Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [28]
“It would,” Michael said.
Washington: it was where Lydie and Michael had fallen in love. Lydie had to look away from him. He sounded so eager to please Didier: a supplicant. Finding fault with him seemed the only way to stop taking all the blame herself. Things had started going wrong after her father’s death, when she had felt too shocked and hurt to let Michael help her. But now she wondered: why hadn’t he tried harder? Now they were stuck in a holding pattern of silences and misunderstandings. She didn’t want to think it, but was this how it felt to fall out of love?
“You know, I am very glad to talk to you about this,” Didier said. “I am very happy we agree.” He shook Michael’s hand, then reached for Lydie’s and held it for a minute.
“Secretly Didier thinks all Americans are a little tacky,” Patrice said. “Even me.”
Did she mean it? Lydie wondered. She couldn’t tell; everyone was smiling.
“I was so happy to bring Patrice to France,” Didier said. “Did she tell you we fell in love very fast?”
“She did,” Lydie said, full of her own memories.
“So did they,” Patrice said.
“After we grew up,” Michael said, not looking at Lydie. “She hardly noticed me in high school.”
“Because you loved the hoop,” Didier said.
Dinner was perfect. First they ate oysters, oysters that surprised Lydie by their tangy freshness, considering it was June, a month without an “R,” when oysters were supposedly out of season. But Didier assured them that the “R” business was an invention of Brittany oystermen who wanted to make the shellfish seem scarce, thus driving up the price. He had bought these oysters himself from a man who brought them to Paris twice weekly from Arcachon.
Next they ate leg of lamb. “Pré-salé”—lamb that had grazed on the salt marshes of Normandy. Didier stood at the head of the table. He clamped a sterling silver instrument to the shin bone and, gripping its handle, held the leg in place for carving.
“What a wonderful thing!” Michael said. He admired the art of carving. His father had always carved the Thanksgiving turkey at the table, unlike Lydie’s father, who had preferred to sit at the table’s head telling stories while her mother carved in the kitchen.
“Do you like this?” Didier asked when the meat had been neatly sliced onto a china platter. He began unscrewing the instrument.
“It’s great. What is it?”
“It is a gigot-holder. I will give it to you.” Wiping the holder on his napkin, Didier handed it to Michael.
“Thank you,” Michael said. He grinned at Didier, who grinned back, and Lydie had to admit that her husband really knew how to accept a gift. Lydie herself would have demurred, going on about how she couldn’t possibly accept such a thing. She might have even said “expensive thing.”
“Patrice told me you’re the stylist who arranged those photos of our pearl choker,” Didier said to Lydie.
“Yes, I did.” Lydie laid down her fork.
“I liked them very much,” Didier said. “Where did you learn so much about jewelry? We have stylists we’ve used for years who never get it right.”
“I really don’t know anything about jewelry,” Lydie said. “But I’m glad you liked the layout.”
“Lydie’s family thinks she went through a postadolescent transformation,” Michael said. “They claim she loved the outdoors and cars, never cared a thing about clothes or jewelry.”
“Why can’t a woman care about all of those things?” Didier asked, frowning. “Great women do, all the time. They are passionate about the issues that interest them, they know how to shoot and fish …”
“Or sail,” Patrice said. “Or drive cars …”
Didier nodded. “And they know how to come indoors and make themselves and their homes beautiful.”
“Don’t