“How was it?” he asked her.
“Wonderful,” she smiled at him. “But I didn’t see any fish at all,” she told David.
“You probably wouldn’t in so much surf,” David said. “Unless you bumped into them.”
She was sitting on the sand with her hands clasped around her knees. Her hair hung, damp, to her shoulders and the two boys sat beside her. Roger lay on the sand in front of her with his forehead on his folded arms. Thomas Hudson opened the screen door and went inside the house and then upstairs to the porch to work on the picture. He thought that was the best thing for him to do.
Below on the sand, where Thomas Hudson no longer watched them, the girl was looking at Roger.
“Are you gloomy?” she asked him.
“No.”
“Thoughtful?”
“A little maybe. I don’t know.”
“On a day like this it’s nice not to think at all.”
“All right. Let’s not think. Is it all right if I watch the waves?”
“The waves are free.”
“Do you want to go in again?”
“Later.”
“Who taught you to swim?” Roger asked her.
“You did.”
Roger raised his head and looked at her.
“Don’t you remember the beach at Cap d’Antibes? The little beach. Not Eden Roc I used to watch you dive at Eden Roc.”
“What the hell are you doing here and what’s your real name?”
“I came to see you,” she said “And I suppose my name is Audrey Bruce.”
“Should we go, Mr. Davis?” young Tom asked.
Roger did not even answer him.
“What your real name?”
“I was Audrey Raeburn.”
“And why did you come to see me?”
“Because I wanted to. Was it wrong?”
“I guess not,” Roger said. “Who said I was here?”
“A dreadful man I met at a cocktail party in New York. You’d had a fight with him here. He said you were a beachcomber.”
“Well it’s combed pretty neatly,” Roger said looking out to sea.
“He said you were quite a few other things, too. None of them were very complimentary.”
“Who were you at Antibes with?”
“With mother and Dick Raeburn. Now do you remember?”
Roger sat up and looked at her. Then he went over and put his arms around her and kissed her.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“Was it all right to come?” she asked.
“You old brat,” Roger said. “Is it really you?”
“Do I have to prove it? Couldn’t you just believe it?”
“I don’t remember any secret marks.”
“Do you like me now?”
“I love you now.”
“You couldn’t expect me to look like a colt forever. Do you remember when you told me I looked like a colt at Auteuil that time and I cried?”
“It was a compliment, too. I said you looked like a colt by Tenniel out of Alice in Wonderland.”
“I cried.”
“Mr. Davis,” Andy said. “And Audrey. We boys are going to go and get some Cokes. Do you want any?”
“No, Andy. You, brat?”
“Yes. I’d love one.”
“Come on, Dave.”
“No. I want to hear it.”
“You are a bastard for a brother sometimes,” young Tom said.
“Bring me one, too,” David said. “Go right ahead, Mr. Davis, don’t mind me at all.”
“I don’t mind you, Davy,” the girl said.
“But where did you go and why are you Audrey Bruce?”
“It’s sort of complicated.”
“I guess it was.”
“Mother married a man named Bruce finally.”
“I knew him.”
“I liked him.”
“I pass,” Roger said. “But why the Audrey?”
“It’s my middle name. I took it because I didn’t like mother’s.”
“I didn’t like mother.”
“Neither did I. I liked Dick Raeburn and I liked Bill Bruce and I loved you and I loved Tom Hudson. He didn’t recognize me either, did he?”
“I don’t know. He’s strange and he might not say. I know he thinks you look like Tommy’s mother.”
“I wish I did.”
“You do damned plenty enough.”
“Truly you do,” David said. “That’s something I know about. I’m sorry, Audrey. I ought to shut up and go away.”
“You didn’t love me and you didn’t love Tom.”
“Oh yes, I did. You’ll never know.”
“Where’s mother now?”
“She’s married to a man named Geoffrey Townsend and lives in London.”
“Does she still drug?”
“Of course. And she’s beautiful.”
“Really?”
“No. She really is. This isn’t just filial piety.”
“You had a lot of filial piety once.”
“I know. I used to pray for everyone. Everything used to break my heart. I used to do First Fridays for mother to give her the grace of a happy death. You don’t know how I prayed for you, Roger.”
“I wish it would have done more good,” Roger said.
“So do I,” she said.
“You can’t tell, Audrey. You never know when it may,” David said. “I don’t mean that Mr. Davis needs to be prayed for. I just mean about prayer technically.”
“Thanks, Dave,” Roger said. “What ever became of Bruce?”
“He died. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I remember Dick Raeburn did.”
“I imagine you do.”
“I do.”
Young Tom and Andy came back with the bottles of Coca-Cola and Andy gave a cold bottle to the girl and one to David.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s wonderful and cold.”
“Audrey,” young Tom said. “I remember you now. You used to come to the studio with Mr. Raeburn. You never talked at all. You and I and Papa and Mr. Raeburn used to go to the different circuses and we used to go racing. But you weren’t as beautiful then.”
“Sure she was,” Roger said. “Ask your father.”
“I’m sorry about Mr. Raeburn dying,” young Tom said. “I remember him dying very well. He was killed by a bobsled that rode high over a turn and went into the crowd. He’d been very ill and Papa and I went to visit him. Then he was better after a while and he went to watch the bob races although he shouldn’t have. We weren’t there when he was killed. I’m sorry if talking about it upsets you, Audrey.”
“He was a nice man,” Audrey said. “It doesn’t upset me, Tommy. It was a long time ago.”
“Did you know either of us boys?” Andy asked her.
“How could she, horseman? We weren’t born yet,” David said.
“How was I to know?” Andy asked. “I can’t remember anything about France and I don’t think you remember much.”
“I don’t pretend to. Tommy remembers France for all of us. Later on I’ll remember this island. And I can remember every picture papa ever painted that I’ve seen.”
“Can you remember the racing ones?” Audrey asked.
“Every one I’ve seen.”
“I was in some of them,” Audrey said. “At Longchamps and at Auteuil and St. Cloud. It’s always the back of my head.”
“I can remember the back of your head then,” young Tom said. “And your hair was down to your waist and I was two steps above you to see better. It was a hazy day the way it is in the fall when it’s blue smoky looking and we were in the upper stand right opposite the water jump and on our left was the bullfinch and the stone wall. The finish was on the side closer to us and the water jump was on the inner course of the track. I was always above and behind you to see better except when we were down at the track.”
“I thought you were a funny little boy then.”
“I guess I was. And you never talked. Maybe because I was so young. But wasn’t Auteuil a beautiful track though?”
“Wonderful. I was there last year.”
“Maybe we can go this year, Tommy,” David said. “Did you use to go to the races with her, too, Mr. Davis?”
“No,” Roger said. “I was just her swimming teacher.”
“You were my hero.”
“Wasn’t papa ever your hero?” Andrew asked.
“Of course he was. But I couldn’t let him be my hero as much as I wanted because he was married. When he and Tommy’s mother were divorced I wrote him a letter. It was very powerful and I was ready to take Tommy’s mother’s place in any way I could. But I never sent it because he married Davy’s and Andy’s mother.”
“Things are certainly complicated,” young Tom said.
“Tell us some more about Paris,” David said. “We ought to learn all we can if we’re going there now.”
“Do you remember when we’d be down on the rail, Audrey, and how after the horses came over the last obstacle they would be coming straight down toward us and the way they would look coming bigger and bigger and the noise they would make on the turf when they would go past?”
“And how cold it used to be and how we would get close to the big braziers to get warm and eat the sandwiches from the bar?”
“I loved it in the fall,” young Tom said. “We used to ride back home in a carriage, an open one, do you remember? Out of the Bois and then along the river with it just getting dark and the burning leaves smell and the tugs towing barges on the river.”
“Do you really remember it that well? You were an awfully small boy.”
“I remember every bridge on the river from Suresnes to Charenton,” Tommy told her.
“You can’t.”
“I can’t name them. But
