All the Ways We Said Goodbye Page 10
The door shut softly behind me as I made my way to the mirror-paneled lift, the two sealed envelopes in my hand. When the lift opened into the lobby, I found myself tiptoeing toward the main desk as if I were escaping. Which, I realized, I was. From what or whom, I wasn’t quite sure.
I’d almost reached the desk when I heard a familiar voice behind me. My brogues spun in an ungainly way as I twisted around to find Miss Dubose perched elegantly on one of the armchairs neatly arranged in the long-windowed hallway. Once again, she was dressed impeccably in a silk coat dress in that lovely sunset color she’d worn the previous day. Her slim ankles were crossed and her little finger extended as she took a sip from what certainly looked like a Coca-Cola bottle. I’d never tasted it, preferring Bovril and tea.
When she caught me staring, she raised the bottle a little higher. “I can’t start my day without one of these, even in Paris. And they put in the salted peanuts just like I asked. Which goes to show you that you really can get anything you want at the Ritz.”
I nodded dumbly, wondering if I should hand her the note I’d written for her, or simply leave it at the front desk as I’d intended.
She took notice of my traveling attire. “Not everyone can get away with wearing all that tweed, bless your heart,” she said, her gaze once again taking in every inch of me as if she were Michelangelo and I a block of marble. Or a lump of clay. “At least you have on that lovely scarf. A gift, I’m thinking.”
It wasn’t a question. Nor was I quite sure of the meaning of her blessing, only that it didn’t quite sound like she was blessing me.
“Yes, well, good morning, Miss Dubose. It was a pleasure to see you again.” I took a step backward, deciding to leave her note at the front desk. “Have a lovely day.” Clutching my disreputable valise, I began my retreat.
“Were the bath towels not to your liking? They’re the most luxurious towels I’ve ever used, and they’re peach because the Ritz has declared that hue to be the most flattering on a woman’s skin.”
I paused. “I found them quite lovely, thank you. Why do you ask?”
She looked perplexed. “Because I can’t understand why you’re leaving after just one night. César Ritz is turning over in his grave at the very thought of a guest choosing to leave early.”
“It’s just . . . ,” I stammered, watching as she unfolded her lean form from the deep chair and stood to face me.
“I’m surprised you actually stayed the night. I had you pegged for a middle-of-the-night bolter. But I thought to come down here this morning just in case I’d misjudged.” She smiled. “I’m very good at judging people and predicting what they’re going to do next. It’s a very useful talent.”
I straightened my shoulders. “Well, you were wrong this time. Perhaps you’re not as good at judging as you might think.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “Or perhaps you’re not as convinced that you should leave as you might think.”
Half of my mouth lifted of its own accord. “Touché.”
She waved at a passing uniformed valet and a gray-mustached man approached. “Please take Mrs. Langford’s valise back to her room.”
With the certainty that I had no choice, I relinquished the grasp on my bag. The valet began his retreat, but Miss Dubose called him back. “And please take her hat, too. But find another place to put it besides her room.” She reached up and unpinned my hat, considerably the worse for wear after yesterday’s events on the streets of Paris.
“And where should I put it, madame?”
“Anywhere. Absolutely anywhere else besides her head or her room.”
He bowed and walked away, not even looking back once.
“That was a good hat, I’ll have you know,” I said, less perturbed than I should have been.
“For an aged and blind fishmonger, maybe. We’ll find you a new one today on our shopping expedition.” She slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow. “But first we must eat. There’s a lovely café very close by that has the most delightful hot chocolate. And there’s nothing like a croissant or pain au chocolat to give us the energy we will need.” Her gaze flickered over my outfit again and frowned. “Thankfully there are plenty of cafés in Paris. I think we’re going to need at least two.”
“Really, Miss Dubose. This is entirely unnecessary. I brought two perfectly good dresses with me.”
“Call me Precious. It’s what I’ve been called since five minutes after my birth when my grandmama took one look at me and called me precious. As for your perfectly good dresses, like I said, I’m a pretty good judge of people. And if I weren’t a lady, I’d bet that those two dresses are at least ten years old and have been worn and mended dozens of times. In other words, they’re not fit for any kind of rendezvous unless it’s with a rag bag. If I’m wrong, tell me now and I won’t force you to come out shopping with me today. But if I’m right, let’s go to breakfast.”
At the word rendezvous my cheeks reddened. “Fine,” I said. And to avoid further discussion, I began walking briskly toward the entrance, pulling her along with me, the heavy trod of my brogues out of sync completely with the tap tap of her dainty heels and the gilded elegance surrounding us.
Nine exhausting hours later, I found myself in front of the dressing table mirror in my room at the Ritz, on my second glass of champagne—the bottle ordered by Precious, who’d declared it a necessity for a lady dressing for the evening—while she fluttered about like a hungry butterfly in a bed of daisies. What I’d thought would be an expedition to find two new dresses had merely been the edge of the rabbit hole into which I’d been pushed.
The poor valet had actually staggered as he’d gathered my shopping bags from the taxi—dresses, blouses, skirts, trousers, and shoes by the dozens filled the bags. But it hadn’t just been my outer garments that Precious thought needed replacing. She had actually let out a cry of distress when she’d seen my underpinnings—alarming enough that the salesclerk had run to the fitting room.
“But they’re sturdy and serviceable,” I protested.
“So are ovens, but they’re not meant to be worn.”
After I had been measured at every dimension and juncture and touched in places I was quite sure—even after three children—I’d never been touched before, Precious then brought in little slips of lace, satin, and silk that looked more like tea cozies than something I should actually wear on my person.
“I’ll freeze to death wearing those. How on earth am I meant to keep warm?”
Precious had smiled knowingly. “If you’re wearing these, you shouldn’t have a problem.”
I’d blushed furiously, too embarrassed to protest when Precious told the salesclerk to take away what I’d been wearing and toss them in the rubbish bin.
Precious now glanced at the antique gold clock on the marble mantel in my room. “Good. You’re ten minutes late. A lady should never be early for a rendezvous with a beau. It makes her appear too eager.”
“It’s not a rendez—” I began but stopped as Precious began applying lipstick to my mouth.
“There,” she said, admiring her handiwork. “Pretty as a peach.”
She stepped back and I stared at the stranger in the mirror with the black-lined eyes, long, thick lashes, and bright pink lips. And the shorter, sassier hair. After my experience at the lingerie shop, I’d been too numb to protest when Precious had suggested visiting her favorite hair salon. In my schoolgirl French, I’d suggested trimming my long hair just an inch. Raphael had pretended to agree and then set to work, Precious distracting me just long enough that I didn’t notice the clumps of dark hair falling onto the salon floor.
When he was done I’d barely recognized myself. He’d cut my hair so that it hit at my shoulders, flipping up at the ends, and then framed my face with a side-swept fringe. I wanted to complain that I didn’t think I could still braid it for when I went riding, but then Raphael had handed me a glossy magazine, pointing at the cover photo of a beautiful woman wearing a bikini.
I wasn’t sure who Jean Shrimpton was, but I looked nothing like the picture on the cover. At least I hadn’t when I’d stepped into the salon. But now, staring in the mirror and wearing the plush Ritz bathrobe, I wasn’t so sure.
Precious went to the closet and pulled out a dress on a hanger. “This will be perfect. I know when you originally tried this on, you gave it a pass, but I thought you should reconsider.”
I’d tried on so many things that I was no longer sure what was now hanging in my closet and what I’d rejected. I looked at the dress, trying to remember why I’d said no to it. It had a soft green almost transparent silk for the first layer, and on top was a pretty netlike fabric with a green leafy vine climbing across it. It had short puffy sleeves and a deep scoop neck, with an emerald-green velvet band that hit right under the bosom. I did remember the neckline, and how it had given me a décolletage I’d forgotten I possessed. Maybe that’s why I’d rejected it.
She unzipped it and I let the robe fall, no longer shy. Precious Dubose had seen more of me today than Kit had in almost nineteen years of marriage. After much argument, I wore one of the new lingerie sets Precious had said I needed—which I actually did now that she’d discarded mine. She carefully slid the dress over my head so as not to muss my hair and makeup, then zipped up the back.
I stared in horror at my reflection. “Where’s the rest of it?” The hem was a good five inches above my knees and remained so regardless of how much I tugged. “And I can’t go out in public with this much skin showing on my chest. I’ve seen bikinis that were less revealing.”
“You have gorgeous legs, Babs, and a lovely bosom. You shouldn’t be hiding your natural assets under all that wool and tweed.”
“Whyever not? I’m not a woman. I’m a widow and a mother of three. Er, not a woman who needs to wear . . . this.” I pulled up the neckline, which only made the other problem much worse. Tugging down on the hemline again, I demanded, “Please unzip me. I’m going to be unforgivably late.”
“Which is why there’s no time to change. Here, put these on.”
She handed me a pair of shiny white leather boots with square, flat heels.
“Did I buy those? I can’t imagine why. It’s not like I can wear them to muck out the stables.”
“Exactly. Now put them on and we’ll walk down together. I’ve arranged to meet with my friend Mrs. Schulyer and sit at a small table in the bar to give you moral support. But with that dress and boots, I don’t think you’re going to need it.”
She actually winked at me, and I knew to protest that I wasn’t having a rendezvous would simply be wasted breath. She handed me a delicate beaded purse, and then, when it was clear I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, she placed the silver linked-chain strap on my shoulder.
“No—wait. I need to bring my large bag. It has something in it that I might need for my meeting. It won’t fit in this little purse.”
She sighed heavily as she waited for me to make the switch then frowned down at my oversized cloth bag that I’d made from scraps during the war. “Good heavens, Babs. Whatever you do, keep it behind you so no one sees it.”
I did as she asked and stood in front of her as if requiring an inspection.
“Perfect,” she said as if she were a farmer and I a perfectly tilled field. “You look good enough to eat.”
At the odd gleam in her eyes, I picked up my champagne glass and drained it. I wobbled a bit as I headed for the door, but Precious quickly steadied me with a firm grasp of my elbow. She didn’t let go until we were stepping out of the lift and we could hear the chatter and laughter coming from the bar.
An elderly woman, the same one I recognized from the day before in the lobby, approached us, stabbing her cane into the floor as if she held a personal vendetta against it. I knew that I was horribly out of date when it came to fashion, but I was quite sure that the dark brown ankle-length dress she wore was something my grandmother might have worn around the turn of the century. In fact, there was a photograph of Kit’s grandmother in her art studio around 1919 wearing a nearly identical outfit.
“I’m Mrs. Schulyer,” the woman announced imperiously. “I’m sure Miss Dubose has told you all about me. Did she mention that I survived the sinking of the Lusitania?” She was shouting, and I wondered if she might be hard of hearing.
“Not now, Prunella,” Precious admonished. “We are only here to offer support. Let’s find a table so that Mrs. Langford can make her assignation.”
“An assignation?” the old woman shouted.
“No, that’s not . . .” I gave up as Precious propelled the woman and her cane toward the bar.
“Langford, did you say? Do I know a Langford? I seem to recall that I know a Langford . . .”
Mrs. Schulyer’s voice disappeared into the crowded bar, leaving me alone staring into the entrance. I was suddenly conscious of the boots on my feet, as if I were a gladiator preparing to enter the Colosseum. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed as if there was less talking and heads turning in my direction. I looked behind me, wondering what they might be looking at, then turned back around and blinked with realization. I looked for Precious, not just to thank her for the champagne and the extra layer of clothing it seemed to have lent me, but also to find out if she might have more.
I took a step forward, wanting to get this ordeal over with. I had no idea what Andrew Bowdoin must look like, but the picture I had in my head was a grizzled barrister type with graying beard, bald head, and thick glasses. And definitely a tweed jacket.
In my champagne-induced fog, it seemed the crowd parted for me as I walked deeper into the dimly lit room with lots of varnished dark wood on most of the walls, vaguely aware of people staring as I looked for a paunchy, older man wearing tweed. My foot collided with the leg of an empty chair and as I apologized to it, I heard a familiar American voice next to me.
“Pardonne-moi, mademoiselle,” he said with a terrible French accent that made everyone hate Americans. “Would you like to s’asseoir here? Ici?”
He was indicating the chair at the small table where he’d evidently been sitting, an empty wineglass at his elbow as if he’d been there for a while, a yet untouched martini glass full of a viridescent cocktail at the empty seat opposite. He grinned his American smile and it was excruciatingly evident that he didn’t recognize me from the bookshop the day before. I suppose I should have been grateful.
“Would you like to boire?” He indicated the full glass on the table. “For vous?”
When I didn’t respond because in all honesty I couldn’t think of an appropriate response in any language, he continued with, “You are très bon. Very . . .”
His next word sounded very much like the French word for tree, which I didn’t think was his intention. In an attempt to save him from embarrassing himself further, I said in English, “No thank you. I’m meeting someone. Another American, actually. They seem to be everywhere, don’t they?”
He blinked, his startled expression rapidly turning into one of acute mortification and for once the tables were turned, where I was the confident one and my companion the personification of awkwardness. And he was rather adorable at it. It could have been the champagne, but I took enormous satisfaction seeing him bluster his way through his explanation.
“I apologize, I didn’t recognize . . .” He shook his head. “You just look so . . . different . . . so much younger than you did yesterday, I mean, you changed your clothes and your . . .” His fingers gestured to his own thick head of hair. “It got shortened.”
“Yes,” I said, trying very hard not to laugh. “I did get my hair cut. Thank you for noticing. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have a meeting, although he might have left by now because I’m frightfully late . . .”
I stopped at the strange look on his face.
“You’re here to meet someone?
Are you Mrs. Langford, by any chance?”
It was my turn to blink. “Yes, I’m Barbara Langford. And you are?”
“Andrew Bowdoin,” he said. “Not related to the college.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He waved his hand dismissively and I got the sudden impression that he might be nervous. About what, I had no idea. “Oh, it’s just something I have to explain a lot when I’m in the States.”
Good heavens. Not a paunch or speck of tweed. Good heavens, indeed. I swallowed. “Yes, well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bowdoin.”
“And you, too, although please call me Drew.” He reached out his hand to shake mine—a terribly American thing to do—and his hand collided with the full martini glass, sending it airborne and tossing the entire contents onto my chest.
We stared at each other in stunned silence as I felt the cold, wet drops of the drink slip down my skin, between my breasts, and through the thin fabric of the dress. The conversation around us dimmed, a stray sentence carrying over from the far corner and a brief shout of laughter.
“I am so sorry,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a clean and pressed linen handkerchief. He immediately began dabbing it on the skin of my neck and chest, then started to rub in earnest on the actual dress. I was too stunned to protest and it took him a moment before he, too, realized what he was doing and stopped. “Here,” he said, suddenly thrusting the sodden handkerchief at me. “Maybe you should do it.”
A waiter appeared with fresh drinks and a towel to wipe down the table and chair, and collect the empty glass, but the damage had been done.
“At least it matches your dress,” Drew offered with a weak smile as I ineffectively rubbed at my chest before sliding the handkerchief back to him. His eyes seemed focused on the stain on my chest. “Um, maybe you’d like to go upstairs and change?”