Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [57]
“I fell in love with her,” Michael said.
It was the worst thing he could have said. When she heard the word “love,” Lydie imagined she had lost him. She turned her back, walked out of the kitchen. She heard Michael coming after her, his footsteps right behind her. She was remembering the day he had fallen in love with her. It was Easter, eight years ago. They had been working together a few weeks when they were sent to Washington, to study the Hirshhorn sculpture garden.
They had stayed at a little hotel in Foggy Bottom. Separate rooms. She remembered the cherry trees blooming outside. She had lain in bed, smelling the blossoms, propped up on one elbow to look down the Potomac at planes in their landing pattern for National Airport. After a while she had calculated: one plane per minute. She remembered being disappointed that the sculpture garden had too much direct sun, that it was often too hot, that the main shade came from the shadow of the museum, not from trees. After two days of study they were supposed to return to New York, in time for Easter.
“Would you like to stay one more night?” Michael had asked. “Would you like to see Mount Vernon?”
With work behind them, they fell in love. Instantly, Lydie loved everything he said. Every single thing. He couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her. They went to bed; she could see Michael’s face beside hers on the pillow, his brow damp. He said, “I love you,” after they both came in a rush unlike any Lydie had ever felt.
“Turn around,” Michael said now in a low voice.
“Leave,” Lydie said. “I don’t want to look at you.” And she meant it. She couldn’t stand to know another thing about it. It would be easier if she never had to see Michael again, if she could begin to cure herself of him starting now.
He grabbed her arm, hard, yanked her around. “Is this how you want it to go?” he asked. “Do you really want me to leave?”
“If you love her,” Lydie said, choking on the word “love.” “Yes. I want you to get out of here.”
He stared at her, still holding her arm. She felt his energy, imagined that he wanted to throttle her. But his silence gave her hope. “Or don’t you love her? Tell me what you want. Make up your mind!”
Still he said nothing. After a while he shook his head, took away his hand. “I don’t know what I want,” he said. “That’s the rotten thing. I’ve loved you for so long, Lydie, but I don’t trust it much now.”
She saw that he was crying. She thought, Why couldn’t he have had a secret affair? Why couldn’t he have kept it to himself, a fling in Paris to see him through middle age? But that bloodless thought cleared her mind. Suddenly she knew what he was saying about her. By wishing she didn’t know about his affair, she was wishing for a happy little marriage. Something pretty, unreal. The kind of marriage her mother wanted for her.
Lydie stood close to Michael, not touching him. She couldn’t quite move. Do you love her instead of me or in addition to me? she wanted to ask. Love. She had always loved Michael; perhaps the problem was that “love” had become a state of being rather than action.
“I’m going to leave now,” he said calmly.
“To go where? Will you be …?”
“I’ll be alone,” Michael said. “I’ll be at a hotel. This is between you and me, Lydie. We have to decide whether we still want each other.”
She sat down heavily on the sofa. “I can’t believe this is happening. I never thought this was possible, that it could happen to us.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Michael said. “It can happen to anyone.”
“Michael …” Lydie said.
He looked at her for a long time. “Do you know how much I loved you?” he asked. Then he left.
The King laughed very much at this trick, but everyone thinks it is the most cruel thing one can do to an old courtier. Personally I always like reflecting about things, and I wish the King would think about this example and conclude how far he is from ever learning the truth.
—TO POMPONNE, DECEMBER 1664
LYDIE’S DREAMS AND