Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [53]
“You sound strange. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about me. I always get sick in August. It’s an annual event.”
“Well, if you say so,” Patrice said, sounding unconvinced. “Get yourself some decent medicine and sleep around the clock.”
“Okay. I miss you.”
“Kisses!” Patrice said, and broke the connection.
Hanging up the phone, Lydie had the strangest feeling that nothing bad would be happening if she and Michael had not left the United States. They would be happy together, she would not be sick, he would not be acting like a jerk. Her mother’s guardian angel was punishing her for transferring loyalties to Patrice. She closed her eyes and saw the angel, an avenger: hooded, black-winged, straight from God. She knew she was superstitious, but then, she had been raised by Catholics from Ireland. She fell asleep.
Kelly stepped off the number thirty-two bus carrying the present for Lydie. This was the moment she had been waiting for! All August she had worked alone at the d’Orignys’—polishing silver, cleaning closets and cupboards, wishing for a chance to speak with Lydie. She had Patrice to thank for it. Her lips moved, rehearsing the words she would say. Her palms sweated. She wiped them on a tissue. She wanted them to be dry, because she knew Lydie would shake her hand in greeting. She looked around.
Lydie’s neighborhood was so different from Patrice’s: every single woman on the street looked like a fashion model. The shops and restaurants had brilliant red awnings with gold lettering: Chez Francis, Bar des Théâtres, Marius et Janette. The Place des Vosges was so drab, so ancient, in comparison. And Kelly’s own neighborhood, behind Clichy, could not even be compared. It was dirty, grimy, full of Arabs. The shops sold rice and beans, cheap shoes, sex toys. She wished her sisters and brothers could see her now, walking through the Place de l’Alma, ringing the bell of an American who was not her employer.
“Hello, Lydie, hello, Lydie,” Kelly said to herself, walking up the stairs. She remembered to wipe her palms.
“Kelly!” Lydie said, standing in the foyer of her apartment. She was wearing a robe. In the middle of the day! Kelly was so surprised by this, she forgot her greeting. But then Lydie stepped forward, shook her hand. “I’d give you a kiss,” Lydie said, “but I’m sick and probably contagious. Come on in.”
Kelly remembered to hand her the present, some homemade strawberry preserves that had actually been sent as a thank-you present to Patrice from her mother.
“My favorite kind,” Lydie said, examining the jar.
Kelly stood in the entranceway and looked around. Tall windows overlooked the river. The furniture was beautiful! Very contemporary! The couch was covered in a wild pattern; there was an entertainment center complete with TV, VCR, and stereo; pole lamps were everywhere. She thought of Patrice’s lamps: old things covered with gilt that flaked every time you touched them.
“Is that a Barcalounger?” Kelly asked, unable to help herself. She had seen pictures of reclining chairs in Patrice’s magazines.
Lydie laughed. “Yes. It’s not my favorite thing, but Michael’s father gave it to him for his thirty-fifth birthday. Why don’t we sit over there? You can try it out.”
The sweat behind Kelly’s knees bonded with the vinyl. “I’ll get us some iced tea,” Lydie said. Before leaving the room, she showed Kelly how to work the levers. Kelly made her feet go up and down and her head go back. She made herself comfortable, with her feet about six inches off the ground and her head back, not far, just a little.
Lydie rejoined her. At that moment, Kelly realized what she had done: allowed Lydie to serve her.
“Oh, Mum!” she said, scrambling to get out of the chair. This wasn’t what she had planned! She had intended to offer to work a little for Lydie, for free, before proposing her idea.
“Sit back and relax,” Lydie said. She smiled at Kelly, then sat on the sofa. “Are you enjoying August without the d’Orignys?”
“Oh, yes,” Kelly said, holding her head up. Her comfort put