Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [122]
“I don’t care who reads mine,” Patrice said. “I’m just jotting down observations—not really personal things.”
“Many an American has traveled to France and observed it more acutely than the French,” Eliza said. “Hemingway comes to mind. Henry James, Irwin Shaw …”
“Well, no one’s going to read my observations,” Patrice said, laughing nervously, flattered her mother would make such a comparison.
After she hung up the phone, Patrice resumed her writing. A picnic was going on in the Place des Vosges, but she ignored the sounds of festivity. Three Women of the Marais sat on her desk; every so often her gaze would light upon it. How had she come up with the perfect line with which to answer Anne Dumas? It had soothed Anne, somehow, to hear Patrice speaking the words of Madame de Sévigné. Patrice had never consciously memorized her letters, but they had a distinctive rhythm and style that Patrice had found easy to conjure. She sat there, trying to recall other lines, but without Anne prompting her, she found it impossible. The telephone rang, startling her.
“Hi,” came Lydie’s voice.
“There you are!” Patrice said. “Where have you been? Never mind—don’t answer. I’ve missed you.”
“Oh, I’ve missed you too,” Lydie said, her voice full of happiness. “Michael and I just got back from Honfleur.”
“Did you stay at that great old hotel? I forget the name …”
“Yes,” Lydie said. “It was wonderful. We’d intended to stay for one night. Well, for one afternoon, to be honest.”
Patrice put on her Mae West voice. “A quickie at the No-Tell Hotel,” she said.
“It didn’t turn out that way,” Lydie said. “We stayed for two nights. It suddenly hit us—neither of us had work to do in Paris. The Salle is open, the ball is over …”
“Don’t you feel let down?”
“Not yet,” Lydie said. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Patrice said. But she knew that was not so much because the ball was over but because it meant Lydie was about to leave. She felt her throat constrict, and she coughed.
“How is Kelly?” Lydie asked.
“Not here today,” Patrice said. “I’ve given her a couple of days off. She seems fairly chipper, I guess. You know Kelly.”
“I want to try again,” Lydie said. “Michael called some lawyer he knows in New York who recommended someone who does immigration law. I’m writing a letter to him.”
“I thought that lady at the embassy, what’s-her-name, told you not to bother,” Patrice said.
“She did, but she’s a bureaucrat,” Lydie said. “I want to find a way.”
“You know what I’m thinking?” Patrice asked.
“That we should tell Kelly?” Lydie replied.
“You should tell her,” Patrice said. “You deserve all the credit.”
“No,” Lydie said. “I’ll be the New York connection, you’ll be the Paris connection. We’re in this together.” She paused. “Michael’s in it too” she said after a moment. “He’s been encouraging me to try again. He explained to me last night what I’ve been doing all along; I want to pass our luck—our ‘good fortune’—on to someone else.”
“I can relate to this,” Patrice said. “I’m the great-great-grandchild of immigrants. Bishops on one side of the family, pirates on the other.”
“So, should we visit Kelly?” Lydie asked.
“We should,” Patrice said.
For the first time in her life, Kelly was taking days off from work. Since childhood she had worked every day—folding Pan Am’s laundry; emptying the fish pond; gathering shells; picking fruit; operating the wash cycle in the college laundry; at her first “real,” respectable job, as an accountant; now as Patrice’s maid. But every day of her working life she had known she was aiming toward something, a good life in the United States. What was there to work toward now? Another day, week, year doing housework, no end in sight? Her brothers and sisters could not disguise their disappointment in her; she could barely stand to pass them in the hallway.
At the ball she had done her best to avoid Patrice and Lydie; she wished she never had to see them again. She told herself this was because she knew she had failed them, having been judged unacceptable to enter the United States. Another thought kept sneaking