Jeremy shrugged, as if it was basically a female hobby, like quilting or something. “Have you settled on getting married in France?” he inquired.
“Not yet,” I replied. “I’m looking into venues in both countries.”
“Well, then, do you really have time to do tapestry research?” he asked. “Why don’t you let Honorine do it for you?”
“Maybe I will,” I said, but I had my doubts. I’ve never delegated serious research, because I often discover some of the most valuable stuff quite by accident. The aisle in the bookstore that you wander down serendipitously; the side gallery that nobody seems to notice in a museum; even the dog-eared clipping or photograph in a forgotten folder in the library. Little buried treasures, just sitting there waiting for a fairly distractible snoop like me. But, I thought, maybe it was time to learn to run a bigger, more efficient operation instead of being a one-man band.
I asked Honorine to join me in my office, where I tentatively broached the subject with her. She had a shy, observant, schoolgirl way of looking up at me as if I were a big sister leading the way to an unconventional, grown-up life. But today I discovered that we differed from each other in one particular, fundamentally surprising way: Honorine was absolutely bored stiff with history. Couldn’t stand old things. Couldn’t see the point. She rolled her eyes and told me that there was so much of “that ancient stuff” in her “old museum of a house” that she was sick of it.
“We’re supposed to devote our lives to taking care of it all, to pass it on to our kids,” she said incredulously, “even if we have to starve to do it! And it’s like homework, with so many rules about how to do everything!”
“But it’s not just about
things
. Looking into your family history is like being a detective,” I told her, amused. “You might find out really interesting stuff about your ancestors. Sometimes it’s like getting a message from them, across time and space.”
“Oh, I have had about all the messages I can stand from my elders, thanks very much!” she cried in mock horror, glancing up at the photos of the tapestry on my bulletin board. It occurred to me that, beyond her aversion to old artifacts, the tapestry perhaps had too much emotional baggage for her, because her mother was literally holding it over her head until she got married.
“Well, if you really want to know all about it, you should talk to Papa’s Aunt Venetia,” Honorine said, not wanting to be totally useless. “After all, it was she who discovered it when it was put up for sale, and she bought it for her own wedding, which by all accounts was very, very glamorous. Then she passed it on to Papa and
Maman
for their wedding. She is very old, and lives alone in Paris.”
“How old is she?” I asked, intrigued.
“
Zut
, she must be in her nineties now, but she won’t tell anybody her exact age. She was a ballerina in the 1930s, and married a very rich newspaper man. Her life was
très romantique,
and she knew everybody-who-was-anybody ‘between the wars’. You would adore her scrapbooks, I think. Tante Venetia used to show them to me when I was a little girl and went to visit her.”
“A ballerina. She sounds great!” I cried. The name Venetia rang a bell. Then I remembered Oncle Philippe at the flower fields, showing me a deep purple, musky-scented rose he called the “Venetia”. Honorine confirmed that this was indeed the woman for whom the rose was named.
“By the way,
Maman
says it would be good of you if you could send Tante Venetia an invitation to your wedding, so she feels included,” Honorine said delicately. “But of course she won’t come, as she never leaves Paris now, she hardly ever goes out of that apartment, even.”
Jeremy appeared in the hall, poking his head in my office. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself,” I said. Honorine smiled and went out, leaving us to talk.
“I just heard back from Parker Drake’s P.R. man,” Jeremy said, lounging in the doorway. “Got a clearer picture of what they want.”
“That’s terrific,” I replied, impressed.
I’d already gotten Honorine to trawl the Internet for info on Parker Drake, which she did gladly, since he was a living, breathing contemporary mover-and-shaker, as opposed to a dead ancestor. Within a day, she’d sorted and assembled an impressive bio: Having made gazillions in banking, Parker Drake had a vast art collection and was an expert yachtsman. He was based in Monte Carlo and Switzerland for tax reasons. In addition to their staggering wealth, Drake and his wife were darlings of the media, mostly because they were both so attractive, with that smiling, tanned, well-rested, confident look of powerful people who knew how to make the world spin.
I was particularly interested in his wife, a former model named Tina, who was very generous and active in charities. When she threw a party, she actually managed to raise real money for it, instead of just attracting the attention of the society columns for the party-du-jour. She’d been called a “good influence” on her notoriously penny-pinching husband, having convinced him that rich people should, after all, share the wealth with the less fortunate. Her pet charity was for the world’s orphans, and she’d fearlessly gone into diseased areas to care for kids and draw worldwide attention to their plight.
Plus, on a more personal front, she’d managed to have a tasteful wedding, despite the barrage of advance publicity. All in all, I thought this might be a woman from whom I could learn something about how to maintain an authentic, personal life while wisely navigating the treacherous, uncharted waters of conspicuous wealth and media attention.
“He says Drake may want to put us on retainer, to check out artwork for him, to authenticate antiques, attend auctions,” Jeremy told me. “If he were a client, the income he’d generate might make it easier for us to pick and choose who else we take on; and I could hand off more of my corporate clients to Rupert, too. Drake’s man says they’d also want our input on the charity events he and his wife get involved in, like museum galas and stuff.”
“This is perfect,” I said with feeling. “My Women4Water gals are desperate for new infusions of cash, and I haven’t got a clue how to help them. Nobody’s buying my idea of making donations for our wedding gifts. Our guests all seem fixated on giving us punch bowls and table linens. What’s the plan?”
“Well, the P.R. guy wants me to fly to Paris and pow-wow in person,” Jeremy explained. “He says it’s just for ‘face time’, but I gather it’s a preliminary meeting, because he said if all goes well, I—and you—will eventually meet Parker Drake himself at one of those exclusive parties of his.”
“Me?” I echoed. “I don’t do ‘face time’ with clients.” I had envisioned a quiet talk with Drake’s wife, not some public-event spotlight.
“You do now,” Jeremy said briskly, “if you want him to fork over for your charity. But don’t worry, the party isn’t for weeks yet, and I still have to pass muster with the P.R. guy.”
“Wait, did you say Paris?” I asked. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll do ‘face time’ with your mogul when he becomes a client . . . if you’ll visit a ballerina with me now, while we’re in Paris.”
“A what?” Jeremy asked, looking surprised.
“Never mind,” I said, picking up the phone to ask Honorine to book our tickets. “I’ll explain it all to you on the way there.”
“While we’re in France, I’d like to go down to Antibes and meet with Claude,” Jeremy said. “He’s been wanting to talk to me about getting the yacht ready for the summer.”
“We may as well alert Celeste to open up the villa for us, then,” I suggested. I picked up the phone and relayed all this to Honorine, and when I hung up, I felt a surge of anticipation. The high season on the Riviera would be kicking off soon, and there was always a bustling excitement in the air.
“Off we go, then,” said Jeremy, looking pleased himself.
Part Four
Chapter Fifteen
E
very time I set foot in Paris, I feel as if I’m receiving a fresh infusion of optimism. It’s not simply that it gives me hope for the future; or that it offers a real home to anyone who loves beauty; or that it welcomes lovers; or even that it lives in your heart long after you leave it. Paris is all these things, yet what is most remarkable to me is simply this: Paris is the triumph of making every day a heightened experience of being alive.
I felt this again when I awoke in a pretty blue-and-white hotel suite, and drifted sleepily into a cozy sitting room containing a low marble-topped table, an eggshell-colored sofa, and a wonderful big window with a splendid view. It had been Jeremy’s idea to pick this romantic, old-fashioned hotel on the Right Bank, because, as he said, “What the hell, we’re getting married. Let’s celebrate.”
When we parted the curtains to watch Paris awaken, I could almost hear an orchestra of musicians tuning up beneath the hum of shopkeepers briskly sweeping their sidewalks, and office workers rushing out of the Métro, and café owners brewing their coffee, and everyone greeting one another with the first, invigorating
Bonjour!
of the day. From this height, we admired the graceful order of wide boulevards that emanate like spokes of a great wheel, and we could appreciate the wisdom of the city’s creators, who’d made strict rules about each building’s height and position, so that nothing would disrupt the balance, harmony and light that now gave the morning a particular Parisian bluish-grey-white color.
And clearly, Paris is a city that loves its river, for the Seine was bedecked with a necklace of its best treasures: glorious museums, gardens, cathedrals, palaces and parks; and, most of all, a series of incomparable bridges—some made of stone, some of cast iron, another of wood—linking the left and right riverbanks again and again and again.
The room-service waiter obligingly arranged our breakfast plates on the table by the window so Jeremy and I could continue to observe the panorama below, as we ate French
epice
rolls, which came baked all attached together, like a tree’s branches growing out of one long, main “stem” of bread. We ate these with perfect cups of
café au lait
. Our plan this morning was to go our separate ways, then meet up again in the afternoon to call on Venetia together. Jeremy would have his pow-wow with Parker Drake’s man, and I was determined to make progress with our wedding plans. Paris, I felt, would make my agenda more of a pleasure, and less of a chore.
We rode down in a gold elevator that barely made a sound. The doorman sprang into action as we left the hotel and stepped out onto the street. “Want a taxi?” Jeremy asked.
“You take it,” I said. “I’m not going far from here.” He kissed me so tenderly that the doorman, and the taxi driver, and the lady who got out of the taxi, all smiled. I walked on, feeling purposeful and inspired.
The first item on my list was the invitations. Honorine had given me the name of a venerable stationery shop, not far from the Jardin des Tuileries. Here, she told me, was where I could get fine paper for the wedding invitations that would be hand-engraved in the same timeless method they used centuries ago; and she advised me to order matching thank-you notes and old-fashioned calling cards as well.
I loved the idea of future occasions when I’d arrive at someone’s door and give the butler my card by way of introduction; or, I’d leave a card behind after calling on a friend who was out. Just exactly when or with whom I would ever do this was beside the point. I knew that if I had the cards, I’d do it someday. It would be a lot more fun than just leaving a voice message or an e-mail.
After the noise and bustle of the street, the inside of the shop was cool and invitingly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that I could hear a snore coming from the sleeping cat who lay in a curl beside the counter. The proprietor was expecting me, and he and two family members stood ready. They made an attractive trio—a very tall man in a black cashmere sweater, a petite woman with spectacles, and a young girl wearing a black velvet headband. I guess they were all curious to see who turned up after Honorine’s crisp instructions ahead of my arrival.
The woman picked up a leather-trimmed desk blotter that looked as if it had been made for Madame du Barry (it probably was), and she placed it on a glass-topped counter. Upon this blotter, she laid out, one by one, several sheets of fine paper in pale Easter colors of bluish white, pinkish white, and one the color of melted vanilla ice cream.
“For your consideration, mademoiselle,” said the man. Since Honorine and I had already decided on a burgundy monogram, I now chose the cream-colored stationery, which I felt would be perfect. All went smoothly . . . until it came down to the number of guests, and the date, time and location of the wedding. Er, I’d have to get back to them on that. Nevertheless, one item on the checklist was done. The invitations were going to be just lovely.
Having accomplished my first mission, my spirits rose. Perhaps this wedding jazz wasn’t so insurmountable, after all. Now, on to the dress. Thanks to Aunt Sheila, I had an “in” at a terrific fashion house, and this process had already been put into motion, months ago. In fact, Monsieur Lombard previously helped me out of a very nerve-wracking social occasion last year, and I trusted his excellent judgment. But I’d been only to his London outpost, and had never seen his Parisian atelier.
It was located at that great big “X” where the Avenue Montaigne meets the Rue François I. The front windows displayed his latest summer creations on mannequins posed on a fake beach, with sand and scattered seashells at their feet, and whimsical pails and shovels. I tried not to be distracted by the pretty sundresses, the nostalgia-inspired ruched bathing suits, and the white trouser ensembles with big straw hats and headscarves that looked like something out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
I pushed through the revolving door, and walked across the elegant showroom, straight to the reception desk at the back of the shop. As soon as I gave my name to the lady at the big desk, she immediately picked up her telephone.