Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [104]
“My dear, my friends all have their own jewelry. I wouldn’t impose on them to model our jewelry for advertisements.”
A definite slap in the face! Patrice sipped her tea and felt her cheeks redden. She had the mean, furious thought that Clothilde was the perfect example of what too much leisure and money could do to a woman. Yes, she looked beautiful; then again, she could afford the Fountain of Youth. Clothilde loved saying things like “I had lunch with the Minister’s wife.” Big fucking deal! What had the Minister’s wife done except marry better than Clothilde had? Patrice had to feel a bit sorry for Clothilde, married to squeaky little Fulbert, Mr. Haut-Bourgeoisie 1924, whose only obvious talent was his uncanny ability to work the word “enema” into practically every conversation Patrice had ever had with him.
“Patrice, dear,” Clothilde said. “Why don’t you like me?”
“What an idea!” Patrice said. “It’s you who doesn’t like me.” She had a psychic sense of talking to her mother.
“You are so huffy with me,” Clothilde said. “I always feel I am saying the wrong thing to you.”
“As a matter of fact, you just let me know it’s pretty tacky of me to let my friends model d’Origny jewelry. I know you think I’m the tacky American.”
Clothilde gave her a long look, then smiled. “Well, not exactly. I think of you as the ‘young American.’ So young, so modern. Really ‘with it.’ ”
Patrice had to smile at Clothilde saying ‘with it,’ even if she didn’t quite believe Clothilde’s smooth excuse.
“Didier tells me you are quite sad over the prospect of losing your American friend and your maid.”
Patrice really didn’t want to discuss it with Clothilde, but at the thought of Lydie leaving Paris her eyes filled with tears, leaving her no choice. “Yes, I am. But he shouldn’t worry—I plan to keep busy. I’m working on my own personal history of France.”
The sympathetic set of Clothilde’s mouth was replaced by an “O” of astonishment. And that alone was enough to dry Patrice’s tears and make her smile.
The night before the ball, Lydie felt remarkably calm, well organized. Every item on two checklists, “the ball” and “Kelly,” was checked off. Her third checklist, “moving,” remained wide open, but she would turn to that in a day or so, when she and Michael had had the chance to discuss it. She had time, if she wanted, to do the things she imagined Patrice might do the night before a ball: set her hair, give herself a manicure, place damp tea bags on her eyes. But she felt charged up, full of energy that had no place to go. Twice she stepped onto the terrace, peered down the Seine. She wondered where the Hôtel Royal Madeleine stood in relation to the Grand Palais. Tomorrow morning Michael and the d’Orignys would pick her up before dawn to drive to the château.
She cooked an omelet, then settled down to eat it and drink a glass of Beaujolais. She pulled the soft middle out of a crusty baguette; thinking of the expression “all my ducks in a row.” Her mother had said it when Lydie was little. “I have everything I could ever want,” Julia Fallon would say. “My Neil, my Lydie, and a wonderful life. I have all my ducks in a row.” Lydie had envisioned the ducks, cute baby mallards swimming in a row. Now Lydie thought of her own life: waiting to reunite with Michael, optimistic about Kelly’s petition, ready to leave Paris for New York. Yes, all Lydie’s ducks were in a row. Then she thought of a carnival shooting gallery, with tin ducks going around on a conveyor belt, waiting to be picked off by anyone who’d pay a quarter. The thought made her gulp her wine, and when the telephone rang, she was ready for bad news.
And those were Dot Graulty’s first words: “I have bad news, Lydie. You’ll get official notification soon enough, but Kelly Merida’s petition has been denied.”
“Denied? Are you sure?” Lydie asked in a voice that echoed in her ears.
“All too sure,” Dot said. “Someone from Immigration in D.C. called Bruce, and he told me.