Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [125]
“Don’t cry, Lydie,” Kelly said. “You did all you could, and I will always be grateful.”
Lydie stepped away, and there was Patrice, her face grave. Oh, this was the moment Kelly had dreaded, her last words with Patrice. Memories already filled Kelly’s head. Learning the computer with Patrice, ironing Patrice’s clothes, the smell of Didier’s cigar, and, most special: the long talks she and Patrice had had about life in the States. Patrice took Kelly’s hands. The expression in her blue eyes was soft. “My friend,” Patrice said.
“I will never forget you,” Kelly said.
“Let’s make a promise,” Patrice said, “to celebrate next Fourth of July in New York with Lydie.”
Kelly found herself unable to speak, even when the guard began to pull her along. Patrice stared into her eyes and held on to Kelly’s tethered hands until the last minute before letting go.
“Shit,” Patrice said, watching the plane taxi on the runway.
“Is she going to make it?” Lydie asked, gulping. She had been crying since Kelly disappeared through the door.
“Yes,” Patrice said, sounding stubborn.
It would be so easy, Lydie knew, once the rawness of Kelly’s arrest and deportation began to heal, once the strength of Kelly’s single-minded drive began to fade, to let her become a memory. But she would refuse to let that happen. The refusal would be an act of will, of faith.
They watched the plane move forward, gathering speed. Lydie caught glimpses of the white tails of scared rabbits flashing through the tall grass. Then the plane lifted off, zooming into the clouds. She closed her eyes, imagined what Kelly was seeing out the window: the patchwork fields outside Paris, brown squares of earth next to green squares, tiny forests, farmhouses and châteaux. Michael and I take off just days from now, Lydie thought, opening her eyes, looking at Patrice.
“It’s a good idea,” Lydie said. “You and Kelly coming to New York next summer. That leaves us until July to make her legal. Nine months.”
“My mother actually has a good friend in Congress. Who knows? Maybe I can convince her to pull strings,” Patrice said, shrugging. Then her blue eyes filled with tears. “She was so brave. I really thought she’d get that visa.”
“So did I,” Lydie said. The plane to Manila was just a speck in the sky. When it disappeared, she and Patrice walked away from the window.
“This is good-bye,” Patrice said.
“I know we’ll see her again,” Lydie said.
“No, I mean us,” Patrice said. “We’ll see each other a few more times, of course. And I’ll come see you off when you go, but Michael will be here then, and Didier. This is our good-bye.”
Lydie, who had been thinking the same thing, took Patrice’s hand as they walked through the airport. “We’ll stay in close touch,” she said.
“Yes,” Patrice agreed. “We’ll write letters. Our phone bills will be terrible. You’ll take vacations in France.”
“And you’ll come to America for Christmas,” Lydie said.
Travelers hurried past them, laden down with luggage and blue-and-yellow plastic bags from the duty-free shops. Patrice and Lydie strolled along, like two friends wandering through the roses in the Bagatelle.
“Finally I understand what you were saying, weeks ago,” Patrice said, “about always calculating the time difference between Paris and New York. I’ll be doing it myself now. Subtracting six hours to figure the time in New York, adding seven for the time in Manila.”
“And you know Kelly and I will be thinking of you, on Paris time,” Lydie said. “We’ve been on it ourselves. Once you’ve lived in a time zone, well …”
“You set your clock by it,” Patrice said.
“When it’s dinnertime in New York, it’s midnight in Paris,” Lydie said.
They walked in silence for a while, out of the airport, into the short-term parking lot.
“What do you say you take us for a spin?” Patrice said, throwing Lydie the keys to Didier’s big silver Citroën.
“Great idea,” Lydie said. She walked around to the driver’s side and unlocked the door.
“We’ll drive around till teatime and then sit outside in