Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [88]
“I hate her,” Lydie said.
“I don’t blame you,” Patrice said. “What happened when Michael went to see you?”
Lydie shivered as she recalled the kiss. “I’m all stirred up. I think about Kelly, because at least there’s something I can do about her.”
“I don’t get it,” Patrice said, frowning.
“I don’t know how to act with Michael. I just don’t. Sometimes I want him back so badly … then I remember he left me to be with Anne Dumas. But with Kelly … I can help her get to the United States. I’m doing it—I’ve filed a petition for her.”
“How you can compare the two is way beyond me,” Patrice said. “I want what’s best for her too. But Kelly is no substitute for Michael.”
“No kidding,” Lydie said, feeling impatient with Patrice. “Of course Kelly and Michael are separate. But it feels good to help Kelly.”
Patrice and Lydie took off the ball gowns, dressed in their own clothes. They stepped out of the warehouse into bright autumn sunshine.
“Bright out here,” Patrice said, shielding her eyes. She dug into her bag for the car keys.
“This is a nice car,” Lydie said, leaning on its hood as she waited for Patrice to unlock it.
Patrice had been concentrating on fitting her key into the lock, but her head snapped up and she grinned at Lydie across the car roof. “Want to drive it?”
“You’re kidding,” Lydie said, but already she felt the adrenaline start to flow.
“I know it’s not a Maserati or whatever you’re used to, but Didier makes it fly. Why not give it a go?”
Lydie and Patrice crisscrossed in front of the car, Patrice handing her the keys. The keys felt solid in Lydie’s hand. She felt confident unlocking the door, strapping on her seat belt.
“Seat belts?” Patrice asked from the passenger seat. “Race car drivers wear seat belts?”
“Safety first,” Lydie said, smiling. She switched on the ignition, felt satisfied by the engine’s soft murmur. It sounded nothing like her car, whose engine noises at optimal performance resembled a mutter or a hacking cough. Backing out of the space, then pulling forward onto Avenue Guérin, she drove the car slowly, with care, getting a feel for it.
“Floor it,” Patrice urged. “I want to see you in action.”
“Not here,” Lydie said. “Too residential.” She could easily believe, however, that Didier could make this car fly. She barely touched the gas, restraining it. When had she last had the urge to drive? It seemed like years ago. She had been behind the wheel, but only for errands; it hadn’t given her pleasure for a long time. Now she drove through Neuilly, braking at stop signs, training her eyes on the horizon and whatever stood in its path. She felt the car, its big six-cylinder engine, wanting to get away from her, but she held it back.
“Is this a tank compared to your car?” Patrice asked.
“Yes, but this car is lovely,” Lydie said, barely hearing Patrice. She was one with the road, and not only the one on which she drove. In a flash she saw past and future exit ramps, stop lights and race tracks. She held the leather steering wheel lightly, but as surely as she had at the start of races at Lime Rock. “Gentlemen, start your engines,” the announcer always called. She smiled now, as she always did when she heard that. Didn’t he realize there was a woman racing? Racing she would hold back, part of the pack, until that instant when she saw her chance and pulled ahead. She hadn’t won so far. She loved to compete and wanted to win for many reasons. But she lived for the day when she would pull across the line first, drive to the winner’s circle, take off her helmet and show the announcer her long hair, let him know that a woman had started her engine.
She felt that way now: as though she had started up after a long sleep. She entered the Périphérique at Porte Maillot, glanced at Patrice. The engine sounded good, the traffic was light. Shifting into overdrive, she pressed down the gas pedal.
“Here we go,” she said. But where, exactly, were they going? She sped along the highway that circled Paris, but she kept her eyes on the road. As a passenger she would sit back, enjoying the vista full of Parisian