Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [111]
“Of course,” Patrice said, and she did—but she had never thought of Lydie’s departure happening next month.
Lydie smiled suddenly, an expression of recognition in her eyes. “You’re going to miss me,” she said. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Wonderful,” Patrice said, looking from one friend to the other. “Aren’t we a fun bunch to be throwing a ball?”
“Hilarious,” Lydie said. There was silence, and Patrice actually held her breath, waiting for Kelly to say something.
“We’re a barrelful of monkeys,” Kelly said, her shy smile turning into a grin at her successful use of the American phrase.
After that, they seemed to feel better. As the afternoon progressed, Lydie spent more time with the photographer and Patrice began greeting early arrivals. Lydie smiled whenever Patrice saw her, but she acted skittish. Finally Patrice cornered Michael, who was staking a chandelier. He had thrown the rope over the branch of a chestnut tree and was pounding the stake into the ground. Patrice stood above him as he crouched. Sweat glistened on his tan neck; his brown hair had fallen into his eyes, making him look boyish.
“Can you take a break?” Patrice asked.
“Sure,” Michael said, laying down his mallet. He tugged the rope, to make sure it would hold, then stood.
“What’s with Lydie?” Patrice asked.
Michael gazed at her. “She’s upset about Kelly.”
“No,” Patrice said firmly. “It’s definitely more than that.”
“I don’t know, Patrice,” Michael said. “Kelly mattered a lot to Lydie. I think she’s more upset than you think.”
“Listen, you bozo,” Patrice said, realizing that he was patronizing her. “I’m the one who held her hand while you had your fun. I know her better than you think, and I know her mind’s on something else.”
Michael’s face hardened, like a man taking his punishment. But then his expression turned humble, melting a little of Patrice’s anger. “She’s thinking of her father,” Michael said. “She didn’t like holding that gun this morning.”
“Oh, because of her father!” Patrice said, suddenly realizing what it must have meant to Lydie to lift that rifle.
Then Lydie and Didier came toward them, across the lawn. “I think we should dress for the ball,” Lydie said. “Guy wants to take some pictures at sunset …” She checked her watch. “And it’s not that far off. Michael, do you know where they put our bags?”
Patrice listened to her sweet, defeated little voice. She knew exactly what to do. A lifetime as the daughter of Eliza Spofford had trained her how to whip a party into a party. “I know where they put your bags,” Patrice said, “but that’s beside the point. I’m having Marcel switch everything around. Girls dress in one room, boys dress in another.” She linked arms with Lydie. “We’ll be just like brides—they can’t see us till the big event.” Lydie smiled at her, but it wasn’t enough. Patrice tickled her under the chin. “Come on, honeybunch,” she said. “Let’s have a ball.”
Both Didier and Michael were laughing at Patrice’s act; in addition, in Michael’s eyes, Patrice saw a fervent wish for Lydie to let her sorrow go.
“Okay,” Lydie said, laughing along.
Dressing turned out to be some fun. Patrice said the jewels should be put on last. She had commandeered a bottle of champagne from the kitchen. Weeks ago she and Lydie had decided to wear real silk stockings with garters. Lydie’s garters dangled from a rather splendid lace undergarment, and she couldn’t get them snapped to the stockings.
“The last time I tried this was in tenth grade,” Lydie said.
“They let you wear underwear like that in Catholic school?” Patrice asked.
“Are you kidding? I wore the most demure little garter belt you ever saw,” Lydie said. “White elastic, like a bandage.”
Patrice glanced down at her own garter belt, shimmery pink silk and lace, and thought it symbolic of the carefree girlishness she hoped to feel with Lydie but instead could only mimic. They were being swept along by what they ought to feel at a ball, but in the background lurked the facts: that Lydie’s father had shot himself, that Kelly wasn’t going to America,