Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [69]
“We talk a lot. We tried to see each other, but I wound up feeling worse. It’s awful to say good night at the end of the night and go our separate ways.”
Patrice had a guilty pang for two things she was thinking. The first was that without Michael she had Lydie’s friendship all to herself. She could imagine doting on Lydie, helping her through this. And her second guilt-provoking thought was that she had at least one thing that Lydie did not have: a happy marriage. She felt her heart overflowing. Patrice had always known she had a generous spirit, but until Didier she hadn’t had anyone to give her love to. Demonstrations of love had never been encouraged by her mother. She had the urge to hug Lydie, then make her a nice hot cup of tea.
“Is it possible you could ever fall out of love with Didier?” Lydie asked.
In another instance Patrice might have lied to make Lydie feel better, but this was too important. “No, I can’t. Not in a million years. Why? Are you falling out of love with Michael?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” Lydie said.
“Lydie, that’s not falling out of love,” Patrice said. “Who was it who said, ‘It’s a thin line between love and hate’? Freud?”
Lydie half smiled. “I would have said Cole Porter. Did you say Freud to cheer me up?”
Patrice, who hadn’t, smiled enigmatically. “The point is, if you lie awake thinking of Michael, you’re not falling out of love with him.”
“I feel as if everything good in me is leaking out. It has been, ever since my father died.”
“There’s a lot of good in you,” Patrice said. She wanted to list the things she loved in Lydie, but Lydie’s face had shut down.
“I used to think I was the most passionate person I knew,” Lydie said. “I made a project out of everything. I couldn’t just fall in love—I had to fall madly in love. I made Michael an obsession.”
“Like how?” Patrice asked.
“Like the beginning of our romance. We were staying in Washington, and one afternoon Michael took me to the Freer, to look at Japanese art. He especially loved the lacquered boxes. The second he told me that, I knew what I was giving him for Christmas. After we got back to New York I took a day off to find the perfect box—a mahogany chest.”
“You mean like a blanket chest?”
“No; it’s about the size of a large dictionary. Then I found a book on the history of Japanese lacquer. I followed the tradition to the letter—applying coat after coat of black lacquer, which I got from the body shop—sanding between coats. At first I used a brush, but when it got to be November and I had only applied ten of the—I think it was eighteen—coats, I broke down and used a spray can.
“Then I chose the design—a plum tree standing on a riverbank. When the last coat dried, I used the traditional method of ‘painting’ the design in talcum powder, then brushing on the glue, then applying the gold leaf.” Lydie traced a pattern on her knee. “I was thinking of Michael the whole time. I felt as though I had him with me every minute.”
“Did he like the box?” Patrice asked.
“Yes,” Lydie said. “I gave it to him Christmas morning, and he proposed Christmas night. We wrote each other letters, even though we saw each other constantly, just so he’d have love letters to keep in it.”
“That’s lovely,” Patrice said. One of her few regrets about falling so swiftly in love with Didier was that they had very few love letters. She thought of how pleasant it would be for Lydie and Michael, when they were old, to read through their old letters. But here was Lydie saying they might not be together. “Why not make a project of getting him back? You have it in you.”
Lydie shook her head. “It has to come from him,” she said. “He’s the one who left. I can’t ‘win’ him back.”
“No,” Patrice agreed sadly.
“And when the ball’s over, I’ll go back to New York,” Lydie said stonily.
“Lydie …” Patrice didn’t know what to say.
Lydie looked up at her. “I do have a ‘project,’ though. If that’s what you want to call it.”
“You do? You mean the ball?”
“No. You’re going to have mixed feelings about this.”
Patrice could