Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [86]
“Lydie …” Michael said. Now, sitting in Paris, Lydie could see the desperation in his eyes, hear the sadness in his voice. She could believe that Michael imagined he had lost his wife to a cause, like one of those people who believe in the Kennedy conspiracy and spend their lives trying to prove that Oswald did not act alone. Lydie kept replaying imaginary events over in her mind the way some people watch the Zapruder tape. Her father’s rain hat, a clerk slipping a quart of Sealtest into a bag, Margaret Downes smiling as she answered her door. Lydie remembered Michael taking her left hand, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “I think your father bought that milk for the baby. He couldn’t be absolutely sure there would be any in the house. I think he wanted the child to have a bottle when—”
“Shut up,” Lydie said then, yanking her hand free to cover her ears. But Michael took hold of them, eased them down.
“When he fired the shots. It was a kind thing to do, Lydie. Think of it that way. Your father was crazy, but he thought enough of that baby to make sure she had a bottle.”
Now, remembering, Lydie felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She knew that Michael was right. Her father had cared enough about his lover’s child to make sure she had a bottle, yet he hadn’t even said good-bye to Lydie. She realized that she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop crying. She tried to think of the poor baby hearing gunshots. Had she understood what was happening? The baby’s mother, Lydie’s father, dead in the next room. Back in New York she hadn’t let herself think too often about that baby: it would have seemed disloyal to Julia’s stubborn interpretation of her husband’s intentions. But here in Paris, Lydie was beginning to let herself see things she hadn’t seen before.
Lydie wished she hadn’t promised to take Patrice to the warehouse in Neuilly. They were going to look at props for the ball and discuss Kelly. Ball gowns, peacock feathers, jewelry … suddenly Lydie saw her career the way her father would have—frivolous, an empty enterprise. He had had such high hopes for her. He had been convinced that one day her paintings would hang in museums. He had been right to doubt her when she said her work as a stylist would last only a few years. Some days she loved what she did, thought she had the most interesting job in Paris. Other days, when she thought of Kelly or of what her father would think of her, she felt materialistic and vacant.
Patrice picked her up in Didier’s Citroën. They drove up the Champs-Elysées, around the Etoile, toward Neuilly. Lydie saw a slash of scarlet at the top of a maple tree and she remembered late spring, when the roses were new, that early morning with Patrice in the Bagatelle. Now they drove to the warehouse, a dreary windowless building. “This is the place?” Patrice asked doubtfully. “This is where you’re storing all the treasures of the universe?”
“You’ve got it,” Lydie said, pulling out the key. “Are you and Didier excited about the ball?”
“Are you kidding? Every night Didier checks the mail before he kisses me—to see who else has accepted.”
“Thanks for everything you’re doing about the banquet.”
“Oh, I know,” Patrice said. “Our little oyster man from Arcachon is bringing oysters, spider crabs, and langoustes. Our friends from Deauville have a cheese man who’s going to supply Camembert, Livarot, and Pont l’Eveque. Terribly photogenic cheeses, I’ve been assured.”
“Plus roasted grouse, a few gratins …”
“Brown and bubbly, click