Carol would be keeping her appointment now at the Elysee
bar. With Abby? With Stanley McVeigh? Therese looked away
from the door, as if she were afraid Carol might appear, and she
would have to say again, “No.” Therese accepted another highball,
and felt the emptiness inside her slowly filling with the realization
she might see Genevieve Cranell very often, if she chose, and
though she would never become entangled, might be loved
herself.
One of the men beside her asked, “Who did the sets for The
Lost Messiah, Therese? Do you remember?”
“Blanchard?” she answered out of nowhere, because she was
still thinking of Genevieve Cranell, with a feeling of revulsion, of
shame, for what had just occurred to her, and she knew she would
never be. She listened to the conversation about Blanchard and
someone else even joined in, but her consciousness had stopped in
a tangle where a dozen threads crossed and knotted. One was
Dannie. One was Carol. One was Genevieve Cranell.
One went on and on out of it, but her mind was caught at the
intersection. She bent to take a light for her cigarette, and felt
herself fall a little deeper into the network, and she clutched at
Dannie. But the strong black thread did not lead anywhere. She
knew as if some prognostic voice were speaking now that she
would not go further with Dannie. And loneliness swept over her
again like a rushing wind, mysterious as the thin tears that
covered her eyes suddenly, too thin to be noticed, she knew, as she
lifted her head and glanced at the doorway again.
“Don’t forget.” Genevieve Cranell was beside her, patting her
arm, saying quickly, “Six-nineteen. We’re adjourning.” She
started to turn away and came back. “You are coming up?
Harkevy’s coming up, too.”
Therese shook her head. “Thanks, I—I thought I could, but I
remember I’ve got to be somewhere else.”
The woman looked at her quizzically. “What’s the matter,
Therese? Did anything go wrong?”
“No.” She smiled, moving toward the door. “Thanks for
asking me. No doubt I’ll see you again.”
“No doubt,” the actress said.
Therese went into the room beside the big one and got her
coat from the pile on the bed. She hurried down the corridor
toward the stairs, past the people who were waiting for the
elevator, among them Genevieve Cranell, and Therese didn’t care
if she saw her or not as she plunged down the wide stairs as if she
were running away from something. Therese smiled to herself.

The air was cool and sweet on her forehead, made a feathery
sound like wings past her ears, and she felt she flew across the
streets and up the curbs. Toward Carol. And perhaps Carol knew
at this moment, because Carol had known such things before.

She crossed another street, and there was the Elysee awning.
The headwaiter said something to her in the foyer, and she
told him, “I’m looking for somebody,” and went on to the
doorway.
She stood in the doorway, looking over the people at the
tables in the room where a piano played. The lights were not
bright, and she did not see her at first, half hidden in the shadow
against the far wall, facing her. Nor did Carol see her. A man sat
opposite her, Therese did not know who. Carol raised her hand
slowly and brushed her hair back, once on either side, and Therese
smiled because the gesture was Carol, and it was Carol she loved
and would always love. Oh, in a different way now, because she
was a different person, and it was like meeting Carol all over
again, but it was still Carol and no one else. It would be Carol, in
a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they
would go together, in heaven and in hell. Therese waited. Then as
she was about to go to her Carol saw her, seemed to stare at her
incredulously a moment while Therese watched the slow smile
growing, before her arm lifted suddenly, her hand waved a quick,
eager greeting that Therese had never seen before. Therese
walked toward her.