Invitation to Provence(57)

Little Blue had run upstairs, stopping to do an excited little jig on the landing, then she’d paused to think. Some things puzzled her. If her papa was really grand mère Rafaella’s son, then he must be rich. So why, she wondered sadly, had he not taken care of her and Bao Chu? Why had he never come to see her and brought her here to meet her grandmère? And why, oh why, had he not loved her?

She’d run back downstairs to ask Haigh the important question, knowing instinctively he would speak the truth, but Haigh simply told her it was complicated. He’d said that later Rafaella would explain everything and she would just have to be patient. Then, speaking slowly so he was sure she understood, Haigh had said, “Your grand mère Rafaella loves you. You can trust me on that.” And for once in her life, Little Blue trusted.

Now she jumped out of the shower and, wrapped in a towel, danced around her own Red Room, examining the old dollhouse and its intricate furnishings, inspecting the altar tables where she paused to bow just in case any of the ancestors Bao Chu had told her about happened to be around. She pirouetted to the window and climbed onto the cushioned seat, leaning out and comparing the view with the one from their small Shanghai apartment, of the desolate street with the garbage blowing in the gutters, the sagging buildings propped with bamboo poles, and the halogen glare that turned faces into alien masks. She wished so badly that Bao Chu were here to share this lovely chateau with her, to experience this wonderful freedom, these green places alive with flowers, and these people who loved her. Happiness was a new emotion, and she savored it like a rare good meal.

She cried out in surprise when she noticed the small blue box tied with white ribbon sitting on her pillow. A small treasure for you, Little Blue, to bring you happiness at your grandmère’s party tonight. Love, Tante Juliette, the card read.

She read it again, then picked up the box, hitched up her slipping towel, and sped next door to show Franny, who was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair.

“Look, look. It’s a present,” Little Blue cried, showing her the box.

Franny smiled and showed her an identical box on the dressing table. “How lovely of Juliette to think of us, Little Blue,” she said, just as Clare wafted through the door in a cloud of perfume and little else. In one hand she carried her dress on a hanger, and in the other a blue Tiffany box. “From Juliette,” she said, amazed. “Do you believe her? She’s just so wonderful I want to grow up and be like her.”

Little Blue couldn’t wait. She opened her box first and stared at the silver bracelet with the heart charm. “Is it really mine?” she asked, looking at Franny, and when Franny told her it certainly was and that she must wear it tonight for good luck, a big grin split her face. Then Franny and Clare opened their own boxes, exclaiming over their gifts.

Franny glanced anxiously at her watch as they quickly dressed Little Blue in her new sugar-pink cotton dress that tied on the shoulders with satin bows. Little Blue put on her new soft pink suede sandals and Clare painted her nails a matching pink while Franny brushed her short black hair until it gleamed. They stood back, admiring her as she perched the sparkly little tiara Juliette had found in the street market on top. “You’ll be a princess tonight, ma petite,” Juliette had promised, and looking amazed at herself in the mirror, Little Blue thought that it was true.

Clare slithered hurriedly into the strapless white taffeta that showed off her olive velvet skin; black satin mules; a black satin clutch; black hair pulled back in a chignon; a splash of red lipstick. She looked at the result in the mirror, hitched up the top and said with a grin. “The virgin sacrifice is ready.”

Then she turned and saw Franny in her yellow-and-blue flowered skirt and a yellow tank top and she groaned. “Oh no, no, no, no, and NO! You should have listened to me, Franny!” she said.

“Too late now,” Franny said, knowing she looked all wrong.

“You’re just not grand enough for Rafaella’s grand soirée,” Clare said, exasperated. “Wait here, I’ll see what I can do,” and she disappeared, mules clacking on the parquet floors, back to her room.

Little Blue and Franny sat on the window seat and waited. Franny glanced worriedly at her watch. The minutes were ticking by. Little Blue swung her legs. Franny frowned. She had no style, that had always been her trouble, and she worried about what Rafaella would think of her. And what about Jake? She looked awful. She groaned and Little Blue patted her hand anxiously.

Then Clare dashed through the door with an armload of clothes. “Take that off,” she commanded, and she hooked Franny into a black silk and lace bustier that pushed up her breasts prettily, though Franny complained they showed too much, and into a fuchsia silk skirt that flared around her knees. Clare’s red suede mules were a size too small but she said it was too late to care about such minor details. She took off Franny’s small pearl studs and put on Juliette’s gift of silver dangly ones, then she swept Franny’s hair hastily on top and anchored it with a dozen bobby pins, letting it half fall in a casually sexy tumble. A deeper lipstick, a flush of pink on her cheeks, and a tiny silver mesh bag on a long chain completed the outfit.

Clare stood back to check her handiwork. “And Cinderella shall go to the ball,” she said, grabbing Franny’s hand to stop her from looking at herself in the mirror and protesting she was showing too much skin and that anyway she didn’t look like herself. She shoved Little Blue out the door in front of them, just as the old clock groaned the witching hour, and together they hurried down the stairs.