Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [35]
Michael had stopped Father Griffin in the hallway a couple of days later. He had the heaviest beard Michael had ever seen; Michael remembered thinking it unseemly for a priest to look as though he needed a shave at ten in the morning. “Teaching the hoods anything new these days, Father?” Michael asked.
“They don’t have the advantages you do, Michael.”
“No, but I hear they’ve got a new pair of boots, thanks to Lydie Fallon.”
“Maybe that boy really needed that money—maybe his family was hungry.”
“Probably starving.”
“We weren’t put on this earth to judge him,” Father Griffin said. “Why don’t you come with us next week? Maybe you’ll learn something.”
“You didn’t even call the cops, did you?” Michael asked.
“Lydie didn’t want to,” Father Griffin said.
Because you didn’t want her to, Michael remembered thinking. Now with hindsight, he could recognize his resentment for what it was: jealousy that Lydie loved Father Griffin instead of him. He gazed at her. She stared across the Seine, the Herald Tribune folded in her lap.
“Remember when your student stole your money?” Michael asked.
Lydie turned to him. “I haven’t thought of that in ages,” she said.
“Why didn’t you turn him in?”
She frowned. “I don’t remember. I guess because I felt sorry for him.”
“I’ve always thought it was because the priest told you not to.”
“Father Griffin? Oh, I don’t think he’d have done that. But I have to admit, when I think of the sixties, I think of him. Peace, love, brotherhood, all that.”
“He was hot for you,” Michael said.
“I know,” Lydie said.
“You do?” Michael asked, surprised.
“I used to imagine seducing him—all the time. We’d be alone in a subway car and the lights would go out, and I’d close my eyes and will him to kiss me.”
“Did he?”
“Never. The most he’d do was touch the back of my hand when he was trying to make a point. My father never trusted him.”
Michael smiled. “That’s perfect. Neil seeing the dark side of a priest. I’ll bet he saw right through him, realized your virtue was at stake.”
“He said he thought Father Griffin shaved with a rusty razor so he’d always have five o’clock shadow. My father thought anyone with five o’clock shadow was suspect. He called Father Griffin a ladies’ man, said he’d quit the priesthood before he turned forty.”
“I wonder if he did,” Michael said.
Lydie nodded. “Sally Quinlan saw him once with his wife and two kids. Twin boys. At Playland, can you imagine?”
“Perfect,” Michael said, laughing. He looked over at Lydie, thought about taking her hand. He wondered whether Father Griffin knew she’d married him.
“So,” Lydie said. “Tomorrow I’ll start Didier’s project. What’s on your agenda?”
“I have a meeting tomorrow morning. With some guy who’s expert at repairing mosaics. And I planned to swim before work.”
“Swim?” Lydie asked.
“At that pool on the river. I’ve been thinking I need exercise,” Michael said, feeling sad and excited by all it implied.
The next afternoon, Lydie walked along the quai toward Notre Dame. She was thinking about the ad series. What if they photographed the jewels worn by people at a fancy dress ball? She had her eyes open for props: gowns, feathers, masks, medals, anything festive and gaudy.
In the heart of Paris, thrilled by her new assignment, she suddenly remembered the night Michael had told her he had been chosen to work on the Louvre. Her first reaction, before she realized it meant leaving her mother, was delight. She remembered holding each other, dancing in circles like lunatics, Michael saying “I can’t believe it” over and over again, Lydie saying “I knew you were a great architect.” Michael had brought home champagne. They had drunk the bottle, drinking toasts that were silly, pompous, and serious. “To the Eiffel Tower,” “to great architects everywhere,” “to a graffiti-free Métro,” “to the most romantic city in the world,” “to our year in Paris.” That’s when she had realized that it meant leaving.
In spite of what she said to