Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [120]
“I’ve always known he loved you, Lydie,” Michael said. “But he was desperate.”
“He was desperate,” Lydie said, her voice breaking. “That’s so different from being crazy. Mom saying he ‘went out of his head’ let him off the hook, but it kept me from understanding him. Now I know it was his only way out.”
“And you’ve forgiven him?”
She nodded her head, waiting for her voice to come back. “Do you know? I really believe it was a vision last night. A clear vision. I believe that God showed me, so I could forgive my father. Do you think that’s too strange?”
“No, I don’t.”
Lydie stared into his eyes, silently thanking him.
“But can you forgive me?” Michael asked.
“I’m trying,” Lydie said. “You hurt me.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry,” Michael said, his eyes filling.
Lydie scrutinized his mouth, his gaze, the small lines around his eyes, looking for clues. For what? she wondered. For a reminder of how much she had once trusted him?
“I love you, Lydie,” he said. He stroked her cheek with one hand. She covered it with her own, held it steady. “I have an idea,” he said tentatively. “What if we didn’t go back to Paris after lunch? What if we took a room at some hotel? Would you be ready for that?”
“The old one,” Lydie said. “The farm overlooking the estuary, where Boudin and Monet painted …”
They sat there for a long time, and then the plateau arrived. A battered silver platter piled high with cracked ice and rockweed, it was covered with belons and creuses, clams, langoustines, crevettes roses and grises, periwinkles, and torteaux. Alongside were lemon slices, brown bread and butter, a half-lemon stuck with pins for extracting periwinkles and crabmeat. They gazed at it for a moment, appreciating its beauty, and they began to eat.
The old, famous hotel, whose brochure claimed it was the place where Impressionism was born, stood high on a hill. It faced the mouth of the Seine, beyond which lay the English Channel and the North Atlantic. Ivy climbed its shingled walls, geranium-filled flower boxes hung at every window. The service was correct, even formal. The maid led them to their room on the top floor.
“How many people check into a place like this with no bags?” Michael whispered to Lydie, climbing the stairs.
“Let’s hope they think we’re up to something illicit,” Lydie whispered back.
But when the maid left them alone in the room, Lydie felt shy. She looked out the window, across the garden to the sea. Turning toward Michael, she blinked, thinking of how she had aimed a gun at his head. He leaned on the window frame, watching her. His hand rested on the sill, and she could imagine it tracing the inside of her arm. Then he pulled her toward him and kissed her.
“I hated thinking of you alone in our bed,” Michael said.
“But you did think of me?” she asked, brought straight back to the present.
“Yes, I did. A lot. You have to relax,” Michael whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “Everything will be fine. Haven’t we been here before?”
Lydie laughed at that. “Never here,” she said, not meaning the hotel.
“That’s true …”
She watched the tall windows. Although she couldn’t see the water, she knew it was near by the quality of light. Shadows played on the ceiling as the sun moved across the western sky. The time had come to trust him or not. She lay on her side, looking into her husband’s eyes. She had known him for so long. She had watched him play basketball in high school, she had fallen in love with him in Washington. She had come with him to Paris and nearly lost him.
He was watching her, waiting for her to make the first move. She stroked his cheek, kissed his mouth. One hand closed around his erect penis and the other slid up, grazing his stomach and chest. She felt reluctant desire building as she arched her back against him. Then, as if given permission, Michael came to life. He rolled her onto her back, kissed her soundly on the lips, then moved slowly down her body. Lydie moaned, her throat constricted. She felt as excited, as apprehensive, as she had the