Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [59]
“How do you know all these people?” she asked him, bristling at the reminder of his secret life.
“I don’t know anyone well. I’ve met them along the way, through work, I guess.”
A woman the age of Lydie’s mother seemed to want to speak to them. She caught Michael’s eye, and he turned to her. “Are you the fellow who’s redoing the Louvre?” she asked.
“Is that what they’re saying about me?” Michael asked, sounding fake, hearty, the way he sometimes did with women that age.
“Absolutely. Absolutely—it’s the talk all through the embassy.” She took a long drink of her whiskey; from the pouches under her eyes and the red patches on her cheeks, Lydie deduced that she liked whiskey a lot.
“We’re Lydie and Michael McBride,” Lydie said, shaking her hand. “Do you work at the embassy?”
“How do you do? I’m Dot Graulty. I’m an old-timer in the consular section—twenty-five years. Art Chase was just pointing you out to me. He comes to me for special favors. Little things that need doing, everyone comes to me.” She took another drink. She looked overweight, a little uncomfortable in her tight red jersey dress. She wore two strands of pearls at the throat.
“What sort of things?” Michael asked.
Dot laughed, touched his arm. “Anything! Any nitpicking when it comes to the government—the U.S. government, not the French one. If it’s legal, I know the loophole.” She frowned. “Does that sound terrible? Like I’m trying to put something over on Uncle Sam?”
“Not at all,” Michael said. “Why have you stayed in Paris for so long?”
“My husband is with the Herald Tribune. Listen, I’m so happy to have met you.” Her gaze had fixed on the bar; her glass was empty. Her fingers wiggling in a distracted sort of wave, she walked away.
“What do you think she really does at the embassy?” Michael asked, watching her go.
“She’s probably special deputy to the ambassador,” Lydie said. One of her and Michael’s favorite pastimes at large, impersonal parties was inventing stories about everyone they met. “She’s his trouble-shooter. She finds the loophole that will let him take fresh foie gras home to the States for Christmas.”
“She finds the loophole that will let her drink that entire bottle of scotch tonight,” Michael said. “She does have that motherly way, though. Doesn’t she? Kind of like Julia.”
“Yes,” Lydie said, touched that he would mention Julia. It seemed a peace offering. She regarded him, thought that she had never seen him so handsome. Perhaps time apart had been exactly what they needed. She warned herself about putting it in the past tense, but she hoped that he would come home with her tonight.
“Now, here she is,” said an unfamiliar voice.
“Lydie, I’d like you to meet Arthur Chase,” Michael said.
“I’ve heard so much about the lovely Lydie McBride,” Arthur said, shaking her hand. “And I didn’t want to wait until Michael’s great unveiling party to meet you.”
Lydie grinned. “I’ve been wanting to meet you. And to thank you—for helping Michael’s project get off the ground.”
“It was the least I could do. It was my pleasure. Michael is making up for lost time, working night and day. I’m sure he wouldn’t have come here tonight if I hadn’t insisted on finally meeting you.”
Lydie turned to Michael. By his expression and the blush that was spreading across his cheeks, by the way he continued to look at Arthur and not her, she knew that he had invited her to the party because of Arthur. Tears sprang to her eyes; she couldn’t help it. She felt like a fool. She hated her husband. When she could speak, she let out a little laugh. “He’s a workaholic,” she said.
Arthur had noticed her tears; he looked from Lydie to Michael, worried. “My wife used to say that about me, and don’t think I don’t know how rough it can be on a wife. Poor Sylvia. It’s better, now we’re in Paris. Being cultural attaché to India, living in Bombay