Paris Is Always a Good Idea (25 page)

“Do I detect jealousy here?”

She rolled her eyes theatrically. “Don't flatter yourself, my friend. I merely wanted to save you from the relentless twittering of an Italian robin redbreast.”

“An extremely attractive robin redbreast.” He grinned. “Great legs.”

“Oh, I didn't know you had a penchant for Italian robins,” she mocked.

He shook his head. “No need to worry, my dear. When I think about it, I much prefer French mockingbirds.” He looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “So what's up—do I have an appointment or not?”

“If you behave yourself—maybe.” Rosalie looked at him meaningfully. She still hadn't forgiven him for the remark about the dusty bed. “Perhaps later, when Madame Morel comes—my assistant,” she added. “I can't get away until then.”

“Didn't you just say you were closing?” He pretended to be surprised.

“If you don't stop asking dumb questions right away, you'll be thrown out,” said Rosalie. “Why are you here anyway?”

“Well, I just happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to ask if you'd heard anything from Max Marchais. You haven't been in contact since … since we came back from Le Vésinet, and I wasn't sure…” He was silent for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. “I mean, you were pretty mad … in the car.…”

“Okay.” She felt herself going red and looked to one side. “Max Marchais left hospital a few days ago, but he hasn't called back yet. As soon as he gets in touch, I'll let you know, and then we'll go to Le Vésinet. As we agreed.”

He obviously thought she was an overly touchy shrinking violet who wouldn't keep her word if she felt offended.

“I didn't intend to annoy you, Rosalie. It's just that I was quite confused myself that evening. After all, for me this whole business is of great personal importance and not just a kind of … exciting treasure hunt, as I'm sure you understand?”

Rosalie nodded. Of course she understood. Robert gave her a searching look.

“And when I said I didn't want to be under a bed with you, that was just—”

“Stupid,” they both said simultaneously and laughed.

“So, when does this Madame Mortel arrive?”

“Morel. And she comes at two o'clock. If you like, you can pick me up then and we'll go for a walk with William Morris.”

William Morris raised his head when he heard his name and the word
walk
and wagged his tail happily.

Robert bent down and carefully scratched the little dog's head. “Well now, who knows,” he said, “perhaps this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

*   *   *

THE AFTERNOON TURNED OUT
totally differently than expected. Except perhaps for William Morris, who hardly cared how many people took him for his walkies.

Instead of two, in the end there were three of them walking along the bank of the Seine. And the greater part of the conversation was taken up by her mother.

Rosalie had been quite surprised when, just before two, not only did Madame Morel come into the store, but also just a little later Rosalie's mother, with whom she'd had dinner quite recently.

“Bonjour, mon enfant,”
she said, immediately claiming the maximum possible attention for herself. “Well, aren't you going to say hello to your mother?” As usual she was extremely elegantly dressed—light-gray suit, white silk blouse, pearl necklace—and she had obviously come straight from the hairdresser, because her ash-blond hair was freshly streaked and wound into an elegant chignon at the back.

Rosalie, who was actually involved in a conversation with Madame de Rougemont, who even on this summery day insisted on wearing her gloves and even outdid Madame Laurent in elegance, smiled and stopped to briefly greet her mother.

“Hello, Maman!” Mother and daughter exchanged the obligatory air kisses. “I'll be with you right away. Would you like to sit down?” She pointed to the leather armchair in the corner.

“Oh, no, I'd rather stand—I've just spent hours sitting at the hairdresser's.” Madame Laurent gave a dainty little sigh and, with a quick movement of her hand, checked her artistically stacked hair. “Don't you worry about me,
ma petite,
I can wait.”

She walked up and down in the store, running her gaze over the goods on show. It finally came to rest on Madame Morel who was restocking some shelves with colorful cards and envelopes.

“Ah, you must be the new assistant. How sensible that my daughter has finally thought about getting some staff—she really does work too hard.” She nodded regally to Madame Morel and continued to wander around the store, humming a little tune, her heels clicking on the tiled floor.

Rosalie felt a degree of uneasiness rising within her. With half an ear she listened to Madame de Rougemont, who was telling her in great detail about her wishes for a hand-painted card for the round-numbered birthday of her oldest friend, Charlotte. “It must be something with a gondola,” she mused aloud. “Charlotte loves Venice, and I'd like to gift her a weekend in Venice. What do you think of the idea?”

“Oh, I think that's absolutely great,” Rosalie hastened to assure her, keeping an eye on her mother, who was circling round the store with her hands clasped behind her back and her heels clattering.

“But the text on the card must be … original, I'd like something
original
.” Madame de Rougemont waved her gloved hand in a delicate spiral and pursed her lips with their hint of pink lipstick thoughtfully.

“I'm sure I'll think of something, Madame de Rougemont.” Rosalie straightened up in an attempt to bring her conversation with the old lady to a conclusion.

“Good, then I won't keep you any longer, my dear.” Madame de Rougemont reached for her purse and looked curiously over at Cathérine Laurent. “You have a visitor, I see. Your mother?” she chirped.

Rosalie nodded and the old lady obviously saw it as a sign that she could introduce herself. She tripped over to a surprised Madame Laurent and said, “I love your daughter's store, such lovely things.”

“Maman—may I introduce Madame de Rougemont, a very dear customer of mine. She lives in the seventh arrondissement, too,” Rosalie explained quickly. “My mother—Madame Laurent.”

“Enchantée,”
said Cathérine Laurent with a measured nod of the head. But before she could come up with a reply that would certainly have implied that she was a de Vallois by birth, the door opened yet again. It was on the dot of two o'clock.

Robert came in. He was carrying a gigantic bouquet of flowers.

“Oh—am I too early?” he asked, looking at the collection of ladies of varying ages, all of whom were staring at him with great interest.

A quarter of an hour later—the bouquet, which had been admired by everyone in the store, had by then found its place in a large vase—they set off on a walk together: Robert, Rosalie, and—Maman.

Cathérine Laurent had insisted on accompanying her daughter and this interesting American, who obviously had perfect manners and brought her daughter flowers.

“Oh, I think I'll come along for a little of the way, the weather is so wonderful and I've been sitting down a lot today,” she had said after Rosalie had introduced her to Robert Sherman briefly as an “acquaintance.”

Madame de Rougemont would certainly also have had nothing against a little walk if anyone had asked her. She kept on inspecting the tall man with the American accent who seemed somehow familiar—an actor, perhaps.

“Such a lovely bouquet,” she had said as she finally, hesitantly turned to go, not without giving Robert Sherman a charming smile. Then she suddenly stopped, opening her eyes wide. “
Parbleu,
now I know where I recognize you from, monsieur! You've been here before, haven't you? You're … aren't you the lawyer who—”

“Oh, Monsieur Sherman is a
lawyer
?” cried Cathérine Laurent delightedly.

“—knocked over the postcard stand?” Madame de Rougemont continued undeterred. “Well, I see that you've come to regret your behavior.” Her little hand waved in the direction of the bouquet as she stepped out of the store. “It's always good when a man knows how to say sorry—my husband never could.”

“What behavior?” Rosalie's mother asked with interest, while Robert raised his eyebrows in astonishment and Madame Morel hovered deferentially behind the counter.

Rosalie decided to bring an end to the general confusion by putting William Morris on his leash.

“Let's go,” she said, waving to Madame Morel, who would now watch over the little postcard store until the early evening.

As they walked in perfect harmony along the bank of the Seine and Cathérine Laurent engaged Robert in conversation, Rosalie could hear the cogs rattling in her mother's brain.

A male acquaintance whom she'd never heard of, flowers, a quarrel, an apology, her daughter clearly embarrassed, and René far away and out of the picture.

Rosalie saw a satisfied smile playing round the corner of her mother's mouth. Maman was obviously coming to the totally wrong conclusion. That it was ultimately not such a wrong conclusion, because the whims of Fate had decided to enter a long-distance runner into the race in far-off San Diego to take René's heart by storm, was something that Rosalie was as yet unaware of on that Tuesday afternoon.

“And how did you meet my daughter, Monsieur Sherman?” she heard her mother asking. Madame Laurent had adopted an intimate tone of voice that was completely inappropriate, and Rosalie wondered how long it would be before she took Robert's arm. My goodness, the way she was interrogating Robert was really embarrassing. Almost as if she saw him as a potential son-in-law. “Your French is absolutely fabulous, if I may say so,” she now added approvingly.

“Yes … your daughter has already discovered that,” replied Robert with a grin at Rosalie. “In fact you could probably say that we met because of a book that we both … um … value very highly.”

“Oh yes, literature … it's something that so often brings people together.” Madame Laurent began to rhapsodize. “I love books, you know.”

Rosalie looked at her mother in surprise. What was going on here?

“Are you staying long in Paris, Monsieur Sherman? Then you must definitely come and have tea at my house with Rosalie.”

“Well, I—”

“Monsieur Sherman and I are working on a project together, Maman,” interrupted Rosalie and bent down to release William Morris, who was tugging energetically at his leash. “And that is all.” She tried not to hear the little voice inside that mockingly asked if she herself really believed what she was saying.

Anyway, her mother seemed not to believe it. “Well, well,” she said, not allowing herself to be diverted from her chosen course, and playing with her pearls. “So you are a lawyer, Monsieur Sherman?” she continued her interrogation. “An interesting profession. Are you here on business?”

Robert dug his hands deep in his pockets and smiled. “Yes and no. I'm still a bit undecided.” And then he explained to a deeply impressed Madame Laurent that, although he had studied law, he had ultimately decided on a university career in the humanities and that he was in Paris because he had been offered a guest professorship at the Sorbonne for the coming semester.

“A professor for Shakespeare, how wonderful,” exclaimed Madame Laurent. “
Hamlet, The Taming of the Shrew, Romeo and Juliet!
‘What love can do, that dares love attempt,'” she declaimed to Rosalie's chagrin, before darting a meaningful glance at Robert. “And you still haven't decided?”

 

Twenty-six

“The game is on,” she had said. “We're invited to Marchais's place on Saturday. That is—” She interrupted herself and laughed softly into the phone. “Actually it's only me that has been invited. We'll have to think something up for you.”

“Why didn't you just say that I was coming with you? What's the cloak-and-dagger business for? After all, I have a right to find out—”

“Yes, granted,” she'd choked him off. “It's just not that simple to explain everything on the telephone. If he'd heard that you were coming, too, he might have canceled the visit from the very start. Max Marchais has only been back home for a few days, and I can assure you that he's not particularly keen on meeting you. At the time he said in so many words that he hoped he'd never have to meet ‘that lunatic.'”

“I can imagine. If you told him the same sort of horror stories you told your boyfriend, I'm not at all surprised.”

“Yes, yes, leave my boyfriend out of it,” she replied somewhat sharply. “What I meant was: Just hold back a little, okay? The old man is not as easily impressed as my mother.”

Before he could respond, she'd hung up. Robert grinned. Cathérine Laurent was indeed somewhat easier to impress than her rather standoffish daughter. The interest that the elegant Madame Laurent had shown in him had been almost inexhaustible, while Rosalie had pointedly played with her braid to show her boredom and failed to contribute anything to the conversation. Clearly the epitome of contrariness. It was astounding how different mother and daughter were—and not only in terms of their outward appearance. Rosalie, with her dark hair and her deep blue eyes, obviously took more after her father.

Even if Robert would have preferred to take that afternoon walk beside the Seine alone with the daughter, he had two things to thank Madame Laurent's sharp motherly eyes for: for her, there was no question about his taking his guest year in Paris as a “Shakespeare Professor,” and—this pleased him even more—about his being the right man for her daughter, even if the daughter herself had not yet realized this, and had finally said something about René, with whom she had a date on Skype the next Friday.