The Last Dress from Paris(70)
“Are you okay, Lucille? You look very pale.” Veronique is staring at me from across the table. “I know that was a little tight, but you made the train, you can relax now.”
“I’m not sure I can. That was Granny on the phone. She just told me that she was one half of A and A. That when she lived in Paris, she was known as Alice. But why did she change her name to Sylvie?”
Veronique’s eyes widen. “Maybe this will help explain that.” She delves into her bag, pulls out an unopened letter, and holds it aloft. “There were lots of letters written from your Granny to my maman, but this one is different.”
“How?”
“For one thing, the handwriting is different, it’s not one I recognize. And it’s addressed to an Alice.”
“Is there a postmark on it? Is it dated?”
“Yes, February 13, 1956. I suppose whoever sent it must have hoped Maman would get it to your grandmother. I wonder why she never forwarded it to her? There seems to be something inside it, something small and hard. Should we open it?” I can tell from her voice that she wants to.
“No. No, we shouldn’t, Veronique. Whatever is written in that letter, whoever it is from, I think Granny needs to read it first, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. You’re right,” she sighs.
Veronique gives me some time to reflect. She rests her chin in the palm of her hand and stares intently out of the window, like she’s not seeing the view at all but perhaps my family tree, rewriting itself on the windowpane.
She waits until the grayness of Paris gives way to the surrounding countryside and she’s listened to me exhale at least four big sighs before she pulls her laptop out of her expensive-looking leather rucksack. Does she have any items of clothing or accessories that linger shamefaced at the back of the wardrobe? I wonder.
“Seriously, you’re not actually working, are you?” I sound like a whining toddler, but really? This is my last chance to enjoy her company before I disembark from this train in London, and reality hits me hard from all angles.
“No, I am not!” I shouldn’t have doubted her. “But I am wondering . . .” She trails off.
I watch as she opens the laptop and logs on to reveal a beautiful photo of her, arm in arm with a woman I assume must be her mum. Their faces are both raised to the sky as if soaking up the warmth of a sunny day, their smiles stretching freely and easily outward. They’ve allowed their heads to recline together, and the intimacy between them is so easily expressed, it tugs at my heart a little. You could search my mother’s home from now until eternity and not find anything to equal the natural warmth displayed in this one snatched shot. “Is that . . .”
“Yes, it’s Maman. Isn’t she beautiful?” Obviously, everyone thinks their mother is beautiful, but in this case Veronique’s verdict is entirely justified. Her mum’s features are strong and reassuring, blemish-free, her hair solid and coarse-looking, like it needs a lot of taming. Veronique’s face is more delicate, there’s a suppleness to her, her hair more fluid, easily sculpted—although unfortunately for her, Veronique is cursed with the same splash of freckles across her nose that I have always hated on myself. But as a pair, they complemented each other wonderfully. There is something almost magical about their bond that I can’t help but envy. The happiness enveloping them in the second this picture was taken seems to radiate out through the screen in a way that no one could ever doubt.
“God, I miss her.” There is so much sadness weighing on Veronique’s words, I’m reminded again that despite all the help she has given me this past week, she is still grieving.
“I know it’s an odd thing to say, but more than anything, I miss the years after my father died, when I nursed her through a broken heart. For the first time, our roles reversed, and she really needed me. She was such a strong, capable woman. She’d worked hard all her life, and there I was having to wash and dress her some mornings, when she couldn’t find a good enough reason to do it herself. When she lacked the motivation to even lift her head from the pillow. Watching her struggle like that very nearly broke me too. It was painfully sad at the time, and there were moments I wondered if she’d ever recover. But it showed me that the love she felt for my father was light-years beyond anything I had experienced with a man myself. It gave me an opportunity to show her how much I loved her.”
I give her hand a squeeze, and it seems to do the trick. She blinks back from the screen and half smiles at me. Then she logs on to Google, and I watch as she enters the words Alice, British embassy, and Paris into the search bar.
What I see next completely floors me. Image after image of my grandmother is floating up in front of me. I can’t take it all in. I grab the laptop and angle it sharply toward me, almost knocking my glass across the table. There she is, surrounded by men in smart dinner jackets, escorting dignitaries across a glossy black-and-white-checkered floor, lining up for what look like press photo ops, shaking hands with an endless number of people, some official, some the general public. In one she is emerging through heavy deep red velvet curtains, wearing a light blue, full-length evening gown that has pale flowers the color of the Mediterranean climbing up it. Then she is descending a large sweeping stone staircase wearing another incredible gown or seated with dozens of equally finely dressed guests at a long banquet table for dinner or within a small but crowded room, her legs neatly crossed in front of her, watching models circulate the space.