Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [55]
Kelly, who believed that all would be lost if Lydie talked with Patrice before making up her mind, looked at her. She looked straight into Lydie’s hazel eyes. “What about your mother?” she asked.
“My mother?”
“Did you not tell me that she immigrated to the United States? That you talked to her about me and that she said I should try to go also?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Do you believe that your mother had help along the way? That someone helped her to get there?”
“Many people helped her. I know what you’re saying, and I appreciate it. I do. Let me think about it.” Some of the confusion had left her face, and Kelly knew that she had won.
“Thank you so much, Lydie,” Kelly said. “No matter what you decide, thank you for thinking about it. Will you let me do something for you now? I could go to the market for you, or do your laundry. I could go to the pharmacy …”
“No,” Lydie said, sounding tired. “There’s nothing at all. Maybe I’ll just take a rest now.”
And so they said good-bye.
That night Michael came home with ice cream from Berthillon. It had melted in the heat; the package had sprung a leak, and his hands were sticky. He dumped a pile of contractors’ reports on the counter and washed his hands at the kitchen sink while Lydie poured liquid double-chocolate into soup bowls. She felt better after her nap, no longer feverish. She wore a fresh white nightgown, knowing that Michael preferred it to the T-shirt.
“I have the most interesting thing to tell you,” Lydie said. “I had a visitor today. Kelly Merida—you know, Patrice’s cleaning lady?”
“Should we leave it in the freezer for a few minutes, to get it cold?” he asked.
“Let’s eat it just like this. It seems more sinful,” she said. She wanted to sound lighthearted, wicked. She wanted to erase whatever had turned bad between them.
“I brought it home to cool you off, for your fever …”
“My fever is gone. I’m fine,” Lydie said.
“Ah,” he said. He stared at her. He didn’t touch her. His look was steady, nearly expressionless, but it chilled Lydie, and only someone who knew him as well as she did could understand what it meant. She knew that they were about to have a conversation, and she knew what the conversation would be about. It would not be about Kelly. She put one hand over her eyes, then took it down.
“I love you,” she said.
“Not enough,” he said.
“What are you talking about? What’s bothering you?” She felt a little frantic. She glanced around for the kitchen chairs, but Michael seemed to want to stand.
“Lydie.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, guided her to the sideboard and propped her against it. It reminded her of the time, in their kitchen in New York, when he had told her that her father was dead. The overhead light was harsh and yellow; the loudspeaker of one of the tour boats broadcast a distorted message.
“How can you say I don’t love you enough?” Lydie asked.
“Because I don’t feel it. I haven’t felt it for a while. Since before we came to Paris.”
“You’re the one who’s different, Michael,” she said. “You’ve acted strange ever since we got here, and I can’t blame you. Your project was up in the air for so long … Is there another hitch at work?”
“This isn’t about work.” His voice rose, his anger freeing something in Lydie. She hit his chest with the heel of her hand.
“God, if I had known this when I agreed to come to Paris—” she said.
“That’s right—you ‘agreed’ to come to Paris. Funny, I’d always imagined my wife would love to come to Paris with me. Some people think Paris is the most romantic city in the world.”
“I think it’s romantic—I love it here.” Lydie felt shocked by what he was saying. But she found herself trying to remember the last time they had had sex.
“You don’t seem to love me, or at least being with me, if there’s a difference. You know what stands out in my mind about our time here?”
“What?”
“That time on the quai, when you kissed me. It seemed so nice, so unusual.”
Lydie remembered; they had been walking to the Comédie Française