Free Secrets of Paris by Luanne Rice Page A

for the sentimental point of view.”
    “It’s
Three Women of the Marais
,” Lydie said, standing on her toes to reach a napkin dangling from the top of a topiary rosebush.
    “Oh, my God,” Patrice said.
    “What?” Lydie said, turning.
    “That’s the book I’m reading! It’s fantastic, and not sentimental at all. You actually
know
Anne Dumas?”
    “I don’t, really. But Michael does.”
    “Is she pretty?”
    “In a
gamine
sort of way. Like the young Audrey Hepburn, only short. She is so intelligent, that’s what strikes you. And she’s charming, but reserved in a sad way. As if something hadhappened to her once.” Lydie glanced over at Martine, who was ready to leave. “Excuse me a second,” she said to Patrice.
    Patrice sat on a bench. She could not get over the coincidence, the amazing unlikelihood, that Lydie had met Anne Dumas. Patrice had started thinking of her as “Anne,” of the time she spent reading
Three Women of the Marais
as time spent in Anne’s company, in a sort of seminar. Patrice slid a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses from her bag and put them on. She recognized, of course, what she’d been doing: using Anne Dumas the way she used Kelly—to fill a void. She adored Didier; she had adjusted very well to France. But she couldn’t deny that until recently, until she’d met Lydie, something had been missing from her life. Lydie was her friend. And as soon as Lydie finished with the photographer, Patrice was going to invite her and Michael for dinner some night soon.

You want to know how we live, my child? Alas, like this
.
    —T O F RANÇOISE -M ARGUERITE , S EPTEMBER 1689
    I T WAS S ATURDAY afternoon, and Kelly was peeling cloves of garlic to scatter around the leg of lamb. Didier liked a lot of garlic. Tonight Lydie and her husband were coming to the d’Orignys’ for dinner. Kelly’s back ached. She felt a little sad. Tonight would point out to everyone the differences between Kelly and Patrice and Lydie. The differences were, of course, already understood by all, but tonight they would be crystal clear. Kelly had seen the dress Patrice was going to wear because Patrice had laid it across her bed for Kelly to iron. It was beautiful: a sheath of rose silk. Just touching the dress with one hand as she passed the cool iron with the other had brought tears to Kelly’s eyes.
    “That garlic smells heavenly,” Patrice said, startling Kelly.
    “Hello, Mum,” Kelly said.
    Patrice leaned against the sink. She started munching some haricots verts that Kelly had already trimmed. She wore a whitetennis dress; her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, but her makeup was perfect.
    “Did you have a good tennis match?” Kelly asked.
    “Yes, we did. We beat the shit out of the Dulongs. And it’s so beautiful outside. Nice and hot. Summer’s coming on, even if you’d never know it in here. This building holds on to winter until mid-July, doesn’t it? Aren’t you chilly, Kelly?”
    “I’m fine, Mum,” said Kelly, who was sweating.
    “At least we don’t need air-conditioning. Those ancients really knew how to insulate a place. Are there places as old as Paris in the Philippines?”
    “Oh, yes,” Kelly said, thinking of one street in her province said to be older than Christ.
    “When you were born and raised in America, you think a place two hundred years old is practically medieval.”
    “Is America really modern?” Kelly asked, surprised by how wistful she felt. She would trade old for new any day.
    “In some ways, yes,” Patrice said. “But the attitudes can be as backward as anyplace else. Listen, speaking of backward attitudes,” she said, standing up straight, “I came to tell you that Didier wants you to wear your uniform tonight. It’s here, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” Kelly said. She had already planned to wear it.
    “Do me a big favor. Press it and have it on when Didier comes downstairs.”
    “Okay, Mum,” Kelly said, placing the knife in the sink, wiping her