Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [14]
“So, when did you see the light and fall for Michael?”
“We both went away to college. We would run into each other in New York on vacations, but we were seeing other people. Then five or so years later we both ended up working in the city. I was painting, trying to get galleries to show my work. I started working as a stylist to make money. An architectural magazine hired me to do a piece in Washington. Michael happened to be there at the same time … that’s when we fell in love.”
“That’s a romantic story,” Patrice said.
“Things were really good then,” Lydie said, making Patrice wonder how they were now.
“Do you ever feel homesick for America?” Patrice asked.
The smile left Lydie’s face, replaced by an expression dark and confusing to Patrice. A few seconds passed before Lydie spoke. “Yes,” she said finally. “I miss my mother … and father.”
“You’re an only child? So am I,” Patrice said.
“We were a close family.”
“ ‘Were’?” Patrice asked.
Lydie nodded but said nothing. She looked so upset, Patrice felt a wave of tenderness toward her. But the moment was awkward; Patrice really didn’t know Lydie well enough to press her. So she did what she felt most comfortable doing in these emotional situations: she bulldozed the conversation into something they could laugh over.
“My mother’s planning to visit. I’ve known about it, in an abstract sort of way, for a while now. But now she’s set the date—the last week in July.”
Lydie looked interested. “Aren’t you happy?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” Patrice said. “She’ll be exhausted the first week, pepping up just in time for August, when Paris closes down and heads for the beach. My mother hates the beach. And Didier and I plan to go to Saint-Tropez for the entire month.”
“Can’t you talk about it with her? Maybe convince her to change the dates?”
“You are making the obvious mistake, assuming my mother is a reasonable woman. Once my mother makes her plans, they are cast in stone forever. You know, she’s just like the meter maid who tells you once her pen starts writing the ticket it can’t stop.”
“Where does your mother live?”
“Boston.”
“How can someone who lives in Boston hate the beach? With all that New England coastline?”
“Oh, she adores the shore—it’s the beach she can’t stand. You know—sand, sunbathing, fun. I’m just imagining the conflict between her and Didier. He goes on vacation to swim and get a tan. So do I, for that matter. But I can just see my mother, trying to drag us to the Matisse chapel at Vence or the ruins in Nîmes. A trip to Europe doesn’t count for her without one cathedral a day.”
Lydie laughed. “Put her on a tour bus.”
“She doesn’t speak a word of French. She learned the language in college, but she feels it’s the French’s duty to speak English. She considers herself a patriot.”
“How does Didier take that?”
“Oh, my God. It’s like dueling anthems: she’s ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and he’s ‘La Marseillaise.’ You have to realize: my husband feels guilty every day of his life for being too young to join his father and brothers in the Resistance. He truly loves France. Never mind—tell me about your work. Done anything especially interesting lately?”
“Last week a fashion magazine hired me to do a piece on what men carry in their pockets. So I had to think up the types. A businessman, an artist, a tennis player, a priest—and then I went around town borrowing and buying things I thought each one would have in his pockets.”
“Tell me what the artist had in his pockets,” Patrice said.
“A tiny magnifying glass, eighteenth century. A bird’s feather, some pastels in a leather case, a sketchpad from Sennelier.”
“I love it. The businessman?”
“An Hermès agenda, a black fountain pen, let’s see … a bill from Chez Edgard, and a sterling silver pacifier from Bulgari.”
Patrice and Lydie laughed. “The pacifier’s perfect,” Patrice said. “Didier’s a great businessman,