Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [50]
“The aspirin in America is very different?” Kelly asked after a moment. Patrice thought it brave of her; she knew it was one thing for Kelly to have a conversation with her, quite another to give Eliza the impression that she considered herself an equal part of their trio. But such was the strength of Kelly’s desire to know everything, no matter how minute, about the United States.
“Oh, in America they have these horse pills, impossible things to swallow.” Eliza sipped her aspirin as if it were a cocktail. “You are a very lucky girl, dear, to have Patsy as your employer.”
“Yes, Mum. I know,” Kelly said.
“She is so concerned for your future, she has been trying to recruit me to take you home with me.”
Kelly gasped, beamed at Eliza, then Patrice. “Oh, really? Really?”
“I tried,” Patrice said.
“I’m sorry to say, it won’t be possible right now,” Eliza said. “For one thing, I employ a girl whom I am absolutely devoted to. And for another, I don’t understand all the red tape. But let me send a letter to my congressman, he’s a good friend, and maybe sometime in the future …”
“Your congressman! Thank you, thank you,” Kelly said, twisting her hands.
God, it’s pathetic, Patrice thought. The lie cost Eliza nothing at all, and it made Kelly so happy. It gave Kelly hope, and it made Patrice a hero. Kelly wore an expression of pure gratitude. Doesn’t this solve everything? Patrice thought. Eliza would feel she had helped Patrice out; Kelly would idolize Patrice for her efforts. If only Patrice had her mother’s talent for reinvention. Then she could stop feeling guilty. She could convince herself that she had truly, vigorously helped Kelly fulfill her dream of getting to the United States.
You probably know about our defeat at Gigeri, and how those who gave the advice now seek to throw the blame on those who carried it out.
—TO POMPONNE, NOVEMBER 1664
IT SURPRISED LYDIE to realize how much she missed Patrice. Daily things would occur, and she would wish she could call Patrice to tell her about them. Small things, really, such as the discovery of a new restaurant with a quiet, shady terrace; the infernal humidity; the frustration Lydie was feeling about Michael’s late hours. Yes, the construction of his project had finally started, and each day brought new milestones of ineptitude: a door incorrectly hung, a batch of new mortar that didn’t match the old. If Patrice were in Paris, Lydie believed she wouldn’t feel so abandoned. She would have someone to call; she and Patrice could have lunch or tea together. In New York she had confided in Julia, but over here she had Patrice.
Postcards arrived from Saint-Tropez. Lydie felt a little surprised, a little thrilled by the vulgarity of Patrice’s cards. Many were sexual, all featured breasts, as if Saint-Tropez’s greatest feature were its well-endowed female inhabitants. But Patrice’s messages were serious, kind. It seemed she missed Lydie as much as Lydie missed her. “I haven’t spoken a word of English since arriving,” she wrote. “All of Didier’s friends are French with a vengeance.” On another she wrote: “When are you coming? Get down here, and fast! You are my only American.”
That phrase, “my only American,” struck Lydie. In writing it, Patrice had named something Lydie had been trying to define. What would happen to Patrice when Lydie returned to the United States? Lydie had grown so fond of her. She had a private store of memories based on that luncheon with Patrice and her mother and on the time Lydie told Patrice everything about her father and Michael. Lydie couldn’t help seeing herself and Patrice with poignant overtones: two only children in a foreign country.
When Lydie told Michael about it that night, he laughed.
“Patrice can fend for herself,” he said. “I think she’s a tough cookie.”
“She gives the impression of being tough,” Lydie said. “But a lot of it is an act. You should have seen her with her mother—the combination of bulldozer and baby. She wanted to act so competent, make sure the visit ran like clockwork.