her room and pulled Tropic of Cancer from under her pillow. She lay on her stomach, the fat-fold marked � the way through in her hand, and continued to read with vigor as she kicked her feet and bit her lip on her bed. The grin on her face made it glow red against the creamy white of her bedding, and she sighed at, and nodded with each passage that struck her deeply. She jumped out of bed at the sound of laughter in the next room and checked the noise as it related to the proximity of her door. She laughed and looked over her bookcase and pulled the first row away and admired her small collection of Miller titles, flipping through each one and re-reading the passages she had marked. She put the fa�ade back and slid Tropic of Cancer back under her mattress and returned into the next room, and into conversation with extra excitement. She looked at the clock and stretched before sliding the book back under her mattress and skipping out the door. �Father�I�m going to see a show.� �Which one, dear?� �All About Eve,� she said, closing the door behind her before he could answer. *** �I�ve about had it here,� Frank said. �I�ve done my work with Sartre. I�m horrified to say it, but I�m beginning to miss New York.� �What is so great about New York?� Isabelle asked. �Let�s move to Spain if we have to leave Paris.� �We don�t have to do anything, sweetie�but you are almost done with school and you can go to university in New York.� �I�ll be so young in New York,� Isabelle said. �They are slow there�the last bit of high school will be so boring.� �You�ll like it,� he said. �This is the best time to be in New York�at your age.� Isabelle was not amused with leaving Paris. She had just begun to take the city on for herself, without the express guidance of Frank and his ever-watching companions that strolled the streets between their flat and the publishing house. Her library had grown, her language skills had improved incredibly and she was learning about the works still being produced in the area. �I refuse to return to New York,� Isabelle stomped at her father with a stern look on her face. �You refuse?� he asked, looking at her over his glasses. She nodded with a small pout and stomped her foot again. The woman downstairs hollered up to stop the noise and Frank gave Isabelle an evil glance. �You don�t have a choice, young lady,� he said. �I�m sorry you don�t want to go back, but we are.� �Why can�t I have a choice?� she asked. �I think I do. And I chose to stay here.� �You can chose to stay here,� he said. �But where will you stay? How will you feed yourself? Go to school?� �I have friends in Spain,� she said. �The ones that write you all the time?� Frank asked with a grin. Isabelle�s face melted into her neck and she closed her mouth with sadness. �He promised he would,� she said. �I know honey,� Frank said, watching her grow quiet from across the room. �Promises are skewed. They only serve one person.� �Hmm?� �My promise was to protect you,� he said. �And I�ve done that. And will continue to do that. You will be coming to New York�and if you want to make a stink about it, you�ll be sorry.� �Yes father,� she said, her head low. Isabelle threw her hands against her bouncy skirt and left the room. Frank stared at the space where she was standing and rubbed his eyes. He took a deep breath and held his glasses in his fingers by the arm. �Isabelle Valentine,� he said with a sigh and a slight shake of his head. �Valentine.� *** �Isabelle,� a neatly dressed woman said, approaching her desk. �I would like you to consider joining the debate team for the school.� �Debate team?� Isabelle said, gathering her things to leave for the afternoon. The woman looked down at her from over her glasses and smiled. �Yes dear,� she said. �You would be a fine addition to it, I believe. With you living in Paris the last few years you seem to know so much more than the rest of the students who have been here the whole time.� �I�m not interested,� Isabelle said. �All they do is argue, right?� �Not necessarily argue�more discuss and defend.� �I don�t like to argue,� she said. �And I don�t intend to get too accustomed to this school since I finish this semester.� �I suppose that is your decision,� the woman said, crossing the room hastily and sitting down. �But thank you for the proposition,� Isabelle said, sliding out the door. She walked down the steps of the school and started down the street toward the Movie Theater. Her hair bounced in a gathered curl and her skirt rode just below her knee as she casually carried her stack of books to the window, and the tired ticket man. �Good afternoon,� Isabelle said. He raised his head and smiled at her, surprised by her arrival and happy to see her. �Well hi, Isabelle,� he said. �You coming in?� �Yes,� she said with her hand on her heart. �Marlon Brando is calling my name.� �How many times is this?� he asked, laughing. �Only the third time,� she said. �You can�t get enough, really.� �I�ll take your word for it,� he said, dispensing the ticket after she slid the money through the slot. �Fine by me,� she said, batting her eyes at the man. �Enjoy,� he said. �I will,� she said, strutting through the doors and into the nearly empty theater. She sat down, her books in the seat beside her, and watched as the room darkened and soon the credits began. �You are late,� Frank said, scolding Isabelle as she walked in the door. �I�m sorry,� she said. �I was with Blanche DuBois.� �You and those silly films,� Frank said. �Did you have a good day at school?� �Fine, yes,� Isabelle said. �One less. One more closer to finishing.� �Very soon, yes,� he said. �See how good Paris was for you?� �Even this year is a lot of repetition,� she said. �It is amazingly different.� �You�ll soon be done, dear,� he said. �The sooner the better,� she said. �I�m tired of being Jerry Mulligan.� �Were you out studying?� Frank asked as Isabelle walked into the dark room of their apartment. Isabelle looked at her father, wiping some of her makeup off, and buttoned her cardigan tightly. �No sir,� she said. �Well�where then?� he asked. �You shouldn�t be out this late.� �Well,� she said. �I went to see �From Here to Eternity� and then talked with some kids from the university near the theater.� �That is all?� �Yes,� she said. �Oh Father�you need to see that picture�you would love it.� �Yeah?� he asked. �Quite so,� she said, moving in front of the clock he had been watching, as she advanced toward him. She sat across from him and proceeded in telling him the story until he dozed off. She smiled at his first snore and tiptoed into her room, undressed, and climbed into bed. She touched her lips with a giggle and fell asleep in the midnight darkness. �Out studying again, I presume?� Frank asked as Isabelle came into the house in the darkness he had left for her. She put her things down with a sigh and sat in front of him. �You need to trust me,� she said. �You want me to be part of the University and be like the other kids�this is how I do it. I�m watching films, Father. That�s all. Pictures and talking about books.� �What books?� he asked. Isabelle looked at him and rolled her eyes. �I�m tired, father,� she said. �If you want to talk to them, you should come along yourself.� �But then I�d have to sit through your silly films,� he said. �They are not silly,� she said. �Tonight I saw one that took place in Rome�� �Rome, huh?� he asked. �Yes! It was lovely. I�d like to go there, someday. How come we didn�t move to Italy?� �I don�t know,� he said. �We just didn�t.� �We should go there some day,� she said. �And I can be Princess Anne.� �If you keep calling yourself all these character names I won�t know what to call you in real life,� he said. �You are just like your mother. It is confusing as hell.� Isabelle looked at him a little hurt and excused herself, going directly to bed. Frank sat up, staring at the wall from the corner chair and eventually fell asleep. *** �Excuse me,� Isabelle said, recollecting herself and buttoning her cardigan, embarrassed, as she bumped into a lanky man with a receding hairline. He looked up and smiled at her, seeing that she was flustered, and shrugged it off. He continued down the corridor of paintings with his hands in his pockets, stretching his skinny belly before him with a C shaped stance. Isabelle went into a different room and slowly shuffled down the wall, gawking at the paintings until she ran into him again. He grabbed ahold of her shoulders, catching her balance before she fell, and she apologized profusely. �It�s all right�this room makes me dizzy, too� he said. She looked at his face as he looked at the painting on the wall. His lips were pressed together calmly and his Adam�s apple stuck out almost as much as his nose, which looked as though it had been broken a few dozen times. She quickly looked away when he looked at her, and they both laughed. �Maybe I�d be better after some coffee,� she said. �Would you join me?� �It may save you some trouble�then you wouldn�t have to find me and spill it on me,� he said. She nodded and he smiled, hoping his joke didn�t end up a backhanded insult, and they started toward the museum caf� that was riddled with people. �My name is�� he said, as a group of people broke their coupling apart. Isabelle stopped, searching for him, and found him surrounded by two men, and one woman. �Fraaaaank,� the woman said, her Long Island accent deafening her company. �Who�s your friend?� �My name is Frank,� he said, finishing his interrupted sentence. Isabelle looked at him with a smile and extended her hand. �I�m Isabelle,� she said. His friends took her hand and kissed it and he ushered them aside, waving goodbye to them as they hoarded down the corridor and out the door. He pulled a chair out for her and waved to the guy behind the counter and he promptly brought them two coffees. �Thanks,� Isabelle said as the cup and saucer clanked against the very little round table. �Thanks Trent,� Frank said. �When do you ever get a day off?� �Tomorrow, man�tomorrow.� Trent whipped his towel over his shoulder and strut back behind the counter. �You come here often, then?� Isabelle asked. Frank grinned slyly and laughed. �I work here.� �Oh,� she said, looking around. �That�s neat.� �Mmmhmm,� he said, pulling a napkin close to him. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and scribbled something down, stuffing it in his pocket all at once. �Do you work?� he asked. She shook her head and tried looking at him more carefully without seeming too obvious. �No,� she said. �In school?� he asked. She nodded. �What are you studying?� he asked. �Literature,� she said. �And according to my father, I�m studying Marlon Brando pretty seriously, too.� He laughed at her and nodded with approval. �That�s what I studied too,� he said. �At Harvard.� �Shit,� she said, covering her mouth. He laughed at her and put his hand on her hand. �It�s not that spectacular,� he said. �I work at a museum with people I love and write poetry. Not your typical graduate, I guess.� �Poetry, huh?� Isabelle asked. �Yes,� he said. �Nothing major�a lot of scribbles. My friends seem to like it.� �I�d like to read it sometime,� she said. �And what do I get of yours?� he asked, sipping his coffee with a bit of pride shooting down his spine. �Why�anything you want,� Isabelle said. �I�m pretty sure you�d get anything you asked for.� Isabelle swallowed hard as he smiled at her over his cup. He winked at her and sat back in his chair. �Come by my place tonight and we�ll go to a party�I�ll do some reading, I�m sure.� He found another napkin and scribbled down his address for her. She looked at him in admiration and he kissed her cheek and walked down the hallway, his hands in his back pockets. She watched carefully as she contemplated standing up, but made sure he was out of sight before she sped down the hallway and started for home. �Did you have a nice afternoon sweetheart?� Frank asked, kissing his daughter on the cheek as she waltzed into the room with an extra spring in her step. �I most certainly did,� she said. �I got invited to a party tonight.� �A party? By whom?� he asked, looking at her with a little fatherly concern. �I met a poet today at the Museum of Modern Art�his name is Frank,� she said. �Frank, huh? Can�t be all that bad,� he laughed. She kissed his cheek and twirled into the next room still talking. Frank followed her so he could hear, and watched her shuffle through the clothes in her closet with a furious attempt of finding something gorgeous to wear. �So�I kept running into him, and somehow I managed to invite him to coffee,� she said. �We didn�t talk much, really, but I must have made some kind of impression.� �Is he good looking?� Frank asked. �Quite so�he looks like a poet, father,� she said pulling out a dress and holding it against her body, checking in the mirror. �How old is he?� �I don�t know�he graduated from Harvard, though!� �Older than you,� Frank said. �Isa�don�t get in over your head.� �I�ll be 18 in a few weeks,� she said. �I�ve finished school and already started university early. I don�t think you have much to worry about.� �You are always right,� he said, exiting the room. �I�ll leave you the address just to be safe,� she called out before closing her door with a small bang. Frank smiled to himself, satisfied with her shout, and sat down with the newspaper. Isabelle walked carefully up the stairs to the third story apartment Frank had left directions to. It was completely silent and a little spooky for a girl to be exploring on her own at 8pm. She watched the numbers on the door and almost broke out in a cry when the last door in the hallway was without a number. She recounted the numbers before and figured it had to be the logical choice to pick�prime numbers on the right side would equal his door. She knocked softly and listened to her heart race, as she smoothed her form fitting skirt and fluffed her hair on the sides. Frank opened the door with a drunken stare and looked at her waist with a confused glare. �Yeah?� he asked. He looked up slowly and saw Isabelle smiling at him with apparent nervousness just behind her outer-cool-core. �Am I too early?� Isabelle asked. �Museum�yeah,� he said. He leaned against the door and opened it just enough for her to sneak in. He held up a finger and picked up the phone and connected himself to the wall, the curly cord passing by his drink as he talked, leaned against the wall. Isabelle looked at his apartment trying not to seem too curious. There were papers stacked on papers in every possible spot they could stand. All of the ashtrays were full and there were cartons of cigarettes on many surfaces, holding pens that had been punctured through their tops. Frank hung up the phone and walked to her, turning her around with surprise by her waist. �You clean up nice, kid,� he said. She blushed, and tried not to swoon right there at his feet. �Thank you,� she said. �Isabelle, right?� She nodded in response and he nodded back. He circled a few times, sticking papers and items in his pockets. There was a new cigarette bouncing in his mouth each time he reentered the room. He grabbed her by the shoulders and smiled. �Sorry�how rude of me. Want one?� he took his cigarette out of his mouth and offered her a drag. She took it carefully and put the wet paper between her lips and took a deep breath of it all, blowing her smoke to the side of them seductively. Frank grinned at her and looked in her eyes as she returned it to his lips. He patted her hip and jingled a set of keys in his hand. �We�re set.� They walked briskly down the dark and damp street and cut through a couple of alleys in silence before arriving at a populated caf�. Frank grabbed her hand and led her inside as people greeted him cordially and looked her over with a moment�s interest, soon forgetting her presence. Frank pulled a chair out and Isabelle sat in it. He got them each a drink from the bar then sat down next to her, closely. It took 5 minutes before different friends were crowding the table and they were trapped. �I always sit in the corner because then I�m always the center of attention,� he whispered into her ear warmly. Isabelle chuckled and watched him smoothly stir up trouble with his friend�s conversations. Soon they were debating about painters and art shows and defending their favorite painters to the death. �Isabelle�who is your favorite painter?� Frank asked, his friends staring at her with curiosity as to who the hell she even was. They listened intently because Frank listened intently. �Well,� she said, �I�m a fan of many of the people you�ve mention, but my favorite is my mother.� �Your mother was a painter?� Frank asked excitedly. �Here?� �Yes,� she said. �She had a few exhibitions near Harlem in the 30�s.� �What was her name?� One of his friends asked. �Valentine Bradden,� Isabelle said proudly. No one had heard of her, which was expected, but they gave her a little more respect after her statement. Frank smiled at her fresh face and nudged close to her, comfortably leaning into and laughing with her. The debates continued for hours and the people came and went�some disappeared en route to the bathroom and some left in pairs, intoxicated and feeling lonely. Frank got quiet and watched other people talk as he scribbled down a few words on scraps of paper he found on the table, while still following conversation and interjecting in appropriate times. Isabelle watched Frank carefully and he caught her a few times, putting his arm around her and squeezing her warmly and kissing her forehead. �You are so sweet,� he said. �I could just eat you up.� �Careful not to get a bellyache,� his friend warned, winking at Isabelle. A woman swung her hands around his shoulders with an exasperating �Oh John� and took his attention. Isabelle slid from behind the table and took a walk around the place, casually sliding into the bathroom. It was muffled quiet inside, the roar of the conversations echoing against the floor. She took a deep breath after fixing her hair, and walked out refreshed and ready to be attentive. When she approached the table most of the group was gone, and Frank was sitting with his arms spread around the empty chairs next to him. �Good friends, huh?� he asked. �The best kind. So silent.� Isabelle laughed at him and he stood up and grabbed her hand. �Now the fun begins,� he said. They walked outside and somehow climbed into the back of a black Buick, Isabelle sitting on Frank�s lap. They were pressed against John so closely Isabelle could smell the girl he was necking with on his breath. �Where are we going?� she asked quietly in his ear. He wrapped his arms around her tight and brought his lips to her ear after nudging it with his nose. �A couple painter friends of mine live together�we�re going to their place.� Isabelle nodded her head, trying to fight off yawns, and rested her cheek against Frank�s cheek. He kept quiet so as not to disturb her as she sat fading in and out of consciousness at 1am�preparing for what the rest of the night was to hold. They arrived and entered in groups of 3 or 4 until the room was out of seats. Some sat on the floor. Frank let Isabelle have the last chair and he sat on the floor next to her legs, sometimes leaning his head against her unskirted calf. The group laughed and talked, as they had before, but with more of an intellectual edge. It was less rant and rave and more centered on art and politics. A few hours in Frank stood up and stretched, signaling the rest of the group that it was finally getting a little late. A few people looked at their watches and groaned. 4.30am. �Let�s get some coffee and get on with the day,� Frank said. �I�ve got a meeting in a few hours.� The groups filed into the car and began dropping off those who were ready to go home. �I think I�m going to go home,� Isabelle said. �I can�t stay awake much longer�I�m not used to these hours.� �All right�say�tell Willem where you live and we�ll drop you off.� Frank said, pulling on Willem�s collar. He listened to Isabelle�s directions and they were soon at the street side of her apartment. There were only 3 people left in the car, and Frank escorted her out. �You live pretty close to the museum,� he said. She nodded, looking for her keys in her bag. �Yeah�it�s nice,� she said. She yawned sweetly and Frank grinned at her. She opened the door and he held it open for her, giving Willem a wave of a wait-a-minute finger, and followed her in. �I�ll walk you up,� he said. She stood next to her door and smiled at him groggily. �Thanks for letting me tag along,� she said. �It was fun.� �It was nice to have you along�I enjoyed it,� He said. She could hardly keep her eyes open and he pulled her forehead close and kissed it softly. �Get some sleep,� he said. �And don�t be a stranger.� Isabelle was inside her door and nearly passed out on her bed before he could rush down the stairs and walk out the door. Frank looked up at the building with a smile and hopped in the passenger seat of the car as it sped away. �Isa..� Frank called, tapping on the door of her room. She sat up and looked at her father, putting her Henry Miller book aside quickly, and tried to erase the blush in her cheeks. �Yes?� �Someone is at the door for you,� he said. Isabelle walked out with curiosity, and opened it carelessly to find Frank standing at the other end. �Hey doll,� he said. �How are you?� Isabelle flushed immediately and started to smooth out her skirt and fix her hair. She invited him in and ushered him past her fathers closed study doors and into the doorway of her room. �I�m all right�� she said. �Just reading.� �What are you reading?� he asked, eyeing her bookshelves as they climbed the walls. �Miller. Henry Miller,� she said. �A Brooklyn boy,� Frank said with a smile. �Good stuff.� She looked him over with a smile. �Come out and play,� he said. She looked at him and shook her head. �I can�t tonight,� she said. �I have a party to attend with my father.� �Too bad,� he said. �Can you come out walking now?� �I can,� she said. �A stroll would do me good.� Frank offered her his arm and they went down to the street and walked in bliss, watching the people around them scurry to their engagements. �So when are you going to come by? I should make you dinner and make you talk more,� he said. �And I�d like to hear more about your mother.� �Whenever you invite me, Frank,� Isabelle said, blushing, and trying not to stare at him as they walked�not paying attention caused tripping and running into people. �Well,� he said. �I�ll let you know when I can.� She nodded at him, a little disappointed. �It�s been pretty hectic lately, and I don�t want to cancel on you.� �I understand,� she said. �I tell you what though�come meet me in the main entrance tomorrow at 12.40 and we�ll have lunch.� �I�ll have to check my book�you know 12.40 on a Thursday is a pretty popular time,� Isabelle laughed. �I�d imagine it would be for a girl like you,� he said. She looked down and giggled softly and had the sudden compulsion to wrap her arms around him and kiss him right there on the street. He let go of her arm as they approached her front stoop, and he bowed toward her. �Thanks for the walk,� he said. �I must be going now.� Isabelle looked at him with her lips pressed tightly, and her hand rested on her stomach, which was fluttering. �Bye,� she said. �See you tomorrow.� Lunch dates came and went, evening dinner parties drew to late night closes and the standard crowd was starting to remember Isabelle and who she was, even if they mixed her name up occasionally. �I tell you,� Isabelle said, sipping tea at noon. �I don�t know how he does it.� �You haven�t been getting much sleep either, sweetie,� Frank said, looking at the circles growing under his daughter�s eyes. �I got in at 4,� she said. �I slept late enough.� �Well,� Frank said, putting his plate in the sink, �I�ve got to get back to work.� �Have a nice rest of the day,� Isabelle said. He tipped his hat at her and walked out the door. As he left, Frank walked up and nodded at him politely, remembering vaguely that it was Isabelle�s father he was coming face to face with. Isabelle�s father held the door open for Frank and listened as he skipped up the steps and laughed at his wrinkled appearance; the circles under Isabelle�s eyes were nothing in comparison to Frank�s. �Did you forget something?� Isabelle asked, opening the door after hearing a small knock. She opened it and found Frank smiling at her and she almost dropped her tea in surprise. �Just you,� he said, walking in and kissing her cheek. She looked at him, in the same clothes as he was wearing the night before, and laughed. �You haven�t slept yet? Have you even been home?� she asked. �No�but I wanted to see you,� he said. �I wanted to see your mother�s paintings.� Isabelle looked down at herself and looked at him. �I�ll wait for you to get dressed,� he said. �But the robe is mighty pretty�it could be the newest style.� Isabelle put down her tea and rushed into her room to change into something suitable for wandering the city with Frank. �Most of my mother�s paintings were sold by a man named Bresson,� Isabelle said. Frank nodded his head, familiar with the name, and listened further. Isabelle worked her way to the top floor of her father�s old house, and Frank followed intently, almost silently. Frank stood up the best he could and marveled at the stacks of canvas against the walls before ever looking at what was on them. They each started in a different stack and flipped through them taking in the different colors and different techniques Valentine had used. �This is my favorite,� Isabelle said. She pulled out the painting of the bathtub and showed it to Frank who looked at it silently. �My father told me this is the painting that made him propose to my mother.� �Interesting choice,� he said, looking at it carefully. �He bought it at a gallery and came to pick it up late that night�when he did, they hit it off and he ended up proposing to her within the next week.� �Sounds like a pretty important part of her collection, then.� �I guess so,� she said. �It has some French influence�so does this stuff here,� he said. �They are probably from around the same time frame.� Frank held out some paintings and Isabelle looked at them in a different light now that he was selecting them for her to look at. �Well, it was around �35 that they returned from Paris,� Isabelle said. �I think.� �You think?� he laughed. �I get the story all mixed up,� she said. �My dad doesn�t like to talk about it.� �When did your mom die?� he asked, sitting down now, just talking to her as she looked through paintings. She came closer to him and leaned against him softly. �I was 7.� �Pretty young,� he said. �Do you remember her much?� �No�not much. I spent a lot of time with my dad and not much with her. Dad said she was sick a lot, so we were always out trying to cheer each other up.� �Is that what she died from? What was she sick with?� �I�m not sure,� Isabelle said. �Dad said she started abusing drugs after I was born because she was depressed�I�d guess that had something to do with it.� �Sounds like your Dad doesn�t really want you to know,� he said. Isabelle looked at Frank and emitted a confused expression. �That is true, I guess,� she said. �I suppose I never press because I don�t want to make him remember things he�s tried hard to forget.� �That�s pretty considerate of you,� he said. She nodded at him and got up carefully, dusting her skirt off. They went down the stairs and arrived on the street with relief at the amount of fresh air passing by them. Isabelle looked at him and brushed his cheek with her hand softly. �You look tired, Frank,� she said. �I�ll walk you home so you can get some sleep.� They walked quietly until they arrived at Frank�s building, and he insisted that she come up and keep him company a little longer. He promised her that she could read something of his while he made them coffee. Isabelle followed without needed much prompting. �That is lovely,� she said to Frank as he sprawled out on the couch. She handed him his paper and he looked it over and it sailed onto the floor to join the other scraps. �I�ll let you get some sleep now,� she said. Isabelle stood up and gathered her things and began for the door when Frank bolted up and met her at the door with immediacy. �What�s the matter?� he asked. �Nothing,� she said. �You are tired.� �I�m fine,� he said, forcing his eyes open with some general twitches of his head and a raise of his forehead. �Frank,� she said. �If you don�t want me to leave, just say it. I�d be more than happy to stay.� �I think you have the wrong idea,� he said. She looked at him and softly grabbed his hand as she moved in closer and closer. He moved at her with a kiss, jumping the gap, and she softly pressed against his belly as his hands moved around her waist and pressed her against the door. She dropped her bag. When he pulled away he looked sad and could hardly look in her eyes. �I tried,� he said. �I did.� �Tried what?� she asked, emotionally vulnerable and highly confused. She wanted another kiss. �Isabelle,� he said, �I love being with you, but I�m afraid I�ve led you down the wrong path.� �What do you mean?� she asked, fumbling her hands against her skirt and casually reaching out trying to grab hold of his as he gestured with them abruptly. �I feel so good with you,� he said, �And I thought maybe it was my time to fall for a girl.� �And?� �I can�t do it,� he said. �What?� she asked, angry and turned on at the same time. He looked up at her with sad eyes and took her hand and kissed it. �You get me here,� he said, placing her hand on his heart, �but not here,� placing her hand against his crotch. �And you have been too good to tell me this whole time I�ve been swooning and falling for you?� she screeched, her eyes filling. �I�m sorry,� he said. �I thought�I tried.� Isabelle took a deep sharp breath and picked up her bag from the floor and fumbled with the door and the lock. Frank held the door for her as she turned to him and looked at him with a pout. She took her hand to his cheek and kissed him once more to her satisfaction, his full warm lips sliding sweetly against hers. She looked at him as she pulled away and whispered �goodnight� to him. She was crying by the time she met the street. The next few days were quiet for Isabelle as she read some of the poetry Frank had given her. She recognized the names collected in the little title page and smiled to herself quickly before wiping the memory clean. Frank Marot had been working late hours and Isabelle had the apartment to herself�she�d bathe, walk around in a robe smoking and drinking coffee, looking out the window with hope. She saw �From Here to Eternity� a dozen times in 5 days. After confining herself to her own company for a week Isabelle got dressed, did her makeup and hair, and gathered her things to go out. Her father was home for lunch and reminded her that he was expected in California shortly, and that he would be leaving that evening. Isabelle smiled at him and wished him a happy trip. �Isabelle honey,� Frank said, setting his bag down on the table as he put on his jacket and hat. �Yes father?� she asked, coming out and looking at him sweetly. �I have something I�d like to talk to you about.� They sat down on the couch together and Frank looked at her with a smile. �California is lovely�� he said. �And I think I found us a house.� �In California?� she asked. �Yes,� he said. �In San Francisco. The meeting I have to attend is because they would like me to run the office out there.� �Oh,� Isabelle said. �And�I know you are old enough to live on your own, but I wanted you to know that you are welcome to come out with us.� �Us?� �Yes, dear.� Frank pulled on his collar and spoke quickly. �I�m going to invite Anna to come live with us.� �Oh,� Isabelle said as if he had socked her in the chest. �As a roommate or...housekeeper?� �As a friend,� he said. �She is the best friend I�ve got, sweetie.� �I see,� she said. �When are we going?� �Probably within the month,� he said. �Should give you enough time to arrange your affairs.� �Yes sir,� she said. Isabelle went into her bedroom and looked out the window at the street below. She wished that Frank would show up and whisk her away so she didn�t have to think about leaving. She grabbed a cardigan and pulled it on as she walked out of the apartment and towards the museum grounds. She sat in front of it, pacing, smoking, and waiting for anyone resembling him. After a couple of hours she paced inside the museum, and still came up empty handed. She looked at every man she saw twice to see if it was Frank. She walked toward the library and wondered about California. �Should I go? Maybe I can go back to France�or stay here�� she muttered under her breath as she carefully pulled the proper sources of research out for Universities in all those places. �A new place would be nice�a new school with new people. No more Frank or any of that scene I can�t seem to fit into.� She brought back information in both Los Angeles and San Francisco and began debating about Anna. After extensive research she was still not ready to return to her empty house. She stood tall, her black heels making her a lanky five foot nine, and her hair was curled around her face in a perfect frame. Her lashes were heavy black and her lips a ruby red. She grabbed her things and strut herself to Frank�s apartment with intense intention not to be stopped. She was Princess Anne�who could stop her? Isabelle buzzed at the front steps and was let inside. She climbed the stairs carefully and arrived at Frank�s numberless door with confidence. The door opened just as she knocked. �Why�hello,� John said, swinging the door open and pressing his face against it�s skinny side. �Good afternoon,� Isabelle said. John looked her over so intently that Isabelle blushed. �C�mon in�Frank is in the bath�he won�t come out.� �Oh�� Isabelle said. �Did you tell him I was here?� �He knows,� John said. �Want a drink?� Isabelle sat down among the scraps of paper and looked at the open book on the table where John had been sitting. John sat next to her closely and handed a heavy glass half full of scotch into her eager hand. She crossed her legs, the top leading towards John and she smiled. �How have you been?� John asked. �Fine,� she said. �And yourself?� �Good,� he said. �But tired.� �I�d imagine so,� she said. She looked at him and smiled, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth seductively. John leaned in closer and scrunched his face. �So where have you been?� he asked. �Frank�s been looking for you a bit.� �He knows where to find me,� Isabelle said. �Besides. I doubt I was ever that interesting for him.� �Maybe,� John said. �He had a lot of friends to deal with.� �That aren�t girls,� Isabelle said before swallowing a giant swig of scotch. John smiled at her empty class and asked if she wanted some more. Isabelle nodded and when John sat back down at her side, he was closer than before. �Girls are trouble,� John said. �They come waltzing in with their fancy shoes and nice dresses and make our sensibilities fall to the floor.� �It is your own fault,� Isabelle said, touching his arm, �If you can�t resist.� �Ah,� John said, bringing his mouth to her cheek and whispering. �I can�t resist.� Isabelle sat up straight and John�s hand rested on her knee. He looked at her and they both understood. �I�m going to go talk with Frank,� she said, getting up. John sat back, took a drink and grinned at her. �Frank?� Isabelle said, knocking on the door. She twisted the knob and opened it slowly. �I�m coming in.� Isabelle found Frank sitting in the bathtub, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He was breathing calmly, the water up to his chest and swirling in blue and white soapsuds. His hands were in his lap and one knee stuck up out of the water. She walked carefully, minimizing the click of her shoes on the tile, and sat on the edge of the tub and faced him. �Frank,� she said softly, her hand touching his face softly. He turned his head toward her hand and sandwiched it against his shoulder in affection. �Isabelle,� he said. He opened his eyes slightly and looked at her drunkenly. She kissed his forehead and stood up, finding his robe and holding it in front of the tub until he got out and slid into it. Before he could tie it, she wrapped her arms around him and he dripped on her shoes while she held him closely. The hair on the back of his head was damp and in little curls and she pressed her fingers against it. �Frank,� she said, �I really do love you.� �I�m sorry Isa,� he said. �You are the first one,� she said. �But not the last.� �You�ll find a lucky boy,� he said. She looked at him and his revealed skin and took his head in her hands. She kissed his forehead, his closed eyes, his nose, and his lips. Then his lips harder and more seductively until he pulled away. �I�m afraid I can�t see you anymore,� she said. �I can�t control myself around you. I�m leaving.� Frank stood quiet and she gave him a final embrace, taking a deep breath of his scent. She walked out the bathroom door and found John sitting in a chair facing the door, reading. �It was good to see you again John,� she said. He stood up quickly and raced out the door behind her. �Hey�you too,� he said, looking her over again. �What are you doing tonight?� �I�m not sure,� she said, stopping and placing one hand on the wall in the hall. �Why don�t you let me come pick you up�we�ll do something,� he said. �I suppose that could be fun,� she said. He walked closer to her and pulled out a piece of paper and searched for a pencil as Isabelle pulled out on of her bag. She scribbled down her address and looked at him with a seductive smile. He put his hand on her hip and pulled her closer, but not against him. �I�ll see you later then,� he said. She put her and on his cheek and raised her brow. �I guess so,� she said. He pulled her a little closer and brushed his lips against her jaw. �You will,� he said. She let out a small breath of excitement and walked down the stairs with wobbly ankles. John rang the Marot bell at 7.45 P.M. Isabelle answered it excitedly and invited him inside for a drink while he proposed the evening�s festivities. �Still looking lovely,� he said, looking her over at the door. �And you are still charming,� she laughed. He winked at her and sat down, watching her scoot around the place. He took his drink happily, and grabbed her wrists as she began to pull away. He invited her to sit down beside him casually and grinned at her. �Frank says you are trouble,� he said. �Did he now?� she asked. �I most certainly am not.� �I could see where you could be�a good looking girl like you strutting around.� �It isn�t trouble if you go about it the right way,� she said. �And what way is that?� he asked, his hand back on her knee. �Like this?� �Perhaps,� she said, looking at him with a sultry demeanor. �How about this?� he asked, putting his glass down and placing one hand on her cheek and the other on her waist, turning her. �Mmmhmm,� she said. He pulled her close and kissed her full on the mouth with excessive passion. Isabelle let out a delicious moan and John took it as a sign of success. Isabelle ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer again as he ran his hand up her leg, and then back down to go under her skirt. She giggled at him and bit his lip softly. �Now now,� she said. �You must know the trouble you are getting into.� He looked at her with heavy eyes and watched her stand up. He followed her and put his hands on her waist. She took his hand and led her to her bedroom and closed the door. John pinned her against it as he undid her dress and she giggled as his cold nose pressed against her hot skin. He swung her onto the bed and followed the lead with an energetic leap. �Isabelle,� John said, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the top. He leaned against the door as Isabelle lay in bed smoking, ignoring his getting up and dressing quickly. The sun was coming up and patches of light were spreading across the room. �Hmm?� she asked, tired and aggravated. �Can I come by again sometime? Or call you?� He nearly whispered the last part and started towards the bed with a yawn. He sat on the edge and let his hand run over her stomach and pat her behind. �You can try,� Isabelle said, �But I won�t be here.� �I�m afraid I don�t understand,� John said. She sat up and looked at him with a hidden grin. �I�m moving away,� she said. �I�m leaving.� �Oh,� he said. She got out of bed and opened the door for him. �Thanks for keeping me company,� she said. He nodded at her, his feet moving as though they were as confused as his head. She kissed his cheek and closed the door behind him with a bang. �I�m leaving,� she said to herself. �The new house is a lot like this on the inside,� Frank said to Isabelle as they walked through an upscale store downtown. They each were carrying a bag of considerable weight, and looked up the vaulted ceilings to avoid speaking to one another. �Fantastic, father,� Isabelle said. �But I don�t think I�ll be seeing it any time soon.� �What do you mean?� he asked, looking at her with alarm. �I�m not interested in moving to San Francisco with you,� she said. �Or with Anna.� �Do you want to stay here?� he asked. �No,� she said. �I don�t want to stay here, either.� �Then�� he said, confused and angry. His jaw was clenched and he looked at her coldly. �I wouldn�t mind moving to Los Angeles, father,� she said. �Hollywood crazed child! What would you do there?� �Attend University,� she said. �San Francisco has better studies, dear,� he said. �I don�t want to live in San Francisco.� �So you are going to move to Los Angeles?� he asked. �Not immediately,� she said. �I�m trying to arrange a position someplace else before I go.� �Where?� he asked. �Spain.� �Spain!?� Frank asked, the bag shaking in his hand, ready to rip. He put it down between his feet and put his hands on his hips roughly, commanding more explanation. �How long have you been planning this?� he asked. �Not long at all�it sort of just happened.� �And what will you do in Spain?� �Teach,� she said. �And begin more studies.� �I see.� Isabelle continued to walk as Frank fell behind and rushed to her side. She had a satisfied smile on her face and couldn�t be bothered with the red-tinted twist her father had on his. �Come on father,� she said. �Let�s get home. We both have a lot of work to do.� |