Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [100]
She thought it incredible—revolutionary—that she could keep going, surer than she had in years, now that Michael had left her. Every morning she wakened with his face in mind, the blank sense that he wasn’t in bed with her. But then she would make coffee, make a mental list of things to be done for the ball, for Kelly. The list would push everything else out of her mind: her troubles with Michael, her father’s death, her mother back in New York.
The ball was just a week off. She studied the road map, plotting the best way for the d’Origny entourage to travel from Paris. Police cars raced down the quai, startling her. Then came a knock at the door.
Michael stood in the hallway. Lydie held the door open a crack, regarding him. “Hi,” she said.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
The sight of him forced the checklist, the road map from her mind. The satisfying sense of precision was gone. “Come on in,” she said.
He held her shoulders at arm’s length, easing her into a chair. Then he sat in the chair opposite. She traced the textured bargello pattern on the chair’s arm with her thumb, afraid to look at him.
“Lydie,” Michael said. She stared at the pattern for a minute before raising her eyes. She felt startled to see his brown eyes, usually so clear, now bloodshot. Lack of sleep? Crying? Neither seemed impossible. “I want to start over,” he said.
“Starting over sounds good,” she said dryly. “But when? Before tonight, before coming to Paris? When?” She knew the two-parted answer: before Anne, before Neil’s death. But she wasn’t prepared for Michael’s response.
“Eleventh grade,” Michael said, deadpan.
“Eleventh grade?” she asked. “But why?”
“Why didn’t you like me then?”
Lydie frowned. “I did like you. I used to love watching you play basketball. But we didn’t know each other very well—we were in different crowds.”
“I wanted to ask you out,” Michael said. “I was dying to, every time I saw you.”
Lydie was dumbfounded. Michael had told this story before, usually in an offhanded way, at a party, as in “I was crazy about Lydie in high school, but she had no use for a jock.” Now his expression was totally serious, as if he had been dwelling on this for a while and needed an answer. She studied his hands, his wrists, his face. His features were exactly the same as they had been in high school, along with some accumulated sadness.
“I would have gone out with you,” she said. “I’m sure I would have.”
Michael shook his head. “No, you were in love with the priest.”
Lydie was about to laugh, to deny it, but Michael was right. She had loved Father Griffin. She remembered the nights she had lain awake, torturing herself with thoughts of what would happen if he broke his vows. She supposed that her crush on the priest had prevented her from dating high school boys, including Michael. “But that was just high school,” she said. “I fell in love with you the instant we reconnected—in Washington. For me it was love at first sight.”
“For me too,” Michael said. “Only my first sight took place about six years earlier than yours did.”
Lydie felt thrilled by the notion that Michael had been harboring such a romantic resentment all these years. He rose from his chair and began to pace, a frown on his face. He walked to the window, stared out at the Seine, gave her a sidelong glance. Then he came to her, pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. Lydie said nothing, but she let him kiss her. It was a long gentle kiss, and it tasted so familiar she could hardly believe it.
When they pulled apart, his face was close to hers, and she could see an expectant look in his eyes. “What?” she asked.
“Is this starting over?” he asked.
“I can’t forget what happened,” she said, giving him a little involuntary push away. “I want to, but …” She couldn’t think how to finish the sentence. But what? But you’ve