Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [42]
“I am mad about your ideas,” Didier said. “In marketing meetings I tell my managers, ‘Take a look at this plan, you assholes.’ Listen, we will divide the guest list in two. You invite half, I invite half.”
“Michael and I don’t know that many people in Paris,” Lydie said. “We’ll ask ten guests, you can have the rest. Will Patrice’s mother still be here?”
“God willing, no,” Didier said.
When she hung up the phone, Lydie took notes on ideas for the ball. If the weather was fine, perhaps they could hold it outdoors. She would have to arrange for a sumptuous banquet. She envisioned oysters, spider crabs, a roast capon, something en croute, platters of tartes, Paris-Brest, and petits fours. Every guest would be required to come in costume, and she needed a theme. Eighteenth century? Subjects of famous paintings? The court of Louis XIV? She left a question mark after the word “theme.” She would have to visit the château again, to get a feel for the possibilities.
This project would take the place of Lydie’s August vacation, and it was just as well, considering that Michael’s work on the Louvre had shifted into high gear. Just as the rest of Paris was winding down, preparing for the great exit when every minister, cabdriver, waiter, executive, and concierge took off for Ile de Ré, Saint-Tropez, Arcachon, Biarritz, or Deauville, Lydie and Michael would be digging in. Paris would be a ghost town, like New York on a hot Sunday in July. The blare of horns on Avenue Montaigne would cease; the few restaurants that remained open would be quiet and relaxed. She could stroll through the garden at the Musée Rodin and find an empty bench. They could stand directly in front of Manet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe for as long as they pleased without being jostled. The idea of it made Lydie feel luxurious, and she put down her pen and stretched.
She knew that Patrice and Didier planned to spend all August at Saint-Tropez with Mrs. Spofford, and for the first time Lydie wondered about Kelly. Would she go with them? Or would Patrice give her August off? Lately the thought of Kelly had made Lydie frown, and she wasn’t sure why.
The telephone rang, and Lydie answered on the third ring. “Come out to lunch with us,” Patrice said, an edge of desperation in her voice. “I need you.”
They sat beneath a red umbrella in the courtyard of the Hôtel Diaz de la Peña. Ivy covered the four walls and cascaded from romantic, asymmetrically positioned iron balconies and stone balustrades. Lydie saw red everywhere: the umbrella, the pots of geraniums, the lipstick worn by Patrice and her mother.
“This was always my favorite hotel in Paris,” Mrs. Spofford said in a voice that was at once warm and regal. She appeared much too young to be Patrice’s mother. Her skin was unlined, powdered white, and her hair was honey-blond. Where Patrice was dark-haired and large, even robust, her mother was fair with a delicacy that bordered on frailty. Lydie could not take her eyes off the woman’s wrists, which were thin, elegant, graceful as a ballerina’s. The way Mrs. Spofford moved them made Lydie think she too was aware of them. And Patrice as well. How could they support the weight of those bracelets? All three women were captivated by Mrs. Spofford’s wrists. It hurt Lydie to look at Patrice, whose anger was a mask blazing with too much eye shadow and lipstick. Like her mother, Patrice wore an armful of gold bracelets. Mother and daughter wore Chanel suits. “Patsy’s father thought this hotel flashy, but I adored it.”
“She calls me ‘Patsy,’ ” Patrice said. “Didier just loves that.”
“Well, dear, your name is ‘Patricia.’ ” A subtle emphasis on the “is.”
“Mother, has it ever crossed your mind that ‘Patricia’ in French is ‘Patrice’? When a ‘Pierre’ moves to Boston he is called ‘Peter.’ Get it? You have to conform to the culture.”
“Whatever,” Mrs. Spofford said, turning to Lydie. “Where are you from, dear?”
“New York City, originally. Still, I guess. My husband and I are only here for a year.”
“A year in Paris! How marvelous! I spent a year in Paris my junior year abroad.