Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [77]
She closed the lid of Michael’s letter box and replaced it on the dresser. The urge to clean had left her. Suddenly she wished she could get her hands on a race car. She imagined pulling up at the Hôtel Grande Madeleine, honking her horn, opening the passenger door for Michael. Whipping out the Boulevard Haussmann to the Périphérique, and from there—who cares? Instead she reached for the phone and dialed the hotel’s number. It was rather early in the evening, and she didn’t actually expect Michael to answer.
“Hello?” came Michael’s voice after a delay.
“Did I wake you?” Lydie asked, suddenly feeling that unpleasant and recently familiar sense of shyness.
“No,” he said. Then, “Yeah, you did. But that’s okay. I should be getting up.”
Lydie glanced at her watch. “Are you sick or something?”
“Just tired. I’ve been busy at work. How are you? Is something wrong?”
“No. I just wanted to …” To what? she wondered. “Talk,” she finished awkwardly. After a pause she said, “Actually I wanted to take a drive—in a hot car. But I have no idea where to get one.”
“You could probably rent one,” Michael said.
Lydie laughed. “I can just imagine calling Hertz—‘Hi, do you have a regulation Chevy for hire?’ ”
“Right. ‘Forget the unlimited mileage, just point me toward the nearest track,’ ” Michael said, sounding as if he were waking up.
“Can you believe Le Mans is just about an hour away and I haven’t even been?” Lydie said. “I should at least make a visit, to pay homage.”
“You should. It would be like a psychiatrist visiting Vienna without a stop at Freud’s house in the Berggasse.”
“How would you know where Freud’s house is?” Lydie asked.
“Didn’t you see the article about Vienna in the Tribune? I thought you’d like the part about the Habsburg balls. You know, I thought it might inspire you for Didier’s.”
“I didn’t see it,” Lydie said.
“Well, I’ll send it to you.”
Lydie was silent, digesting the fact Michael had said “send” instead of “bring.” On the other hand, she had been rejecting his invitations all along. “That would be nice,” she said after a while.
“How’s it coming—the ball?” Michael asked.
“Really well. But there’s still a lot to do for it.”
“What’ll you do when it’s over? Do you have other projects lined up?”
“I’m going back to New York,” Lydie said. “I’m taking Kelly Merida with me.”
“My time here isn’t up till mid-October,” Michael said sharply.
What does that have to do with anything? Lydie thought with a certain bitterness. “I’m tempted to say ‘So what?’ ” she said.
“I don’t know,” Michael said. “Never mind.”
“I wasn’t even sure you planned to leave,” Lydie said. “With your big success at the Louvre and everything else.”
Michael laughed. “My big success is not so big. Everything has turned out ‘okay,’ but just okay. I didn’t get the paintings I want, the new curator is grabbing all the credit and trying to take over the final details. It’s a big mess.” He laughed again. “After that great lead-in, I have something to ask you. Will you come to the opening? It’s in a week.”
“The opening party?” Lydie said. She felt excited to be asked—how could she miss it, after all? But it was another official event, like the embassy party, where she’d be appearing as a figurehead wife. “I don’t think so.”
“I wish you would,” Michael said. “I really want you to be there. Come on—”
Lydie hesitated because he sounded like he meant it. “I don’t think so,” she said again.
“I really thought you would,” Michael said. “You call me up talking about a fast car—I really thought you’d go for it.”
“Go for what?” Lydie asked.
“I thought you might take a chance. Take a chance and spend an important night with your husband.”
“Who walked out on who here?