Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [124]
“Our Paris year,” Lydie said, gazing downriver. The Seine was blue today, glistening, reflecting a perfect October sky. Yesterday she told him that she had called Julia to tell her they were coming home—together. It had bothered Michael, that Lydie had waited so long to tell her; he had wondered whether she doubted their reunion would hold. But she had needed to put distance between herself and Julia, to keep her own vision strong.
“Can you believe we’re getting ready to leave?” Michael asked.
“Can you believe I came to France and made best friends with another American and a Filipino?”
Michael smiled, slid his arm across Lydie’s shoulders. The black fabric had absorbed the sun, felt warm against his bare arm. It was true, he thought: Lydie had had one foot in America when she arrived in Paris. Perhaps that was why her important friends were also foreigners. He, on the other hand, had had an entirely French experience. He had left his mark on the Louvre, found a French lover. Anne. People at the Louvre were saying that Anne had gone to Vichy, to take the waters at Madame de Sévigné’s favorite spa.
“I should go,” Lydie said, checking her watch. “Patrice is picking me up in five minutes.”
“Bon courage,” Michael said. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Lydie said. She smiled, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Then she walked away.
It was nice of Lydie and Patrice to come to the airport, Kelly thought, waiting to board the plane to Manila. Lydie sat on her right, the police guard sat on her left. Patrice stood in front of everyone. Kelly had told her family that she was leaving but not when, because she did not want them to see her in handcuffs. Kelly felt ashamed to wear handcuffs in public, and she felt grateful to Lydie for covering them with her coat.
“I have your address in Cavite,” Lydie said. “I wish you had a phone.”
“There is no phone,” Kelly said, smiling a little because no one in the province had a phone.
“I’ll do what I have to in New York, and I’ll write to you as soon as I hear something.”
“And I’ll keep track from this end,” Patrice said. What could Patrice do in Paris? Kelly wondered, but she smiled at Patrice, knowing that Patrice felt very bad for her. Patrice spoke harshly to the policeman; he shook his head. Kelly wished Patrice would quit asking him to take off the handcuffs.
“M.V. is reliable,” Kelly said. “M.V.” was her code for “Marie-Vic,” who would replace Kelly as Patrice’s maid. She didn’t want the policeman to get wind of the fact that Patrice employed illegal aliens.
“Are you okay?” Lydie asked, squeezing Kelly’s hand.
Kelly nodded: a lie. She was not okay. She wanted only to get away from Lydie and Patrice. But she couldn’t let them see her true feelings. She had many things she wished to forget: their kindnesses, the nights she had spent in jail. The first one was the worst; she had lain awake all night, waiting for one of the Americans to get her out. Around midnight she had realized that was not going to happen, and she had accepted her fate.
A voice came on the loudspeaker, and in the blur of French, Kelly caught the word “Manila.”
“They’re calling your flight,” Lydie said. She looked pale, so worried. “Be brave about this. You’ll be in America in no time. I won’t stop trying.”
“Thank you,” Kelly said, knowing that Lydie would stop trying, even if Lydie didn’t know it yet. Once Kelly was out of sight, Lydie could begin to forget her. The guard took away Lydie’s coat, exposing the handcuffs to all the other travelers. Two other Filipinos wore handcuffs. So, Kelly thought: the French police had a good week.
“Have a safe trip,” Lydie said, throwing her arms around Kelly, pressing her face so