A French Star in New York (The French Girl Series Book 2)

by Anna Adams

  But Maude never mentioned the names of the family who took her in and raised her like one of their own alongside their two adorable twins.

  “Jean and Jacques ask me every day when Maude will come back. She was a big sister to them. They looked up to her,” Mrs. Ruchet continued, brushing away tears.

  Women like Mrs. Ruchet are a rare breed. Things have been rough for her ever since she was diagnosed with cancer a couple of months ago, a few weeks after Maude told her she would never return to Carvin and never wanted to see her foster family again.

  “Maude told me she was leaving for good,” Mrs. Bonnin, the town’s baker, told me. “She was so happy to leave,” the baker added.

  “I called her many times, but she hung up on me,” Mrs. Ruchet explained, blowing in her handkerchief. “She told me she couldn’t care less about my cancer and that she wanted nothing to do with me.”

  It is heartbreaking to hear Mrs. Ruchet’s battle against cancer, a battle she appears to be losing. But it is even more shameful to imagine the cold-heartedness of an ungrateful star who lets her foster family crumble under mountains of medical bills without lifting a little finger.

  I asked Mrs. Ruchet if she would like to send Maude a message.

  “Tell her I love her, and that I forgive her.”

  But the question is should we?

  The sheets of paper crumbled with ease under Maude’s fingers. She crumbled, straightened, and crumbled them once more, her anger rising with every movement. She threw her arm back and flung the document with all her strength. It struck the opposite wall with limp boredom and slid down in derisive apathy.

  Maude grabbed her shoe, ran to the wall, grabbed the document with a vengeance and struck it with the stiletto. Smack, smack, smack, smack. She stopped.

  She couldn’t let Mrs. Ruchet get to her. Not again. This was her evening, her big night, her grand event. Grand dress, grand hair, grand life. Picture-perfect spotlessness. She erased every thought from her skull until it gleamed with blankness. The blankness didn’t last and a fat lumpy, uneasy thought filled the corners of her vacant mind.

  Was Mrs. Ruchet dying?

  “Maude, limousine’s here!” Jazmine called out.

  Lexie Staz must have invented everything. Mrs. Ruchet wasn’t dying. If anything she was having the time of her life making sure Maude never forgot which hand had shaped her childhood.

  By the time Maude took her seat next to Thomas in the limousine, just as the sun was setting, she’d regained composure and had slipped on her magic slippers with due diligence.

  “You look wonderful,” Thomas whispered to a distracted Maude. She always appeared elsewhere when he addressed her, like he was a shadow she wanted to unstitch. Worry etched her face, and it bothered Thomas to think he was partially responsible for her unhappy state. All he wanted was to see her smile like she used to.

  Maude observed the city fly by through the tinted windows of the limousine. Would the city crumble, flitter to dust if she brushed its lining with the tip of her finger? She couldn’t let these lies so grossly woven together in the thread of a book, be displayed to the public forum. Her life with the Ruchets belonged to a past she refused to see sprawled before the lingering eyes of others. She’d be forced to justify, explain, refute. The stench of falsehoods suffocated her.

  When they arrived at Radio City Music Hall, the cameras’ flash was the first pigment her retina registered.

  She put out one wobbly foot out of the limousine. In an instant, Thomas was by her side.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said. He took her arm and helped her out of the limousine.

  “Thanks,” she answered, with frank gratefulness. She noticed the glint of the red carpet she stood on and hesitated.

  “Maude, whatever’s going on, don’t worry about it,” he said with kind concern. “Enjoy this moment. You’ve earned it. Here, take my arm.”

  Maude slipped her arm into Thomas’ and faced the cameras.

  Together, they walked with majestic ease across the red carpet, smiling to the cameras and the lively fans. She signed a few autographs, as much as she could, not enough, she shook hands and hands shook her.

  It was an impressive and dazzling sight, and in an instant, Mrs. Ruchet and the tell-all book flew to a foreign part of her mind. She was happy.

  They stopped near the spokesperson for Hollywood Buzz TV, a radiant woman dressed in a low-cut dress and sporting a large grin. “So we’re here live with Maude Laurent and her boyfriend Thomas Bradfield. You guys are both nominated for different awards. How are you feeling?” she yelled over the noise but couldn’t quite drown out the general excitement.

  “Like I’m about to fall flat on my face,” Maude joked. “Thankfully, I’m in good company.” She beamed at Thomas with a sincere smile that left him speechless.

  “And you, Thomas? How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” Thomas replied, gazing at Maude with honest admiration. Maude tilted her head and when she did, when she peered at him through that tilted angle, she saw him once more as the friend she used to know.

  “You two lovebirds have a wonderful night.”

  Maude assured her she would.

  Entering the stadium was a sight to behold. Rows of occupied seats, filled with celebrities and she was to be seated among the first rows. In a haze, she greeted Rebecca and hugged her family. She noticed Lindsey a couple of rows on the farther right chatting with two of her closest celebrity friends, both actresses in a teen series called Crazy Glue, about sisters evolving through high school with magic wands, spells, and magic potions.

  When the ceremony opened, she was seated between Thomas on her right and the entire Baldwin-Williams clan on her left. Jazmine squeezed her hand with excitement while the lights dimmed for the first act.

  Paul Whitmore, a talented twenty-year-old pop singer, entered the stage among flames and put the entire room on fire with his electrical presence.

  Awards were then handed out one by one. Names, joy, despair, impatience mingled in the atmosphere along with stiff, disappointed smiles. Whispers of discontent mixed with tears of joy.

  She doesn’t deserve that award

  I can’t believe he won. He can’t even sing.

  Ugh, that dress. Didn’t someone tell her how awful she looks in it?

  Those whispers wafted through the air straight to Maude’s ears, and she was amazed at how easy it was for these detractors to smile while the camera focused on them, all the while cursing through their teeth. The acceptance speeches were amusing in their own right.

  One wanted to thank her friends and family, but of course, only she was detrimental to her own success.

  Another thanked his manager and his coach for making him do Pilates every morning and giving him abs he could display in every video clip they wanted him to.

  She couldn’t believe she’d won Best Video clip. She was so unprepared for this award she cried as she took out her notes.

  He was such a lucky person. He had everything he needed, and pitied those who weren’t him right now.

  When Thomas’ name resounded in the room as the winner for the Best Male Artist award, he turned to hug Maude with evident joy and a tinge of awkwardness.

  “I’m happy for you,” Maude whispered before he let her go. He might have stolen her song, but the other tracks on his album where solid. She knew how hard he’d worked to get where he was, how far he’d gone to walk those steps towards his prize.

  His speech was rather quick and sober, no hysterics like some of his female counterparts. When he thanked Maude, she knew the camera would be on her, screening each twitch her face twisted into, so she did what any other dignified artist would do and stuck out her tongue. Thomas laughed with surprise and continued with his list of thanks, though slightly perturbed.

  The ceremony was drawing to a close and Best Album and Artist of the Year still hung over Maude’s head.

  “Now for Best Album!” Gre
g Tallinn announced. He stared at the audience as he listed the contenders of which he would never more be a part of now his own career was dwindling.

  Natasha Fare, the first contender, held her breath. She was sure to win. The other contenders were merely there for the democratic aspect of the awards. But she’d worked hard on her album Love and Other Things, and she deserved it. This was her fourth nomination in the last five years. She refused to go back home hands filled with disappointment yet again, she wouldn’t let that trophy slip from her fingers to fall into the hands of that ingénue who reaped two nominations less than a year after her first album had been released.

  Bryan Hemstone, second contender, bit his nails. He’d never win. Maude Laurent’s album was far better than his! He’d never written his own lyrics, just played anything handed to him! She played the piano and sang opera! She had private lessons with Tragent, that crazy hag. If he had sessions with Tragent, he too could have the voice of an angel. He peered over at Maude sitting next to Thomas. Thomas was one lucky bastard, holding that prize. If only she were single.

  Dani Safran gazed at Natasha Fare from the corner of her eye, then at Maude. She wouldn’t mind working on a song with Maude. Only if Maude lost. If she won, she’d never want to waste a glance on her smug face again.

  Maude Laurent!

  Her name. Hers? Hers!

  And her first action wasn’t to hug either an ecstatic Jazmine or a pleased Thomas. Maude’s first thought was for her feet.

  With the deftness of bank robber, Maude slid off her stilettos from her feet covered by her long, flowing skirt so the movement passed unnoticed by the camera zooming on her face. No way she’d fall all over herself on her way to the stage.

  She rose from her seat, a queen rising from her throne, and walked slowly towards the stage. If she walked any faster, her bare feet would show, and Adrianna would kill her a hundred times over. She didn’t care that Greg Tallinn’s smile had crisped over wondering how long she’d take to get to the stage. The clamorous applause alone rang in her ears and warmed her heart and her shivering feet trudging on the cold floor.

  Finally arriving on stage, she received her prize, the emblem of the Best Album awards, a gem with a disc inside. Why was the gem blurry? She realized to her deepest mortification that tears had sprung from her eyes, soft tears filling her big brown orbs.

  Speech.

  Speeches before tears. Swallow. Swallow.

  “I want to thank . . . ”

  Her voice trailed off. Adrianna had made her learn her speech by heart. She had to thank Alan and Adrianna first and foremost.

  She peered into the front rows. Her eyes fell on James, and when he gave her a thumbs-up sign, she let out a giggle.

  James Baldwin.

  He’d found her, a little over a year ago, when she needed him most. She’d thought he was an axe murderer out to kill her and he’d turned out to be the dearest of uncles.

  “I want to thank first and foremost, my Uncle James Baldwin, the heart and soul of Soulville,” she thanked, her voice firmer. She was pleased when she noticed Alan’s jaw locked in a disgraceful scowl.

  “I wouldn’t be here if not for him,” she blew a kiss in his direction which he caught and held to his heart.

  “Thank you, Aunt Victoria, for your love and support.” Victoria bowed her head in Maude’s direction and pushed back the tears that threatened to get the best of her.

  “Cynth, your yoga lessons. Jaz, for your impeccable fashion sense, Ben, for teaching me to play video games like a rock star. I also want to thank Rocky, Pearl, Trey, and Jordan, Harriet, for teaching me that etiquette isn’t dead, and Uncle Stephen and Aunt Loretta for teaching me how to be French.”

  The audience laughed pleasantly while Maude caught her breath. Adrianna had forbidden any mention of Matt but insisted on her thanking Thomas. If she didn’t the press would be all over it.

  “Also, I’d like to thank a special someone who will easily recognize himself I’m sure. I’ve known him for over a year, and he helped me in more ways than one. He helped me see New York in a different light and made me realize Paris doesn’t always win versus New York and that behind each skyscraper stands a French boulangerie run by an Italian chef,” she stopped. If she continued, she’d say Matt’s name, and she couldn’t.

  “Thank you to all my fans for your support. And to two special people who couldn’t be here tonight. My parents, Danielle and Aaron Williams. Thank you,” she finished, and walked off the stage accompanied by a round of warm applause, her award tucked in the depths of her heart, her naked feet tucked in the depths of her dress.

  When Lindsey Linton received the award for Artist of the Year from Matt’s hands that evening, Maude applauded her success, her heart as light as a feather. Wrapped up in the wreaths of her own joy, she heard pieces of Lindsey’s speech with a distant ear, saw Lindsey’s triumphant stare with a distant eye, heeding no attention to the remarks directed at her (“to those who lost, thank you for your incredible talent”) or her false modesty (“all of you deserved this award more than I did. I’m humbled by this unexpected surprise”) or her outright lies (“to Maude, my dearest friend, whom I look forward to working with whenever she’s ready”).

  After the ceremony came the after-party and the NAM Awards Association was famous for the lavishness of its feasts.

  Soufflés and amuse-bouches bounced on silver trays. Ben was in heaven, and Maude, carrying her trophy around, was sure she could hear angels sing. She received congratulations left and right, but the only person she wished to see eluded her. Busy catching up with Trey and Jordan, Matt didn’t once glance in her direction.

  “I guess congratulations are in order,” Alan said as he came up to her with a glass of champagne.

  Frowning was Maude’s first impulse, but she prevented a full-blown scowl by attempting a smile, succeeding only in distorting her face with a strange grimace.

  “Thank you, Alan,” she answered finally.

  “You didn’t mention me in your speech.”

  “Is this the evening you dazzle me with elaborate dialogues in which you state the obvious?” Maude asked with an impertinence that suited her trophy just about right.

  “Enjoy your evening, Maude,” Alan snarled. “Monday, I want to see you in my office at eight o’clock to discuss future appearances. You do understand that as the winner of Best Album award, much more will be expected of you from now on?”

  “I suppose you mean I’ll have to wear stilettos higher than these,” Maude inquired with a sly smile.

  “Ha!” Adrianna appeared behind Maude with an accusing finger while Alan walked away. “Speaking of stilettos. If I ever catch you walking barefoot again, I’ll strangle you!”

  “I was careful and not a toenail strayed out from under my skirt, Adrianna,” Maude protested, choosing to ignore the death threat hanging over her head.

  “Just come with me,” Adrianna waved off Maude’s protests. “There are lots of people you need to meet tonight.”

  Maude’s eyes lingered on Matt’s back as she followed Adrianna to greet her well-wishers.

  “I gather we won’t be seeing much of Maude tonight,” Aunt Loretta sniffed. To think she’d worn her best dress for her ungrateful niece’s sake. They’d spoken five minutes all in all during the course of the evening. And what was that comment about Harriet teaching her etiquette wasn’t dead? Loretta thought Maude was much too sly for her own good.

  “Let Maude have her fun,” Pearl replied with a careless wave of her hand. “You should mingle instead of staying glued us. I know I will.” Who knew who she’d meet? Hopefully the producer for her next film.

  “Mom,” Rocky warned. “Don’t embarrass, Maude.”

  “I don’t ever embarrass anybody, Rocky.” She proceeded to scrape a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never embarrassed you now, have I?” she smiled pleasantly before trotting off.

  “Don’t worry, Maude won’t mind,” Victoria reassured him. No u
se asking Pearl to put a rein on her exuberance. It would be as useless as asking her brother to remove the protruding cloud of disdain perpetually hanging over his head.

  Victoria inched closer to a James, intent on choosing the right amuse-gueule. The one he’d tasted earlier with foie gras was disgusting. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  “I’d try the pâté en croutes if I were you,” she suggested. He followed her advice and swallowed his pâté en croutes satisfactorily. “Do you think she’ll let her go for over five minutes?” James pointed in Adrianna and Maude’s direction where she greeted a young actress in a white Valentino couture gown.

  “You’d think Adrianna had won the award by the airs she’s been parading this evening.”

  Victoria swept over her niece in her elegant Dior dress and wondered if she was the same girl who’d greeted her with an awkward “how do you do?” at the airport. The distant memory danced before her eyes and was replaced by the actual living flesh chatting with merry eyes, her left hand firmly holding her treasured prize.

  “She is happy, James, isn’t she?”

  James nodded. “Tonight, I believe she is.”

  “I daresay she isn’t the only one,” Victoria replied pointing towards her son.

  Ben was stuffing amuse-gueules into his mouth as if he’d found the gods’ ambrosia and believed he’d eat his way to eternal life simply by stuffing his mouth to the rim.

  “Is that a way to behave properly at a gathering, Benjamin Baldwin?” a stern voice admonished behind Ben’s hunched back.

  Ben turned around and dropped the remains of his snack. Peter Longarm, as short and proud as ever, stood eyeing him with unfeigned reprobation. Ben hadn’t seen him since Cynthia had ended their two-year relationship in a rather tumultuous break up that Ben had celebrated with gusto for a couple of days.