The Last Dress from Paris(110)

Then I freeze, and the phone cracks against the path beneath me.

Veronique is leaning against Granny’s garden gate, her eyes bright with tears. She shifts abruptly upright at the sight of me.

“What are you . . ?” She’s looking at me with such level calmness that I can’t finish my own sentence. She says nothing, and her silence is the biggest clue of all.

“You knew! My God, you knew, and you didn’t tell me!” I’m not angry, exactly, but neither am I relaxed. I feel deceived. I feel stupid. How could we have just shared a casual coffee together—not to mention a week in Paris—her knowing full well the conversation I was about to have?

She takes four deliberately slow steps toward me, like she thinks I might bolt, her eyes fixed to mine, her mouth softening to a smile as she gets closer.

“No, I didn’t know. I couldn’t possibly have known.”

Her arms are on my shoulders now, weighted there, anchoring me. “Not until you opened the door just then and I saw it in your face. But I felt it, Lucille. That day in the V and A. For the first time, I wondered. Why, when my maman loved children so much, were there never any siblings? You saw it yourself, I look nothing like her. How could that be right? Not to share even a hint, however subtle, of what made us both? And I felt it in my connection to you. I felt instantly happier every time we were together, a different happiness, more special.”

I open my mouth to whine that I’m always the last one to put the pieces together, then thankfully think better of it.

“There was always someone pointing out our differences, and every time they did, I felt her wince next to me,” continues Veronique. “She was never comfortable with the observation, always forcing the conversation on just a little too quickly. Then so many letters. Have you ever known two women to write to each other that much? I stopped reading the ones from your grandmother in the end. I felt if there was something to discover, I wanted to discover it with you, not alone in my maman’s old apartment. It just didn’t seem right.”

The fact she wanted to be with me at the precise moment her family history was unraveling around her makes my eyes sting, and I bury them in the palms of my hands.

“So, I allowed myself to imagine it, and it really wasn’t so difficult. Your grandmother, my . . .” She can’t bring herself to say it. Veronique may have had more time than me to think all this through, but still, it’s quite some leap on the family tree. “She is a very clever lady, Lucille. She had the good grace to wait until my maman had passed away so none of this could hurt her. Then she placed you in my path and waited for us to find each other. It was the kindest way to let it happen, don’t you think?”

We’re both interrupted by the sound of Granny calling my name.

“She wants to see you. Will you come in? Do you feel like you can?” Please let her say yes. I couldn’t deliver Antoine to Granny’s doorstep, and now I know she wouldn’t have wanted me to, but I can do this. I can give her another chance, however brief it might have to be, to rebuild a relationship far more precious.

There is the briefest hesitation while Veronique’s face clouds with the confusion of all the questions she must have. Then she straightens her shoulders and gives in to the opportunity in front of her, like it’s the only, obvious answer she could give.

“Of course I will. I want to meet the woman my maman loved so dearly.”



* * *



? ? ?

We step back into the cottage together and I lead Veronique through to the bedroom, where Granny is waiting.

I don’t need to say a thing.

The second their eyes meet, Granny knows, and then her tears come before Veronique has said a word. Every strain of emotion that has remained caged inside of her comes pouring out of her tired body. I feel my feet move to rush to her, but then a hand on my arm stops me. I have played my part, it is Veronique’s turn now, so I simply nod my acceptance that I am happy for her to be the one to comfort Granny. Then I watch as Veronique walks to Granny’s side of the bed and drops to her knees, allowing her face to be cupped by my grandmother’s thin fingers.

I take a few small, quiet steps backward, giving them the space they both deserve. I’m silently edging out of the room when I see the Debussy, hanging on the door of her wardrobe—the lightness of the midnight-blue feathers, the delicate sparkle that has survived the decades just as well as Granny has, just as Dior intended.

My eyes move between the dress, my grandmother, and Veronique, both still holding each other—and I smile as I think of the precious secret this dress has held and how much richer my life will be now that I know it.





30





Sylvie


   1961, LONDON


    My dearest Anne,

I’m not sure I can ever thank you enough for allowing me to visit you in Paris last week. You always were very intuitive, and I wonder if you guessed at my deeper reasons for coming. If not, I will confess them here so you understand how much I will always love and respect you.

I have to be honest—because you deserve no less—that my journey was fueled with what I can now appreciate were unkind thoughts. Please understand that despite the luck and good fortune life has shown me since I left Paris, it has also been very hard. To know that there is a precious part of me I can never reach, that I will never be truly whole without, has weighed heavily on my heart every single day. So, as much as I loathe myself for saying it, it is also true that my intention in coming to Paris was to alleviate my own sadness, with less thought for the pain I might cause.