Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

“I wish,” Isa said tearfully.

“Is she ill? Is her husband here?”

“He’s taken the little miss and gone to England.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” The champagne had gone to my head, and I had trouble following what she was saying. “Hold on. You said she’s not going anywhere. Is she home?”

“Madame doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“But I’m her best friend.”

Isa hesitated. “She might be sleeping.”

“If she is, I’ll come right back.”

I teetered down the hall, touching the wall now and again for balance. Of all the crazy things, of course Margaret would want to see me. A pity she’d missed the party. What a terrible time to come down with something. Only Margaret could be so unlucky.

At the threshold of the dim room, I watched her sleep and knew I should let her rest, but I couldn’t contain my excitement and tiptoed closer. Tufts of hair clumped near her ear, and the rest was a few millimeters long. Her neck appeared to be bruised. I blinked. Clearly, I’d had too much to drink. Mais non , even after I rubbed my eyes, her hair was short and the bruises remained. Her wrist, wound with white gauze, rested on the coverlet. It appeared as though she’d had some kind of accident. No. She looked shorn, beaten and shorn like the young maman on the street. The thought sobered me.

Without opening her eyes, she asked, “Who was at the door, Isa?”

“Me.”

Margaret sat up.

“What happened?” I asked.

“As if you don’t know.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

I stared at the gray bruises that pearled around Margaret’s throat. “When?”

“A week ago.”

I recalled Paul’s edginess, his insistence that we go away. Something had been off. How could I not have seen?

“Why did you tell him about Felix and me?” she asked.

“I didn’t…” I didn’t mean to.

“ You’re the reason this happened!” She held a hand to her naked crown.

I began to tremble and grasped the headboard. “No.”

“Then why did he do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar!” Margaret said. “And I thought diplomatic circles could be vicious. Tell me, friend , what exactly did you say?”

“Nothing, really…”

“Yes, Felix gave me things. But I shared, believing you would do the same for me. You knew exactly who the presents came from.”

“Yes, but I never would lower myself—”

“Lower yourself? You didn’t have to, because I did it for you. And for Rémy.”

“I didn’t ask you for anything!”

“You didn’t have to.”

“This isn’t my fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?” she asked.

Her bald stare unnerved me. I looked to the window, to the vanity, to the portrait of Christina.

“What’s so wrong about wanting someone?” Margaret continued. “Being wanted? You were the one who said that I was in a foreign country, that I could do as I pleased.”

“I meant learning to ride a bike, not taking up with a Nazi!”

Margaret reached up as if to touch her pearls, like she did when she was upset, but for once she wasn’t wearing them.

She needed to know I hadn’t meant to hurt her. “I didn’t do this.”

“Paul was the gun, but you pulled his trigger.”

“What about you ? What you said about Bitsi pretending to mourn—”

“Was unforgivable,” Margaret said. “At least I can admit when I do wrong.”

“I only told one person.”

“How could you betray me?”

“I was envious.”

“Jealous of me, when you had the perfect job, a loving family, and a devoted man?”

I never considered what I had, only what I wanted. “Surely it’s not that bad. Your hair will grow out.”

“You think the worst thing he did was to my hair? Because of you, I’ve lost everything.” She held up her broken wrist. “See what they did to me? I can’t dress myself, I can’t write to my daughter. If you hated me so much, I wish you would have hired an assassin, because to my family, I might as well be dead. The staff had a choice to remain with me or go to England with Lawrence and Christina. No one but Isa would stay in the flat with a harlot like me.”

“I never meant for…”

Margaret threw back the coverlet and lifted the hem of her negligee, revealing the welts that peppered her legs. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could take back my words, wishing I could undo the harm.

“Coward! If I can bare the scars, you can bear to look.”

She bristled with anger. Her spirit had been bruised but not broken.

“Lawrence photographed me, you know. If I dare make a fuss, he’ll use the pictures in court to prove I’m an unfit mother. Only sluts get their heads shaved, right? How am I ever going to get my little girl back?”

“I could telephone Lawrence, explain…”

“Telephone Lawrence, explain,” Margaret scoffed. “You should go.”

“I could stay and help. Make your meals, write to your family.”

“I don’t want any more of your ‘help.’ Please leave.”

I moved toward the door.

“Wait!” she said.

I turned. I’d do anything for another chance. Surely, she’d forgive me. We’d been through so much together.

“There’s a blue box on the shelf in the dressing room. Bring it to me.”

I tried to give her the package, but she said, “For you. I asked Felix to find it. When you wear it, I hope you’ll remember what you did, and realize what it means to be a true friend.”

Inside was a red belt. The leather was buttery smooth, long and slim as a whip.

“How can I make it up to you? Please give me a chance.”

Margaret turned her face to the wall. “Go. I never want to see you again.”

CHAPTER 44

Lily

FROID, MONTANA, DECEMBER 1987

DAD’S WIFE TOOK away Forever !” I told Odile as I slammed into her kitchen. “She said Judy Blume writes ‘smut.’ Censorship is wrong!”

“So is throwing a fit instead of sitting down to have a conversation.” Odile finished drying the last of her dishes. “You should ask Ellie what she fears.”

“Huh?”

“Reading is dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Ellie’s scared the book will put ideas in your head, scared you’ll want to experiment with sex.”

“I read Out of Africa and didn’t establish a coffee plantation in Kenya!”

Odile smiled a little smile that meant she thought I said something silly. “Not many people do. Sex is a natural part of life. But it’s a big step, and Ellie is worried.”

“I’ve never been on a date,” I said. “At this rate, I never will. Ellie’s trying to ruin my life.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“All she cares about are Dad and the boys.”

“Aren’t you tired of that refrain? Ellie does her best. Try to put yourself in her skin.”

“Yuck!”

“In her shoes . Have you ever considered how Ellie feels? In all these years, she and your father have never bought a new couch or lamp. She cooks in your Mom’s pans, she eats off her plates. How strange must that feel? Are you certain that you’re the outsider?”

She had a point.

“Love isn’t rationed. Ellie can care about all of you. You should talk to her.”

“What if—”

“Take the first step.”

On my way home, I watched the boys run around the backyard. Joe waved a leaky water pistol at Benjy, who wore his baby blanket like a cape. They scampered toward me, and each one grabbed a leg.

“Mine,” Benjy said.

“No,” Joe argued, “she’s mine.”

“You’re both mine.” I hugged them.

Inside, I ran my hand over Mom’s dining room table, the curtains she’d sewn, the pastel paintings of birds she’d chosen. Nothing here belonged to Ellie, the unpaid curator of the Brenda museum.