All the Ways We Said Goodbye Read online

  “Of course he would. It’s just . . .” I shook my head, trying to find a way to tell her how utterly miserable I’d been since Kit died. How inside I felt like the barren fields in winter, waiting for a spring that never arrived. Finally, I blurted, “You wouldn’t understand. I loved him.” But I think he loved another woman. I was thankful to have held back that last, shameful secret. Because I intended to take that one to the grave.

  Precious watched me in silence, the light shifting in her eyes, her beautiful face unreadable. “I do know,” she said softly. “I once loved someone so much I thought I might die from wanting him. But it was during the war.” She shrugged, as if in that small gesture she could explain the years of hunger and loss. Of waiting and longing. And the eventual devastation of the heart. “Circumstances brought me to France. I never saw him again.”

  The room was quiet for a moment as we listened to the faint sound of traffic on Place Vendôme, the confirmation that life did go on. She continued, “I chose to do more than simply survive. I chose to live. To find a purpose in life. To search out the joy and happiness that is everywhere, even in difficult times, if we’re just brave enough to look.” A wide smile illuminated her face. “That’s why I choose to wear beautiful clothes and surround myself with lovely things and interesting people. To go out and live.” She took a step closer to me. “Otherwise, what is the point of surviving?” Her expression turned serious. “I’m thinking somewhere, deep down, you understand what I’m saying. Otherwise, I don’t think you’d ever have agreed to have gone shopping with me yesterday.”

  She held out the yellow spotty dress to me. “So come on. Wear this. I’ll put a yellow ribbon in your hair and let you borrow my favorite lipstick—Cherries in the Snow. My mama used to say there was nothing besides a bright-colored lipstick to make a girl believe she could conquer the world.”

  For the first time since meeting Precious Dubose, I found myself wondering about her past. There was a minefield there, I was sure, with the same conviction that most of her story would remain secret. But I also knew, in some odd way, that we were somehow kindred spirits, that she did understand. And maybe—hopefully—I could follow her lead and find joy and happiness in my life again, and a purpose besides organizing church fetes and spearheading the Keep Britain Tidy group of the Women’s Institute.

  “All right,” I said, accepting the dress. “Under one condition. That you stop trying to play matchmaker. I have found that having a man in my life isn’t necessarily a requirement. I’ve become quite self-sufficient.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Precious said, nodding emphatically. “Although having a man can certainly make life a lot more fun.” She actually winked at me as she grabbed my hand and led me to the dressing table.

  An hour later I was dressed and coifed according to Precious’s standards, wearing a pair of low-heeled strappy sandals and, as promised, a yellow ribbon in my hair that matched the admittedly adorable dress. I thought the lipstick too bright, preferring more of a beige tone, but Precious insisted that beige wasn’t a color, and if it was, it didn’t belong on the lips.

  On the way out, I picked up my wool jumper from the back of the desk chair.

  “What is it with you and sheep?” Precious asked. “You’ll look like you have a lamb draped over your shoulders if you put that on. And it’ll hide your gorgeous dress.”

  “What if I get chilly?”

  “It’s April in Paris. It’s warm and heavenly.” She yanked the jumper out of my hands and ungraciously threw it back on the chair. “If you get cold, Drew can loan you his jacket. Or put his arm around your shoulders.”

  “Precious,” I said in warning, but she’d already left the room and was headed toward the lift, her voice drifting back to me.

  “I’m so hungry I could eat a mule.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She didn’t slow her pace as she answered. “Let’s go get something to eat. Maybe your Drew can join us. Unless you two already made plans?”

  “Er, no, we didn’t,” I said, hurrying to catch up. “I, um, when he left I wasn’t really thinking about the next day.”

  She turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “Well, I’m quite sure he’s waiting to hear from you. Unless you finished your business last night?”

  I shook my head and then stopped, not really sure. “I don’t actually remember. Although I do recall that I left something on our table. I need to go to the bar and check.”

  The lift opened and we stepped inside. “We’ll do that after we eat. Come on. They always have a table waiting for me.”

  “Really? So you live here at the Ritz?” I asked once we were downstairs. I followed Precious through the window-lined corridor to the restaurant, aware of heads turning in our direction. Precious walked like the model she said she’d been, her head held high, her posture straight. I felt more like a new foal in her wake, awkward and gangly.

  “Off and on, but mostly on. Not like my friend Coco, who has had her own suite here since 1937. When I modeled for her, she’d let me stay in her suite. I suppose I got used to the Ritz. It’s hard to live anywhere else after you’ve experienced the best.”

  “Coco?” I asked, the name vaguely familiar.

  “Coco Chanel. The designer. I’d be happy to introduce you, if you like.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, not at all eager to be under the scrutiny of the famous designer. Precious was challenging enough.

  A maître d’ approached us and after a rapid exchange in French, we were quickly escorted to a table for four by a window overlooking the famed gardens.

  Just as we were being seated, Precious waved at someone at the entrance to the restaurant, and I turned to see if it might be Drew, swallowing my unreasonable disappointment when I saw it wasn’t him. Instead I spotted a slender and petite woman wearing a brilliantly colored scarf over her head and who, although not much past five feet tall, had a commanding presence that made one think of a general or a queen.

  When she caught sight of Precious, the woman smiled, then began to walk toward us. She walked slowly and deliberately, as if she were an old woman, but as she got closer I could see she was about Precious’s age and not yet past fifty. No hair was visible beneath the scarf, and her skin, though nearly without wrinkles, appeared ashen. Her eyebrows had been drawn in with pencil, and her lips appeared almost bloodless, yet her face, with dark, penetrating eyes, drew one’s attention. She wasn’t beautiful in the way that Precious Dubose was, yet I found myself unable to look away. There was something about her that made one want to stare.

  “Margot!” Precious stood and the two women kissed cheeks in the French way before the maître d’ appeared again and held out a chair for the newcomer. Again there was a quick exchange in French and then the word Anglais that made the woman’s penetrating eyes turn toward me.

  “If your friend doesn’t mind,” the woman said in English, with barely the trace of an accent. “I would love to join you.”

  “Please, do sit,” I said, noticing her frail hand gripping the back of the chair, the way the skin on her slender fingers appeared nearly transparent.

  A waiter approached with a new place setting and a menu as I half stood, prepared to help the woman should she require assistance. She glanced at me again with those dark eyes and it was very clear that she would not welcome any help from me or anyone else.

  When she was settled, Precious said, “Barbara, I’d like you to meet my dearest and oldest friend, Margot Lemouron. We have known each other for a very long time, haven’t we?”

  Margot smiled and nodded. “We have. Since the war, no?”

  “That’s about right. I try not to count the exact number of years,” Precious said. “Because then I’m reminded how old I am.”

  “Ah, age. What is it but a number?” Margot’s voice was unexpectedly deep. She looked at me expectantly.

  Precious placed a hand over her heart. “Dear me—where are my manners? Margot, please meet my new friend, Barbara, or
Babs as she likes to be called. Barbara Langford.”

  Margot simply looked at me, her eyes missing nothing. “Langford?”

  “Yes. My husband’s family name. Do you know any Langfords? They’re from Devonshire.”

  Margot took a moment before responding, and I thought that perhaps her English might not be as fluent as I’d assumed. Her shoulders lifted in a small Gallic shrug. “Perhaps. During and after the war, Paris was so full of nationalities—Germans, Americans, English. I met so many. And I’ve forgotten most of them, sadly.” She smiled. “So many people passing in and out of our lives.”

  Her haunted eyes turned toward the window and the garden beyond, at the garish reds and blush pinks of the roses in brash contrast with the pallor of her skin. Precious beckoned for a waiter, who quickly brought a glass of water to the Frenchwoman. Margot nodded gratefully and took a sip.

  “Is your husband traveling with you, Mrs. Langford?” she asked.

  The question was so unexpected it was as if a small fist had made direct contact with my heart. “No. I’m afraid not.” I took a deep breath, my gaze focused on the condensation dripping down the stem of her water glass. Feeling both pairs of eyes on me, I said, “I’m a widow. My husband died a little over a year ago.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” Her smile wobbled a bit as if she understood that sort of loss. She cleared her throat. “But how wonderful that you are here now, at the Paris Ritz, to enjoy a bit of life again, yes?”

  I almost told her that I wasn’t here on holiday, but on a fool’s errand in search of my husband’s lover. But I couldn’t, of course. How could I explain something that even I didn’t completely understand?

  “Yes, it is,” I said, picking up my menu and pretending to be hungry. “Shall we order?”

  We ordered our food and when it arrived Precious was the only one who gave it justice, happily spearing a bite of quiche paysanne au jambon onto her fork. Madame Lemouron and I simply picked at our plates like little birds hunting for hidden seeds. I felt the woman’s dark gaze on me, making me wonder if I reminded her of someone. I looked up and met her eyes only once. I smiled, wanting to banish the ghosts that seemed to surround her.

  “Excusez-moi?” The terrible American-accented French startled me, causing me to drop my fork onto the floor. My cheeks heated as I looked up at Drew, those ridiculous words somehow finding their way into my memory at just that moment. Rumpy-pumpy. Oh, the indignity. Perhaps if I simply pretended that I didn’t recall anything from the night before I might be able to meet his gaze again.

  “I’ll get that,” he said as he bent to retrieve my fork at the exact same time I did so that our heads collided.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Are you all right?”

  “Just fine, thanks.”

  He nodded a greeting to my dining companions as I made introductions. “Would you care to join us?” I asked, not sure what I wished his answer might be.

  “Thank you—but just for the company.” He sat down in the chair next to me, his broad-shouldered form filling the chair and radiating heat. “I’ve already eaten both breakfast and lunch—I’m an early riser, preferring a little exercise before the sun.” He grinned, showing his perfect American teeth, then placed something on the table next to me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to return this to Mrs. Langford. You left it on the table at the bar last night.”

  I looked at Kit’s copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel with relief, not just for its return but for the fact that I’d thought to remove Kit’s letter before I’d shown Drew the book. “Thank you so much. I was worried I might not see it again.”

  Precious slid it around to read the title out loud. “I will admit that I’ve never read the book, but I do remember falling in love with Leslie Howard in the movie. I was rather young—it was decades ago—but I remember sneaking into the theater since I couldn’t afford the ticket price. I managed to sneak in three times because I was quite taken with Mr. Howard.” She tapped her varnished nails on the cover. “There’s something very alluring about a spy, I think—someone whose loyalties aren’t always clear.” She looked up suddenly, then pushed the book back to me. “Perhaps I should read the book, although I will confess to not being much of a reader. Unless it’s the latest issue of Vogue, of course.”

  Her smile faded as she looked across the table at Margot Lemouron, whose face had paled even more, her hands trembling slightly. Precious leaned forward, placing a hand over her friend’s. “Are you all right, Margot?”

  The Frenchwoman shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” She attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace. Addressing Drew and me, she said, “Will you excuse me, please? I think I need to go upstairs to my room and rest. It was a pleasure meeting you both. I hope to see you again.”

  Drew pulled back her chair and offered his assistance to the lift, but she shook her head and left, her gait slow and uneven. “Is she all right?” he asked.

  Before Precious could answer, our attention was diverted by the thwack thwack of a cane being thrust against the floor and a loud imperious American voice. “Coming through. I must eat breakfast at precisely one thirty every day and will not be detained.” Waiters scattered, not wanting to drop dishes or be hit by the cane as the old woman spotted our table and headed in our direction like a battleship under fire.

  I recognized her as Mrs. Schulyer, who’d sat at the table in the bar with Precious the previous evening supplying unending drinks to the table I shared with Drew. Drew watched the approaching woman with alarm, assumingly reaching the same conclusion.

  I looked at Precious, hoping she’d give us the approval to bolt, but instead she smiled in greeting as a waiter pulled out the chair recently vacated by Madame Lemouron, the place already cleared by apparently invisible waitstaff, and Mrs. Schulyer sat without being invited.

  Precious began the introductions, but the old woman held out a finger, encased in a fingerless lace glove like my great-grandmother Eugenia used to wear. And might have actually been buried in since she claimed her hands were always cold. “I must have my coffee first before conversation.”

  A waiter appeared with a tray carrying a coffeepot, sugar bowl, and cream pitcher. Without making eye contact, he poured coffee into a cup, then added three spoonfuls of sugar and a hefty measure of cream. He dutifully waited while the woman took a sip and nodded, before stepping back so that two more waiters could place in front of her a plate full of soft eggs with runny yolks and bacon, another plate with grilled onions and small tomatoes, and a bowl of stewed prunes.

  She closed her eyes while sipping her coffee, slurping rather loudly, and then with a smack of her lips, placed the empty cup on the table. “That’s better.” She nodded regally while Precious made introductions.

  “Mrs. Prunella Schuyler is another old friend of mine. She lives here as well, so we get to see each other often.”

  Mrs. Schuyler tightened her lips as if seeing Precious often wasn’t ideal. “That poor, poor girl,” she said, indicating the direction Madame Lemouron had gone. “It’s the cancer you know. Too bad she doesn’t have the Pratt constitution as I do—that was my family name before I married into the Schuylers. Strong as oxen we Pratts. Takes a lot to take us down. I survived the sinking of the Lusitania, you know.”

  Without leaving space to interject a word in between her ramblings, she spoke and ate at the same time, yellow egg yolks pooling in the corners of her mouth. Precious’s eyes had begun to glaze over when I felt a definite prodding of my foot. I surreptitiously gave a glance under the table just in time to see Drew’s rather large foot tapping the side of my sandal. Glancing up, I saw his expression was one of a man drowning and in search of a life preserver.

  From my position at the WI, I apparently had more stamina dealing with lonely elderly women than Drew did. I nodded a few times while finishing my quiche, enjoying his discomfiture, and then, around the third time of her mentioning the Lusitania, I made a big show of looking at my
wristwatch.

  “Oh my. Could it really be so late? Drew promised me he’d take me bicycling in the Bois de Boulogne, didn’t you?” I stared pointedly at him.

  His slow nod became suddenly earnest. “Yes. Absolutely. We don’t want to be late,” he said enthusiastically as he excused himself and stood, then pulled back my chair. “Ladies, it’s been great and a pleasure meeting you both. Enjoy your afternoon.”

  Prunella stopped talking for a moment, looking nonplussed. “But I’m only up to the first day of our Lusitania voyage.”

  I stood and picked up the book so I wouldn’t forget it again. “You know, Mrs. Schulyer, you really should write this all down in a memoir. There must be dozens of people who’d love to hear your story.”

  Her thick eyebrows shot up. “Do you really think so? I am quite a good writer, so it would make perfect sense.” She raised her hand and called for the waiter. “Garçon!” she called, butchering the word so that the waiter had no idea he was being summoned. “Garçon!” she yelled, louder this time and he turned, most likely to find out what the commotion was all about. “Get me a typewriter. Immediately before I lose my muse!”

  Drew took my elbow and began to gently pull me away from the table. Precious waved. “You two kids have fun.” She actually winked and I blushed, quite sure that her definition of fun didn’t involve riding boots and a gelding. Or perhaps it did.

  I began heading toward the lift, but Drew called me back. “Where are you going? I thought we had a date.”

  “Oh, I just said that—” I stopped. “You don’t have to take me anywhere.”

  “Maybe I’d like to.”

  “Really?” I said, feeling like a giddy schoolgirl. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  “Actually no. So if you’re free, let’s go.”

  I felt a little surge of something in my chest as I followed him outside. We headed out the door and he began walking while I clutched Kit’s book and wondered what I was supposed to do with it while riding a bicycle. “Wait,” I said, stopping. “You’re headed in the wrong direction. The park is that way, on the western edge of the sixteenth arrondissement,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction.