Secrets of Paris (29 page)

But when the kiss ended, Lydie stepped back. “Just go,” she said.

“I think I’ve blown it,” Michael said to Didier. They sat on a bench in the Tuileries just paces from where Lydie had stood when she’d spied him and Anne.

“You’ve made a mess of things with Lydie,” Didier said.

“How do you know?” Michael asked, irate because he hadn’t even started to talk yet.

“Because I could see this coming a mile away. You weren’t in love with that girl at the Louvre, you only thought you were. But of course it has complicated everything with your wife. Has Lydie found out?”

“She
saw
me with Anne. She was coming through these trees”—Michael waved his arm—“and saw me sitting with Anne over there.” He pointed. Doing so, he realized he had chosen this spot to meet Didier as a way to punish himself. He could relive the pain of that day and imagine how horrible Lydie must have felt.

“It is so much worse when they see with their own eyes. My first wife caught me in bed with my mistress. Yes—it is true. Can you believe what a jerk I was? I wanted her to catch us, of course. I left a trail an idiot could follow. She never forgave me. We were divorced less than eighteen months later.”

“Thanks for the moral support, Didier,” Michael said, feeling worse than ever. At least Lydie hadn’t seen him in bed with Anne. He ran that day in the park through his mind: had he been touching Anne when Lydie saw them? Holding her hand? Or had she been stroking his forearm or knee, as she often did when they read together? He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t sure.

“The point, Michael, is this: I didn’t love my first wife. I
wanted
her to find me, as I told you. Somewhere down deep I wanted to
be rid of her, so I arranged for her to hate me. God, does she hate me! But, you see, I hate her too. It is different for you. You love Lydie, but you needed to have a fling.”

It was times like this that Michael saw how far apart the French and American cultures were. Didier was talking about the need for adultery as if it were absolutely normal and understandable. “She’ll never forgive me,” he said.

“She will,” Didier said. “Because she really loves you. I know because Patrice told me.”

Michael knew it too, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough to let her forgive him. Also, what if he couldn’t forgive himself? “I’d better go,” he said to Didier, starting to rise.

“Where? Your hotel room?” Didier asked. “Sit down for a little longer. Calm yourself, then come home for dinner with me.”

Michael smiled, thinking of what Patrice would do if Didier unexpectedly brought home a dinner guest. “Thanks anyway,” he said.

“Give Lydie the chance to forgive you,” Didier said. “You’ll have a stronger marriage when it’s done. I guarantee it.”

“How?” Michael asked. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve seen a thing or two. I’m a little wiser than you are, you know. I am older and I am French, and both those facts make me wiser than a young American.
Tu comprends?
”

“Yes, I understand,” Michael said. But all he really understood was that Didier was trying to cheer him up.

Lydie received a letter from her mother replying to the one Lydie had sent. In her bewilderment, her resolve to not upset Lydie further, Julia had managed to execute a postal soft shoe. “
Dear Lydie
,” (she read) “
I am shocked by your news. You do not say how
you are feeling about everything. I just cannot imagine Michael moving out, and you don’t quite explain why he has done this. I know, the heart has its reasons. But still, some further details would be appreciated. Are you speaking at least? Never forget: your father and I never stopped speaking. The fact that you so rarely call worries me. With love, Mother.
”

Could Julia be serious, holding her own situation up as something Michael and Lydie could learn from? It amazed and saddened Lydie to see how blind Julia remained—wished to remain—to Neil’s betrayal. Perhaps it was true, that her parents had never stopped speaking. Lydie remembered her mother’s tearful recount of their last conversation: Neil had asked if she needed anything from the store. Julia had said yes, a quart of whole milk and some Ritz crackers. She had reminded him to wear his hat, it was raining. “You always do take care of me, don’t you?” Neil had said. When Julia repeated his last words, describing his smile and the glint in his eyes, she would dissolve into tears, as if their fond good-bye was the end of the story. Of course it wasn’t: Neil had gone from there to the store to Margaret Downes’s. In her kitchen he had filled her child’s bottle with the milk he had bought. Then he had taken Margaret into the bedroom and shot her.

For a long time afterward Lydie, like her mother, had concentrated not on the story’s end, but on an earlier aspect. Had her father really bought that milk for Julia? A quart of whole milk seemed a stupid thing to bring his lover. Unless she had asked him to, but the police had said there was plenty in the refrigerator. For weeks after his death Lydie had spent many nights keeping Michael awake, trying to answer that question, as if solving the mystery could push away the truth. But one night Michael put an end to it, to her thinking out loud. “If he bought the milk for Mom, he must have been intending to come home,” Lydie said.

“Lydie, he also had a gun. Why would he take the gun with him if he didn’t intend to use it?”

“Maybe he was afraid of being robbed.” Neil and Julia had been mugged twice within six months, and his office had been robbed. They had lost two thousand dollars altogether.

“He didn’t believe in carrying guns. He didn’t even keep one at work. The police said he bought it the day before the shooting.”

“But what about the
milk
?” Lydie asked, convinced that the milk was the clue. She thought Michael was willfully ignoring it. “What if he bought the gun to protect himself, started carrying it that day? I think what he probably did was stop by her place on the way home from buying milk for Mom. Something happened—I don’t know. A fight, or something. He went out of control, and he shot her.” The idea of such a loss of control washed over Lydie, leaving her weak. In those first weeks when she knew she would never see him again, all memories of him, even bad ones, were dangerous.

“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 those shutters,” Patrice said. “This is going to be d’Origny’s best ad series by far.”

The warehouse was vast. Lydie attacked a tall crate with the claw end of a hammer.

“Voilà!” Lydie said. “Ball gowns …”

“They are gorgeous,” Patrice said. Most were shades of red: crimson, garnet, deep rose. Buried in the red were two of deep green.

“I want some people in period clothes—eighteenth century,” Lydie said. As she forced herself to focus on the ball, she noticed that she began to feel better. “Some of the women will wear red. And the ones wearing rubies will wear green. I’ll need a list of guests from Didier, with suggestions on who should wear the jewels. Also, an inventory of jewels he wants photographed. I’ll have to call him when I get home.” She felt like she was talking to herself, not Patrice. She made notations in a spiral-bound book.

“Can I have first pick?” Patrice said, running her hands across the skirts of taffeta, velvet, damask, satin.

“Of course. Do you plan to wear rubies?”

“I hate rubies—they bring bad luck. I told Didier to drape me in diamonds the size of Mont Blanc. They will look
fabulous
against this.” She chose a dress whose fabric shimmered even in the dim warehouse: scarlet in a certain light, purplish-black in another. She loved the tight bodice and full skirt, and she couldn’t wait to see herself in it.

“Your cleavage will look great in that,” Lydie said.

“Won’t it, though?” Patrice exclaimed with delight. “Where did you get these from?”

“They’re antique,” Lydie said. “The reason I’m able to rent them for so long, at such a good price, is that they’ve been in storage at the costume museum. The curators have to rotate all their exhibits because they have so little space.”

Patrice looked around. “Is there anyone else here?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Lydie said.

Patrice dropped her black leather skirt to the floor, pulled her pink angora sweater over her head. “I wish there was a mirror,” she said, standing there in her demi-bra and bikini panties. “Which one are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know,” Lydie said. “I might not dress up. I might just help the photographer.”

“You damned well
are
going to dress up,” Patrice commanded. “Now choose a dress.” When Lydie wasn’t fast enough, Patrice grabbed a green one off the rack. Forest-green satin, it was supple and liquid and dark as the woods. “Put it on,” Patrice said.