Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [72]
Patrice realized that leaving Kelly alone, not confronting her with what she already knew, was a form of torture. But she couldn’t bring herself to seek Kelly out, greet her, lay it on the line. Her skin tingled as she heard Kelly advancing, room by room. Willing herself to concentrate, she read a letter from Madame de Sévigné to her daughter:
“Are you really afraid that I prefer Madame de Brissac to you? Do you fear that her manner pleases me more than yours? That her mind has found the way to appeal to me? Is it your opinion that her beauty eclipses your charms?”
Women really know how to stick it to each other, Patrice thought. We know how to play one off another, we use jealousy as a trump card, we fight to be number one in the affections of each other. Madame de Sévigné did it with her own daughter! Poor young Françoise-Marguerite, newly married and miles from home, tortured by the idea that her mother preferred another young woman to her. And, of course, Madame de Sévigné was shrewd enough to know exactly what she was doing. Not like Patrice’s mother, who loved her sister in Cleveland more than anyone—more than her husband, more than Patrice. There was no game, no guile about it; nothing could have been clearer.
Was Lydie being shrewd? Patrice would not have thought so, yet she could not deny the jealousy Lydie had caused her to feel. It was an odious, three-cornered jealousy, a triangle, and Patrice wanted to sit at the triangle’s peak. This triangle was different from the one she had shared with her mother and Aunt Jane because sitting at the top of this one had seemed possible. In the reverie she always occupied while reading the Dumas book, she envisioned the triangle’s sides as the arms of Kelly and Lydie, reaching up toward her. Without Patrice, where would they be? They surely would never have met …
“Welcome home, Mum,” Kelly said, startling Patrice.
Patrice carefully closed Three Women of the Marais. She nodded at Kelly, and the sight of her was a stab in the heart. Did Lydie think Patrice had been blind to Kelly’s plight? Did she think Patrice was unaware that in Kelly’s plan Paris was just a way station on the way to America? Well, she was not. “Hello,” she said, trying to be calm.
“Shall I unpack your bags?” Kelly asked. Nervously, Patrice thought.
“That would be lovely,” Patrice said. “In the pocket of that black one you’ll find a plastic bag. Take it out, please.”
Kelly fumbled with the zipper, then withdrew a small bag. She came toward Patrice, the bag in hand.
“It’s a gift for you,” Patrice said.
“Oh, Mum …” Kelly’s face twisted with confusion. Patrice could imagine her wondering whether to confess her secret before opening the gift or afterward. For her part, Patrice knew that it would be kind to divulge her knowledge of Lydie’s petition now, but she said nothing. She just stared at Kelly’s brown hands, holding the bright plastic bag.
“Open it,” Patrice said.
Kelly obeyed. She pulled out a package, wrapped in pink tissue paper. Inside was a black felt bag that contained a coral necklace.
“Thank you, Mum!” she exclaimed, obviously thrilled with it. Patrice had chosen it for the color, an unusually vivid shade of rose, and for the refined craftsmanship. The clasp was made of 14K gold. Didier had checked with his jeweler’s eye. Kelly held the necklace close to her face, examining each individual bead. With one hand Kelly held aside her thick black hair; then she fastened the clasp around her neck.
“It’s very pretty on you,” Patrice said stiffly.
“Thank you, Mum. Thank you very much.”
Kelly jiggled her necklace the way Patrice, once as a lark having tea at the mosque, had seen Arabs handle worry beads. “I know about Lydie petitioning for you,” Patrice said.
“You do?” Kelly asked, looking worried.
“She told me. I’m happy for you.” As she said it, Patrice realized that it was true. On the other hand, she still felt an overwhelming sense of loss and betrayal. Didn’t she mean anything to Kelly? They