Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [36]
And her mother. Where widows were respected and looked after by family and old friends, allowed to reminisce mistily about their husbands, Julia was shunned. In a way she brought it on herself; she felt so ashamed, she assumed people wanted nothing to do with her. She stopped going to the retired teachers’ luncheons; she quit the St. Anthony’s Ladies’ Auxiliary. The saddest part was that she still loved Neil, couldn’t bear to hear anything bad about him. Well-meaning friends might say she was better off without him, but she didn’t see it that way.
For the first time, Lydie thought that maybe coming to Paris was the best thing. If she were in New York, Julia wouldn’t be forced to go out on her own. She would rely on Lydie to comfort her. She would eat dinner with Lydie and Michael, as she had nearly every night in the months before they left for France, sometimes drinking so much wine that she would fall asleep on the sofa and stay there all night, fully dressed, under the blanket Lydie would spread over her.
Walking along, Lydie felt happy to be free of all that, distracted by the sights of Paris. She passed shops that catered to tourists, purveyors of T-shirts imprinted with images of the Arc de Triomphe, duty-free perfume, ashtrays in the shape of Notre Dame, last year’s scarves from Dior, St. Laurent, and Givenchy. Then she came to the Quai de Megisserie, the animal market, where cages of swans, peacocks, Rhode Island Red chickens, grouse, quail, and Canada geese lined the sidewalk. The cages seemed cruelly small. She stopped before a pair of swans.
“How much to rent these swans?” she asked the proprietor.
“These are beautiful swans,” the man replied.
“Yes, but how much?”
While the man considered, Lydie imagined holding the fancy dress ball at Fontainebleau or Versailles, with swans and peacocks in the background. What if she rented the birds and never brought them back? They looked so sad in their cages, and Lydie believed they would probably die soon. Perhaps Didier’s budget would cover the cost of buying them. She imagined Didier and Patrice at an estate with a lake and swans, and the image made her smile.
The man named a price. Lydie thanked him and walked along. “Don’t forget me!” the man called. “Come to me when you need swans.”
At the corner Lydie calculated that she had already walked halfway to the Place des Vosges. She had a sudden, compelling urge to talk to Patrice. She thought of the alarm she’d begun to feel about Michael, their marriage. She imagined visiting a doctor, presenting her symptoms, listening to the diagnosis. She wanted not friendly advice but reassurance. So she turned away from the Seine, onto a crooked street that would lead to the Marais.
“She asks that you wait while she finishes her phone call,” Kelly said after she had announced Lydie to Patrice. “Would you like a glass of tea?”
“Yes, please,” Lydie said. “Patrice tells me you want to get to the United States.”
Kelly stopped still. “Yes, I do,” she said.
“How do you plan to do it?” Lydie asked.
“There are many ways,” Kelly said. “Some girls marry American servicemen. Or find Americans to sponsor them.”
“How does that work?” Lydie asked.
“Oh, you must work for an American, and if you are lucky she will bring you to the States with her. I think she must swear to be responsible for you if you are sick or commit a crime. But the rules are very strict, and even with an American sponsor you do not always get in.”
Lydie’s mother had left Ireland at the