Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [15]
“Well, it’s important to have someone to rely on,” Lydie said.
“Yes,” Patrice agreed, watching Lydie’s eyes cloud over. But Lydie’s distraction didn’t last long. She smiled, focused on Patrice.
“Today was interesting,” she said. “I’m helping that young designer with his catalogue. I hardly ever do fashion work, and I’m not used to the models. They’re so beautiful. But they act so cool—they seem to want a blank look in their eyes.”
Patrice, who had smoked cigarettes and practiced seeming aloof all through high school, could imagine that Lydie had never had a cool day in her life. All her emotions seemed very close to the surface; her expression changed constantly. “Their only purpose in life is to wear clothes, I’m convinced,” Patrice said.
“Right, their makeup never moves. Anyway—” At the thought of what she was about to say, Lydie laughed so hard she had to stop talking. “Anyway, we arranged them in carts of cabbages. Cabbages up to the knees. Oh, the expressions on their faces—”
“Bye-bye blank stares,” Patrice said. “So where did all this happen, anyway?”
“Here in Paris—in Chinatown.”
“Chinatown is where Kelly goes on her days off,” Patrice said.
“Your housekeeper, right?”
“Yes. It’s the closest she can get to her culture here in Paris.”
“How is she doing on the computer?”
“Pretty well,” Patrice said. “Though sometimes I feel like such a shit for teaching it to her. Raising her hopes about getting to America, when there’s not a chance in hell.”
“Like I told you—my parents immigrated.”
“Immigration laws are much stricter now,” Patrice said. “You know, I started teaching her the computer because I felt guilty employing an intelligent woman my own age to clean my house. Isn’t that textbook noblesse oblige?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s really nice of you. Do you need the computer for your work?”
“Nope. I don’t work. I’m just an amateur historian and a damned good cook. Will you excuse me for a minute? I’ll get us some iced tea,” Patrice said, heading for the kitchen.
Kelly stood by the sink. She peeled carrots with verve, the way she did everything else. If Patrice didn’t know better, she might have thought Kelly enjoyed the work. Kelly looked up, smiled, but continued working. Her black hair was full and silky, cut in a perfect line. One or another of her sisters wanted to be a hairdresser and practiced on Kelly and the others when given the chance.
“Hi,” Patrice said, going to the refrigerator for the bottle of iced tea and a lemon. “What are those carrots for?”
“For a salad, Mum. I thought it would be too hot for a warm meal tonight.”
“Good thinking,” Patrice said, pouring the tea. “As soon as you finish, why don’t you start on the computer? That friend I told you about is here now.”
“Okay, Mum,” Kelly said.
Patrice smiled, at she always did, at the name “Mum.” It sounded fond, a little funny, coming from a woman not much younger than herself. Kelly had started off calling her “Madame,” and Patrice had wanted her to call her “Patrice,” considering the slight age difference, but Didier had said it was unseemly for a servant to call the lady of the house by her given name. Somehow they had settled on “Mum.”
“Hope you don’t mind—I followed you,” Lydie said from the doorway.
“No, that’s okay,” Patrice said, disguising the fact she was taken aback. No one took guests through the house in France the way they did in America. “Here’s your tea.” She handed the glass to Lydie. “Lydie McBride, I’d like to present Kelly Merida.”
“Hello,” Lydie said, giving Kelly a big smile and shaking her hand. The gesture made Patrice happy. She leaned against the marble counter, sipping her drink.
“Kelly’s a pretty name,” Lydie said, making Kelly blush.
“Oh, I’m named for Grace Kelly, Mum,” she said.
Patrice laughed, feeling a little jealous that Kelly would call Lydie “Mum,” her own special name, right away. “I never knew that about your name,” Patrice said.