Hervé has removed a disappointingly modern-looking key from the inside pocket of his blazer and is inserting it into the door. “But of course.”
To Hervé none of this is special. It’s just home-sweet-home. Me, I would not be surprised to spot Rapunzel peering down at us from one of the narrow slits in the turret.
As we step into a cool foyer, I look around for the morning-coated butler that by all rights should be the next extraordinary thing to appear. However, the house is silent and still, and no one greets us as Hervé escorts me across a shining floor of black and white diagonal tiles and up a helix-shaped stone staircase. Its grandeur does not surprise me. At this point, nothing would.
We rapidly climb three flights to the top floor. I think I hear music coming from somewhere, but I can’t be certain. Maybe it’s just the sound of the house breathing.
At the end of a long-carpeted corridor he flings open a door. “Voilà.”
OK, I was wrong when I said nothing more could surprise me. The suite of rooms—first a sitting room, then a bedroom—that Hervé shows me into is five times the size of Manu’s studio apartment. The walls are paneled in white with painted gold trim, like the palace at Versailles. The ceilings are frescoed with Renaissance-style murals of cupids and flowers. “Yikes,” I whisper to myself.
Hervé has been towing my carry-on all this time, and now he parks it next to a massive armoire in the bedroom. The armoire is gilded and inlaid and carved and sculpted and marbled to within an inch of its life, and is probably older than the Declaration of Independence. I’m running my hand over the silky smooth wood of the door panel when he taps my shoulder. “Inside you will find clothes to fit you, I think,” he says. “But first I must show you one more thing.”
He leads me into a third room, a bathroom. In contrast to the rest of the suite, it is stunningly modern, and Hervé beams with pride as he points out a Japanese toilet with an electric seat warmer and accompanying bidet, a marble-topped vanity with professional-quality make-up lights, and an enormous freestanding slipper tub. When he draws my attention to the walk-in shower, I almost moan.
It’s been months since I’ve taken a comfortable shower. At Margaret’s, lovely as her place is, there’s only a tub where, to wash my hair, I have to kneel on the hard, cold porcelain and fold over. Last night at Manu’s I took a stand-up shower, but the stall is so narrow it’s impossible to turn around without knocking my elbows against the glass sides. I’ve been wondering how I’ll manage as I get less bendy and more bulky.
“What do you think? Better than America?” We are re-descending the spiral staircase.
I nod. I am, as Margaret would put it, gobsmacked.
On the ground floor he ushers me into a sitting room spacious enough to deserve two carved marble fireplaces.
“Please be seated.” He indicates a pair of brocade settees facing each other in front of the nearest fireplace. I sit. A small wood fire flickers in the hearth, and a massive silver tray laid with a coffee service and a plate of madeleines is positioned on the low table between the settees. The coffee smells hot and strong and fresh. Maybe there is a butler around here somewhere after all. A butler who magically knows when to put out refreshments.
“This place is amazing, Hervé.”
He smiles, sits across from me, and picks up the coffee pot. “I think, Amy, you are no longer staying at Margaret’s. Is this not correct? You are welcome to be my guest here. For as long as you need.”
I swallow. “Really?” Most likely Hervé is just trying to curry favor with Margaret, but still, I can hardly believe my good fortune.
Then again, Paris has been a lucky place for me. From day one, I’ve stumbled into great situations. If it weren’t happening to me personally, I wouldn’t believe it possible. But good things still do happen in this bad old world.
“Wow, Hervé. Thank you. That would really help. I don’t need to stay long. Maybe for just one night.”
I silence myself. I don’t want to get into details that would lead to a discussion of William and whatever my plans are. For one thing, I don’t know myself what my plans are.
He picks up the plate of madeleines and offers it to me. “As you wish. There is plenty of room here. As you can see.”
I take a madeleine. “Yes. It’s dazzling. But this morning I do still need to go to work, you know.” I check the time on the ormolu clock shining down from the mantelpiece. Nine forty-five. “In fact, I need to leave pretty soon.”
He winks. “Even so, you will have time for a small refreshment. And shall we not telephone Margaret?”
As I very much want to check on Margaret, I nod enthusiastically while reaching for my phone with one hand and taking a bite of a madeleine with the other. Fun French Food is definitely going to include a recipe for madeleines—a snap to make if you know the secret, which is to prepare the batter a day in advance. That’s the way to achieve the cake’s signature hump.
I finish one madeleine and start on a second while listening to the phone ring. No one answers. There’s no option to leave a message either, as Margaret has never mastered voicemail. It reminds me that yesterday I forgot to check if her phone is plugged in. I glance through my texts. No answer from Manu. Or from William. Most likely he’s still asleep, but it’s almost as if by entering the secret garden I have been taken out of the world of real life, where William exists, and into a Brigadoon-like enchantment, where I’m free to let my imagination go nuts. Not that my imagination needs help to go nuts.
Hervé pours coffee into the elegant gold and white cups. “No matter. We shall try again. Tell me about Sophie.”
“Sophie?” I put down my madeleine and check to see if Manu has responded to my text. He has not. “Sophie is Margaret’s daughter.”
Hervé glares at my phone until I drop it into my tote bag, then shrugs one bony shoulder. “Ah. Does not Margaret have other children?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
I yawn and rub the small of my back. Sophie has been in my life less than twenty-four hours, and you know what? I’m already tired of thinking and talking about her.
Hervé, who never notices people’s moods, places his cup on the table between us with a sharp click. “I would like to request your kind assistance, Amy.” He locks his eyes onto mine. “You have heard me speak of the wonderful discovery of the vintage wine cellar. Well, I have interesting news. We can bring these bottles to market in a short time if we only have the, how do you say, seed money. It would not be a large amount. I am sure Margaret would find it all very amusing.”
“Hey. Wait.” I wave my hands in the air to stop him. “You want me to talk to Margaret about investing money in your wine business?”
He clasps his hands around his knees and smiles his feline smile. “But of course.”
I knew there had to be strings attached. Here they are. I stand up. “Listen, Hervé. Thanks for rescuing me from Sophie, and for the snack. And for a bed to sleep in. But I don’t want to talk about Margaret or Margaret’s money. I mean, seriously. It’s just not appropriate.” I glance at the clock. If I hurry, I’ll have enough time to shower and change.
“Amy, I insist—”
But I never learn what Hervé is about to insist upon because his small eyes shift to focus on something behind me.
I turn to see a woman in the doorway. She is fifty-ish and thin, with the intricately lined face of a lifetime smoker. Her straw-straight blonde hair is cut in a bob, a popular French style. One of my first rebellious acts in Paris was transitioning from elbow-length to chin-length hair. Since then I’ve discovered that even people it doesn’t flatter choose this cut. Like this lady.
“Oui?” Hervé’s voice, usually so mellifluous, has turned brusque.
She stands with her fists on her hips and glares at him. She has on an apron, which would indicate she’s the provider of the coffee and madeleines. But I can’t be sure. She seems surly for a servant.
Hervé sighs and rises to his feet. “U
n instant,” he says to me. His face is unreadable as he moves quickly into the foyer to join the woman, who narrows her eyes at me as he closes the door. Whoever she is, she’s less than thrilled to see me.
I need to get going, but I decide to take another minute to drink some coffee and have a third madeleine. With my initial hunger sated, I can tell it’s a madeleine from the grocery store, not from a superior or even a regular bakery. It tastes “industrial,” Margaret would say. Powdery, dry, and with a chemical sweetness. Frankly I’m surprised that snobby Hervé would put up with substandard baked goods. But then my visit here wasn’t planned. Maybe that’s why the servant woman is so angry. Or maybe she’s wondering what happened to the richly laden picnic hamper, which I just now realize Hervé left in the car.
I wash down the last of my madeleine with a final swig of coffee, pick up my tote bag, and approach the closed door, where I try to make out what’s being said on the other side. But the door is solid mahogany, the tones are low, and the French is machine-gun-like. At one point I hear a sharp “Mais non!” but can’t tell if it’s Hervé or the angry servant woman. They both have pretty deep voices. After that, the talk grows fainter, then fades away entirely.
I’m about to place my hand on the doorknob when my phone rings.
Manu. Finally.
“Aimée? Où es-tu?” Where are you?
Poor Manu. I’ve been such a terrible co-worker of late. He’s probably worried I’ll flake out on him again.
“Listen to me,” he says before I have a chance to reassure him. “There is a problem. With Margaret. Can you come? Now?”
“A problem?”
“Yes. Please come. Right away. Maintenant. I meet you in the street in front of her building.”
He ends the call before I can tell him where I am or ask him where he is.
No time to shower and change clothes. Or even socks.
I’m getting a bad feeling, but I grab a fourth madeleine before leaving the warm salon. Out in the chilly foyer, Hervé and the woman have moved their argument to the bottom step of the spiral staircase. I can’t imagine why Hervé would allow his cook, or maid, or whatever she is, to talk to him this way.
I pause, wishing to say goodbye, but when neither of them acknowledges me I turn, cross the shining black and white tiles, and let myself out the front door.
If Manu says to come right away, he means come right away.
eleven
I can’t resist pausing midway through the wisteria tunnel, just for a few seconds, to soak in its beauty. My time in France has taught me how nourishing beauty is, how you can come to crave it, and how it can become essential to your happiness.
Leaving Paris, if I do, is going to be difficult. Phoenix is not that attractive of a city. And William himself doesn’t put much emphasis on beauty, the surface look of things. He’d tell you it’s the inner workings that count, the functionality, and I suppose he’d be right.
Twenty-five minutes of Métro-ing later I’m hurrying up to the door of Margaret’s building for the second time today. Manu is standing out front.
“Enfin,” he says. Finally.
He steps forward to do the double-cheek kiss thing. It’s called la bise. I’ve grown to love this custom, though at first I was shy about kissing Manu all the time. Giving bises to Margaret and Hervé is like smooching an older relative, but Manu is my age and a guy. Sometimes the press of his smooth cheek against mine is so warm and tingly that I forget to say “Bonjour.”
“I don’t have my keys. Sophie took them.”
“Ne t’inquiètes pas,” he says. Do not worry.
He steps aside to let me punch in the building code. At least Sophie couldn’t change that.
“What’s happening?” I ask as we mount the creaky wooden stairs side by side.
“I am not sure. Sophie called and asked me to come.”
I turn my head to hide my smile. If Sophie had to call Manu it means Manu spent the night somewhere other than in her arms. I tell myself I simply think Manu deserves better than Sophie. As for why Manu didn’t answer my texts this morning, I bet it was because he was involved in somebody’s software issues. Manu gets forgetful when he’s deep into computers. Like I do when I’m cooking. We’re alike in that way.
At the door to Margaret’s third-floor apartment, my throat goes dry. Only yesterday I possessed the keys to this place. I called it home. But I say nothing about my run-in with Sophie earlier, how she physically barred my entry. Manu may not want to believe she would act in such a way, and I don’t want to be put in the position of having to convince him.
“A l’attaque,” he murmurs as he presses the doorbell.
Not that he plans on attacking anybody. It’s just a thing French people say when they’re about to start doing something. When no one comes to the door, he rings a second, then a third time. Nothing. The whole building is perfectly silent. It’s mid-morning on a Friday, and our neighbors, whom I’ve never met, are likely at work.
I’m about to start pounding on the door with my fists when it finally cracks open to reveal a thin strip of Sophie’s unsmiling face.
Manu steps forward. “Sophie, bonjour. Laisse-nous entrer.”
When she sees him, she swings the door open, though her eyes harden as she spots me. If I were alone she would probably push me down the stairs. But Manu is here so she stands aside and lets us file past. I study her. Earlier this morning she was arrogant, bulletproof even, but now her sallow cheeks and trembling hands seem as if they could possibly belong to someone who was kidnapped and held hostage for two or three years. If this outlandish story is true, I’ll need to start feeling compassion for her. Sophie doesn’t make it easy though.
With the exception of the red leather slippers still sprawled in the middle of the carpet, the sitting room looks as orderly and elegant as it always does. Yet the feel of the place is different. Something’s missing.
“Where’s Margaret?” I demand.
Because that’s what’s missing—Margaret, rushing forward in a cloud of Shalimar, brimming with smiles and kisses and offers of tea. Without Margaret the apartment is merely a gorgeous interior. In a way William is right. True beauty needs a functioning core. It needs history and constancy. It needs a heart.
Sophie turns away from me. She’s still wearing my red Christian Dior tunic. Her blonde hair is swept into an artful ponytail, and her feet, yesterday so dirty, are now smooth and clean. I can see how men would be attracted to her. She’s like a doll, with her big round eyes and pale porcelain skin. But, today, a broken doll.
Manu sheds his jacket. “Sophie. Tell us what is wrong. Where is your mother?” He speaks in English, whether for my benefit or to force Sophie to remain on a more formal footing, I don’t know. Either way, I’m grateful.
She flounces down into the brocade fauteuil but two seconds later leaps back up.
“I do not know what to do!” she wails, pacing back and forth, kicking one of the red leather slippers across the room. “She will not get up from the bed. She will not eat or drink. She will not let me call the médecin.” She stops and turns to look at Manu, her green eyes glistening like marbles. “I do not think it is a physical malady. I think it is her spirit.”
Manu nods. “Exactement. It is the shock.”
Sophie’s smooth forehead crinkles, as if she has no idea what he could possibly mean.
“Your sudden return,” I explain, “has overwhelmed her.”
Sophie’s huge eyes grow huger, as if to say, “Huh?” Maybe she’s not that smart. OK, I know it’s mean of me to add stupidity to the list of her faults, but I can’t help it.
“Let me talk to her.” I head for Margaret’s closed bedroom door.
“Non.” Sophie blocks my path.
I brush past her. This time she’s not going to get the better of me. “Margaret?” I rattle the doorknob. “It’s me. Amy.”
“Am—Amy?”
I turn to look back over my shoulder. Sophie’s hands are cla
pped over her mouth. Manu, standing behind her, frowns. We’re all sharing the same thought, I am sure—that the thin voice drifting from the room, while it can belong only to Margaret, sounds as if it’s coming from a child. A small, lost, frightened child.
“Margaret, I’m coming in.” I step forward and open the door, ignoring Sophie’s loud whispered, “Arrête!” behind me. So often people tell you, “Stop!” when the thing you most want to do is “Go!” For too long, I listened to them.
Margaret’s bedroom, normally bright and cheerful, is shuttered and gloomy. She lies flat on her back in bed, the pink quilted coverlet pulled up to her chin. Her lined cheeks, usually rosy, are dull gray. Her eyes, usually a light sea green, are mud brown. Her teeth are chattering.
“Margaret, are you cold?” I throw open the shutters to let the sunshine in. It’s a perfect fall day. Crisp. Clear. “Let me cover you with another blanket.”
I’m unfolding the cashmere throw she keeps at the foot of her bed when her head rears up off the pillow.
“Get away!” she hisses.
I shrink back. Once, long ago, my mother said those exact words to me. I’d tried to crawl up onto her lap; she wanted me off. Now I think she must have been tired that day or hot or headachy or depressed. But the sting of that rejection went deep into my child soul. I have vowed to never talk to Catherine like this, no matter how overwhelmed or cranky I feel. I must not.
But gracious, well-mannered Margaret, so different from my mercurial and difficult mother, is glaring not at me but at something behind me.
I look back and see only Sophie. She followed me into the room like a terrier and is now standing a few inches inside the door, her round face ghostly against the dark wood of the paneling.
“Make it go!” Margaret’s voice, usually so clear-toned, is guttural. “Make it go awa-a-ay! Amy!” She stretches out her arms to me, her face contorted in anguish, and I realize the “it” Margaret is referring to is Sophie. Oh no. This is awful.
I drop the cashmere throw and rush toward Sophie, waving my hands to shoo her away. But she doesn’t budge. She stands as rigidly as a department store mannequin, her red-painted mouth a lowercase “o” of astonishment.
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