Capturing Paris (10 page)

“I still have to show him I can write poems for specific photographs. He hasn't made an offer yet.”

“Oh. He will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

But Daphne had simply laughed and offered no reply.

Annie thought again of Paul. This would be his first Christmas without his wife. She took the cloth off her face and began to scrub her shoulders and back. When she and Wesley were first married, she always called him into the bathroom to wash her back. She shivered in the cooling water. She mustn't linger any longer. There was much to do to be ready for her guests. She would get through this party and somehow she would get through Christmas.

Annie treasured all the Christmases they had spent in Paris. The emphasis was on lovely family meals and finding the very best delicacies: rich foie gras from the Dordogne, vintage champagnes, smoky wild mushrooms to stuff the turkey, and a gorgeous
bûche de Noël
, the cake shaped like a yule log that tasted as wonderful as it looked.

Annie did not look back on her childhood Christmases with nostalgia. The old clapboard farmhouse in Vermont should have been an
idyllic setting, and eccentric Aunt Kate, wisps of gray hair escaping her bun, wrapping packages in hand-decorated brown paper, should have completed the image of a charming old-fashioned holiday scene. Annie knew her father tried to be more cheerful at Christmas, but there were years when he rarely came out of his study, leaving it to his sister to create the magic of the season.

Aunt Kate was heroic in her efforts. They tromped through the woods, cutting greens and gathering berries and cones to decorate the house. Updyke, the old Dutch gardener who helped Kate with the heavier work, cut them a tree from his farm and set it up in the front parlor. Annie remembered, during the best years, her father standing on a ladder and putting up the lights. “Can I start to decorate? Please, Daddy, can I put up the ornaments?” The answer was always the same. “One thing at a time, Anne Louise; you need to do things in their proper order. You can put up the ornaments after I finish the lights.”

Annie was in charge of place cards for their ritual Christmas Eve dinners. She printed out each name in her best grammar school penmanship and decorated the cards with glue and glitter. Aunt Kate had her write a little poem—she called them verses—for each guest. They invited their nearest neighbors and usually a few teachers from the college. Aunt Kate referred to some of them as the lonely hearts. “Keep the verses for the lonely hearts nice and jolly.” Everyone read their poems, predictable childish rhymes, aloud during dessert, and Annie loved hearing her own words come alive.

Despite the often large gatherings of guests, Annie knew that someone was missing from the holiday table. The old feeling of longing would come back like the flurries of snow that announced the season. She wanted her mother. Her father felt it too, and at many Christmas dinners he excused himself and left the table before the meal was over. Then the joyous clatter of Aunt Kate's preparations paled and the old wooden house became hollow, silent, and cold.

It had been a relief to celebrate Christmas in France with a completely different set of rituals. Annie loved going to midnight mass in one of the great churches. Saint-Eustache had been their favorite. The forest of Gothic columns and the vaulted ceiling throwing back the voluminous sounds of the organ made the Christmas story come
alive for Annie. The powerful beauty of that place made her believe in God. When Sophie was old enough, Annie had made Christmas a child-centered holiday. Each year she sewed a new dress for Sophie and made a matching one for her doll. She tied red bows on Sophie's teddy bears and filled a stocking with trinkets for her to find on Christmas morning.

Wesley had loved their holidays together too. He adored reading to Sophie, and after “ 'Twas the Night Before Christmas,” he bundled her up for midnight mass. She would sleep between them, her head nuzzled in the crook of his arm. On Christmas morning they would open their presents and go to the Verniers' for a wonderful lunch. When Sophie came home from college for the holidays, Wesley would take her off on special shopping expeditions, just the two of them. Last year, when Sophie was twenty-one, he took her to the Ritz for lunch and a glass of champagne. He'd wanted her twenty-first Christmas to be a memorable one. He was the kind of attentive father that Annie had always wished for.

Now she had guests coming to dinner, the beginning of a rotten cold, and Sophie wasn't coming home for Christmas at all. Annie stepped out of the bath, shivered, and reached for the towel.

“Fascinating, the way you've used the patchwork quilts, even one for a tablecloth,” Daphne said. She fingered the soft old fabric on the table.

“This one is just a quilt top,” Annie said. “It's never been backed or pieced together.” Annie was pleased that Daphne had praised the way she'd decorated the apartment. It was less formal than the Verniers' living room, but Annie thought the large beige linen sofa and deep armchairs were elegant as well as comfortable. She'd used soft floral fabrics and pieces of antique linens to cover pillows and to skirt the two round tables on either side of the sofa. The walls were painted a warm cream, the color of buttermilk.

“Marvelous how these French Country pieces blend so well with your quilts,” Daphne said.

“The quilts on the walls make me think of medieval times, when they hung tapestries on the walls of the châteaux,” Céleste said. She
nodded toward the log-cabin pattern that hung behind the sofa. The soft teal, pinks, and beige patchwork picked up the colors of the room. “And look at the beautiful bowl of white roses. A feast for the eyes on a winter night.”

Annie was proud of her table decorations. She'd chosen white roses because they reminded her of the snow in Vermont, and she'd tied bundles of holly to the pair of candelabra with wide satin ribbons. She liked the way the ornate twisting silver contrasted with the simple patchwork and her French pottery dishes. Besides the candles burning on the table, Wesley had lit more than a dozen candles in the living room and hall. Annie had collected the candlesticks over the years, and they ranged from the fancy French candelabra she'd found at the Paris flea markets to some humble wooden spools she'd discovered one summer in Vermont. The apartment did look pretty in the soft flickering light.

The first guests had arrived within a few minutes of one another: Céleste and Georges bearing a sumptuous box of chocolates and Mary and Tom, who gave Wesley an expensive bottle of Cognac. Georges, looking like an Old World French gentleman, wore a dark suit, and Céleste looked pretty and festive in a red silk dress, a departure from her usually understated clothes.

Mary, a petite woman with dark straight hair, looked a little tired to Annie—perhaps she was coming down with a cold too. Usually so lively and talkative, she seemed subdued. Tom and Mary did not have children, and Annie wondered if Mary, now close to forty, ever would. Tom was ten years her senior and had the handsome, energetic looks of a man who knew how to have a good time, the kind of man who would have been the center of attention at college fraternity parties. Annie knew his bravado and charm had a lot to do with his success in international sales.

Daphne had come later, once the others had settled comfortably by the fire. When Annie answered the door, Daphne had entered the hall with flushed cheeks, her golden hair sprinkled lightly by the wet evening mist, and smelling of cold. She offered Annie a small, beautifully wrapped gift. “Something just for you,” she said, giving Annie a hug. Annie took the now-familiar blue cape, and they joined the others in the living room.

The party began well, and by the time they gathered around the table for dinner, Annie was relaxed and had begun to enjoy herself. They started into the first course while the filet of beef roasted in the oven and a mushroom shallot red wine sauce simmered on the stove. Wesley looked handsome to her in his tweed sport coat and festive red bow tie on a crisp blue shirt. At moments like this, she forgot her anger. She liked seeing him at the opposite end of their table. It felt like some kind of balance had been restored to their marriage. He was a charming host, talking and laughing easily with their guests. The echo of their angry words that had hung about the apartment all week was fading away in the convivial chatter.

Annie had seated Céleste and Mary on either side of her husband. Georges, who sat at Annie's left, was already joking with Wesley about the merits of that night's wine. “I think you've finally outdone yourself on this pick,” he said. He swirled the wine and lowered his nose into the glass to capture the bouquet. “Indeed, it's a good one, but I don't believe it was only thirty euros.” He shook his head. “I think I'll need the receipt for proof.”

“They challenge each other to find the most beautiful wine for a price,” Céleste explained to the others. She looked across the table and met her husband's eyes, smiling affectionately. Annie couldn't imagine Georges and Céleste having an argument. She'd never heard her utter a critical word about her husband.

“You know I play by the rules.” Wesley laughed. “Wait until you try the Sauternes I have for dessert.” They continued to banter about which wine merchants you could trust.

Annie worried about Mary, who talked and laughed politely along with the others, all while keeping an attentive eye on Tom. He sat across the table from her, between Céleste and Daphne. Tom had given Daphne an appreciative glance when he first arrived. He also complimented her on her dress when he took his place beside her at dinner, but so far he was keeping his flirtatious tendencies in check. Mary had told Annie about a huge fight they'd had recently. She worried that Tom was seeing another woman. Annie had found it unsettling to hear about her boss's unhappy marriage. Mary had enumerated the symptoms, as if describing a disease where powerful germs had infected
their once happy lives. Just listening to Mary's woes made Annie fearful, as though it could be contagious. She had no intention of sharing her own troubles. Telling Mary about the strain in her marriage would make it all too real. She didn't want to put her doubts into words.

Daphne, who appeared to be enjoying herself, looked beautiful in the candlelight. She wore a dress of rich plum velvet, cut high in front, scooped low in back, with long, tightly fitted sleeves that came to a point at the wrists. Annie wondered how long it would be before Tom would find some excuse to put his hands on her. In Annie's experience, his friendly hugs had always seemed a little too close, a little too long.

Annie wore a simple black V-neck dress that was several years old. She had pulled her hair back and wore Aunt Kate's string of garnet beads. She felt her cold moving into her sinuses and knew that she was paler than usual. “Are you trying to look like Emily Dickinson?” Wesley had said when she dressed. He gave her a teasing grin.

Annie pictured the New England poet with her serious face and prim appearance. “That's not funny. You know I feel terrible.” She turned to have him finish pulling the zipper on her dress. “You should be glad I didn't spend money on something new.”

“We won't have to think so much about money when I get the job in Washington.” He fastened the top hook.

“We agreed not to discuss it anymore.” She frowned and smoothed the front panel of her dress.

“I think Miss Dickinson needs a kiss.” He reached for her. “I think a little love would cheer her up.” Wesley had been trying to humor her for days. She stepped away from him and went to her dressing table to put on more blush.

Now, sitting next to Daphne, she wished she had bought a new dress, something that would make her feel younger, sexier. The decongestant she had taken earlier made her head feel packed with cotton. Her ears rang.

“God, this fish thing is delicious,” Daphne said, referring to the first course. “You must tell us how you did it.”

Making the fish mousse had almost put Annie back to bed. By the middle of the afternoon her headache had returned, her throat was
noticeably sore, and she had dirtied every bowl in the kitchen. Wesley had gone out again on some unnamed errand, and she still had to make the sauce for the main course.

“I'm so glad you like it.” Annie was used to making an effort for good meals. Cooking was so much a part of French life. Everything revolved around good food, creating the perfect dish, whether it was making your mother-in-law's
coq au vin
or trying to replicate a fresh asparagus soup you tasted at a country inn. Food was continually shopped for, discussed, debated, and argued over.

Céleste helped Annie clear the table and bring out the main course. The meat looked too rare to Annie, so she covered each serving liberally with the mushroom sauce and hoped no one would notice. Thankfully, the candlelight made it difficult to see.

“Let's have more of that red wine, Wesley,” Tom said, louder than necessary. “It's a winner in my book.” Mary shot him a warning look.

“So it seems we're both in sales,”Tom said, leaning toward Daphne. “Opposite ends of the spectrum. You're in antiques, and I'm in emerging technologies.”

“I must confess, I'm not very high-tech, and I don't have a clue as to what's emerging.” Daphne looked away from him and handed Annie the basket of bread.

“Nothing you need to know,” he said. “It's apparent you have other talents.” He fingered her sleeve. “Your dress is the exact color of tonight's wine. Great Burgundy. Great bouquet.” He swirled the wine in his glass.

Wesley, who was making his way around the table pouring the wine, leaned in between Daphne and Tom, putting a protective hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, ignoring Tom. “I would love to talk to your sister about buying some of her quilts,” she said. She tilted her head so that her hair brushed across Wesley's hand. “I have several clients who might be interested.”