“I suppose not.”
She caught my hand and drew me down to the arm of her chair. Still holding my hand, she said, “Margot, dear, after what happened last night, it would be perfectly all right with me if we sent our regrets to Jean-Paul.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “How often does an invitation like this come along?”
“Rarely. But you don’t need to be brave for me. How perfectly awful that must have been for you. If you prefer...”
She held up her hand, at a loss to think of something that I might prefer than the French consul general’s party for a pianist at the beach in Malibu. I couldn’t think of anything.
I kissed her forehead. “Thank you, but I’m fine. I hardly knew the man. I am sorry for what happened to him, sorrier still that I’m the unlucky soul who found him.”
I gave her hand a last squeeze and stood up. “So, are you ready for your dress?”
Smiling again, she turned enough in her chair to look at the dress hanging on her wardrobe door.
My mother, an old leftist, generally would not allow herself to take pleasure in material possessions. But that dress... For that dress she made an exception. We had seen it draped on a mannequin in the window of a very chichi boutique during her first outing after the surgery. She was still using a walker then, and in far greater pain than she would let on. More than anything, she probably wanted to find a place to sit down instead of walking the distance the doctor ordered. But when she saw the dress she seemed to forget about any discomfort and stopped to admire it. I had never seen her do that before, stop to admire a dress.
My mom was a tall shaft of a woman, broad in the shoulders, though less so than when she was young, and narrow in the hips, a perfect clothes hanger. The dress was a slender float of silk hand-painted in bright shades of blues and soft greens, with slashes of pink and yellow; perfect for her. It cost the earth, but we bought it, along with flat shoes. Blue shoes: What would Comrade Dad have said?
She slipped her feet into the new shoes and smiled, admiring how nice they looked on her narrow feet.
“Ready?” I took the dress off the hanger. She stood and raised her arms so I could slip the dress over her head. As she smoothed it down over her hips I said, “Beautiful, Mom.”
She looked at herself in the mirror and seemed pleased.
“Now I’m ready to meet the new beau, dear.”
“Jean-Paul is not my beau.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” I said, knowing that I was blushing. “I’ve only seen him a few times.”
She patted my arm. “It’s all right, Margot. Mike would tell you so himself.”
As incorrigible as Kate and Roger, I thought, picking up the shawl she was taking as a wrap. Incorrigible, but lovable.
The weeklong storm had blown out to sea overnight and the sun was shining again, a perfect morning for a drive over the mountains to the ocean. After the recent rains, the Santa Monica Mountains were lush and green, dotted everywhere with random bouquets of bright orange poppies and deep lavender lupine and yellow mustard.
“Do you know what the pianist’s program will be?” Mom asked after remarking on the early wildflowers.
“Sorry, I don’t,” I said. “I should have asked Jean-Paul.”
“We’ll know soon enough.” With a gleam in her eye she patted my arm, but did not utter the word “beau” again.
Jean-Paul Bernard was the French consul general assigned to Los Angeles. When Isabelle, my biological mother, died the previous fall, he had been a wonderful help getting her remains, and me, back to her family in Normandy.
We had seen each other exactly three times since I returned. Once at a Fête Noël—a Christmas party—he hosted for some French expats marooned in Los Angeles over the holidays. Next for the premiere of a documentary film produced by a friend of mine. And then at a French trade association banquet three weeks ago, the night before he left on a trip to France. I was the skirt to his sleeve on those occasions. We spoke on the telephone rather frequently, but this reception would be the first time I had seen him since his return. He was charming, he was gorgeous, and like me, a recent widower with one nearly grown child and a reluctance to venture into a new relationship.
Knowing that my mother was in town for a while, and that she had once been a concert pianist, Jean-Paul had graciously invited her, and me, her sleeve for the occasion, to a recital and reception the consulate was hosting for a well-known French pianist who was in town to perform with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. The reception would be held in Malibu at the Broad Beach mansion owned by a French impresario.
The mansion was on the ocean side of Pacific Coast Highway. As we waited to turn into the forecourt, we saw valets taking cars to park offsite, and guests walking down the long drive to the house. I measured the length of the walk with my eyes as I thought about Mom’s sore knee. I wished I’d brought a wheelchair, or at least a cane. But when I gave my name to the head valet, he instructed us to drive through and park directly in front of the house.
“Well,” Mom said, as the big gate swung open, “I had no idea my daughter had such clout.”
“I don’t,” I said. “It’s Jean-Paul being gracious. He knows about your knee surgery.”
“Now I am anxious to meet your young man.”
“He’s pushing fifty, Mom. And he isn’t my anything, except friend.”
She patted my hand. “Whatever you say, dear.”
As we cleared the privacy hedgerow that shielded the house from the highway, we immediately saw a house that could have been a medium-sized hotel and an extravagant ocean vista beyond it. Four yards from the door, I parked my three-year-old Honda among a Maserati, a vintage Bugatti, and a brace of Mercedes.
The valet at the gate must have called Jean-Paul because he came out the front door as soon as we were handed out of the car.
Jean-Paul and I exchanged light kisses on each cheek, les bises, and a third because we are friends, before I introduced Mom.
“Mother, Jean-Paul Bernard. Jean-Paul, this is my mother, Elizabeth Duchamps.”
“Enchanté,” he said, bending over her hand.
Mom answered in lovely French; she had lived for a while in France with my father. “The pleasure is all mine.”
She nudged my foot with the toe of her new blue shoe in a gesture I interpreted as, roughly, Oh-la-la.
No denying, Jean-Paul was handsome. Straight-backed, trim, perfectly coiffed and tailored, he could look intimidating. But I had discovered that under the exquisite, polished exterior, there was a surprisingly modest, funny, and down-to-earth man. A lonely one.
Jean-Paul escorted us through a marbled foyer and into a grand salon, a room too stark and formal to be called a living room. The entire front opened onto an oceanfront terrace that ran the width of the mansion. Altogether, the scene looked like something staged for a big-budget movie, the ocean backdrop, exotic flowers, striking works of art, beautiful people, and liveried servers. A small orchestra at a corner of the terrace played a passage from Debussy, La Mer of course.
“Something to drink, perhaps?” Jean-Paul led the way to one of several bars. “We’ve flown in a very special Côtes du Rhône for the occasion; Maggie told me you are fond of Côtes du Rhône, Madame Duchamps. Shall we see how well it survived the flight?”
The luscious red wine had, we agreed, survived very well indeed. We carried our glasses to a seating arrangement in front of an outdoor fireplace ablaze with fragrant driftwood, Mom and Jean-Paul making polite conversation as we walked, gingerly offering each other the sorts of personal tidbits and observations new acquaintances do. Servers came immediately, offering hors d’oeuvres arranged on exquisite little hand-painted Limoges plates resting on tiny, starched linen napkins in case we soiled our fingers.
Though the afternoon was chilly, we were shielded from the ocean breeze by a tall glass screen and warmed by the fire. I suggested, once, to Mom that she might want her shawl, but she said she was j
ust fine, thank you very much. Meaning, why cover up the best dress she had ever owned with a shawl she’d picked up at a flea market in Berkeley?
When we were settled in, Jean-Paul excused himself to tend to some of his duties as host, promising to be right back.
As he walked away, Mom, smiling, said to me, “To think, I always thought sherry-and-cheese evenings at the Faculty Club were the ultimate in refined elegance. But this...” She popped a bite-sized canapé into her mouth, savored it, and sighed.
“Genuine pâté de foie gras. How rare, how completely decadent. Don’t tell my PETA friends, but I’m going to have as many as I may, and I will suffer no guilt for it.”
“No pity for the geese?” I said, offering her the pâté on my plate. She took it and said only, “Mmmm,” with her eyes half-closed.
Goldie Hawn and Danny DeVito, apparently neighbors, barefoot and dressed in sweats, walked by on the beach and waved to the party guests.
I saw Mom raise her eyebrows.
“What would Comrade Dad say?” I said.
“First he would say that Goldie Hawn has a very nice tuchis.” A server picked up our empty plates and set down new ones. “And, considering the number of valets and servers, he would also say this party is a wonderful jobs program for young people.”
I laughed. “That’s exactly what Dad would say.”
Jean-Paul came back, bringing with him the celebrity pianist and his Tahitian wife. We were joined by a French politician and his very elegant Italian wife, a financier who knew my newly discovered French uncle, Gérard—as did Jean-Paul, a Swedish movie star and her French television-producer girlfriend, and a famous American cellist with a one-syllable surname.
With grace, Jean-Paul made introductions, initiated conversations, and when all were happily engaged, excused himself. His primary duty, it seemed to me, was getting the right people together.
The French television producer recognized my name. “Is it correct that your documentary series was canceled?”
“It was.”
“Dommage,” she said, clinking her glass against mine in a gesture of sympathy. “But isn’t that the way of the business? Bastards.”
She asked, “What are you doing now?”
“Teaching,” I said.
“Which is it, USC or UCLA?”
“Neither. Anacapa Community College.”
She shrugged, but the financier who knew my Uncle Gérard moved into the conversation. “Why do I know that name?”
“It’s a public two-year college,” I said.
“Oh!” The Italian wife, Renata, spoke up brightly. “Wasn’t there a murder?”
“There was,” I said. “Yesterday.”
Naturally, the death of Park Holloway had been the lead story on the eleven o’clock news the night before. God only knew how the cable talkers were dealing with it.
“My husband knew him.” Renata touched her husband’s arm. “What was his name, chéri?”
“Holloway,” the French politician offered. “I met him on a China trade junket some years ago.” He turned to my uncle’s friend. “You were on that trip as well, Tristan.”
“Yes, yes. Congressman, wasn’t he?”
“Very interesting fellow,” the politician offered. “Very knowledgeable about Chinese antiques.”
He turned to his wife. “He helped me select the jade brooch I brought you.”
“Exquisite taste,” Renata said, acknowledging her husband’s gift, but not ready for a new topic.
She put a hand on my arm, leaned in and asked, “Did you know him?”
“Slightly,” I said.
I glanced at Mom, and bless her lovely reserve, she did not mention that it was I who discovered the body. Her only acknowledgement of my role was the cool, sympathetic hand she placed on my arm. She knew that I did not want to have any part in the inevitably sensational coverage of that awful event.
“He was a great friend to the arts,” offered the cellist. “Hammered Congress every year to bolster NEA funding. But then he disappeared. I always suspected there was a scandal.”
“Was it a mistress, do you think?” asked Renata.
“Or a mister, a very young one,” offered the Swede. “American politicians get into so much trouble with little boys.”
“Perhaps.” Uncle Gérard’s acquaintance, Tristan, held up the fingertips of one hand and rubbed them against his thumb, a gesture that referred to money, suggesting financial perfidy.
The topic of murder had not played out, but after that, I lost track of who was asking or offering what as the conversation caromed from person to person and, at last, slithered away from Holloway.
“One does not expect violence—non-political violence at any rate—on a campus.”
“Who’s to say it wasn’t political?”
“There was Columbine.”
“And Virginia Tech.”
“And that college in Montréal where all the victims were women.”
“Certainly, that was political.”
“But how is it possible to explain what happened to those little Amish girls. Such a tragedy. What message could there have been?”
“Madness. That is the only explanation.”
And so it went.
By the time the thread had run its course, Mom, the pianist, and the cellist had moved off together and become engaged in an entirely different conversation. They found cushy fireside chairs and were deep into a very lively discussion about composer Erik Satie: Dada, didactic, innovative, which?
I had no idea what the businessman, the politician, Renata, and the pianist’s Tahitian wife were talking about because they spoke, seemingly all at the same time, in very rapid French.
The television producer and her film star partner and I wandered off to look at the ocean and talk about the strange business of television and film.
During all the conversation, we were continuously plied with excellent food and wine. Regretfully, thinking about driving Mom home through the canyons, I cut myself off after the second glass.
The orchestra took a break, and soon a bright arpeggio on the grand piano in the grand salon filled the air. Raised by a pianist, I knew it to be someone testing the touch of the keys, and turned to check on Mom. She was no longer in her chair beside the fire, nor were the pianist and the cellist.
I spotted the three of them at the piano, Mom on the bench next to the pianist while they waited for the cellist, who obviously was part of the planned program, to tune his instrument. Right away, they launched into a classical jam session using some obscure Satie composition as the starting point: piano duet with cello—duet played four-hands on one piano. Mom was having more fun than I had seen her have for many years.
I was on my way inside to watch them when I ran into Jean-Paul. He took me by the arm and walked with me.
“Your mother is charming,” he said, smiling broadly, his face close to mine, brown eyes full of light.
“She is having a wonderful time.” I looked up into his face and kissed him, just once, and lightly, on the lips. “Thank you, Jean-Paul.”
His arm went around my waist. “I only wish I had thought of it sooner.”
As people gathered around the piano, the musicians became aware that they had gathered an audience, grinned at each other, played a last grand flourish, and rose. The guests applauded; the three of them, laughing, bowed and began to step away.
“Don’t be in such a hurry.” Still smiling, the cellist put his hands on the pianist’s shoulders and with considerable dramatic flair stopped him from going further.
“I believe we all came to hear you, as we say in this country, tickle some ivory, Sebastien. Now that Betsy and I have you warmed up, don’t you think you should perhaps play for your supper?”
The pianist bowed, the guests applauded. The cellist took Mom by the arm, found her a chair, took up a position beside her, and the recital began.
As the music swelled and the guests grew quiet, rapt in the performa
nce or being silently polite, Jean-Paul patted my shoulder, and when I turned to him, nodded toward the now-empty terrace. I followed him outside.
“Walk with me.” He offered me his hand and we walked down to the sand.
I said, “Won’t you be missed?”
He gave a little Gallic toss of the head. “I am a Frenchman. When a Frenchman takes a beautiful woman by the hand and leads her away, no one thinks to miss him.”
I laughed.
Suddenly more serious, he said, “You know I was in Paris last week?”
“Good trip?” I asked, wondering what this opening was prelude for. As an answer, he offered a little shrug, a little moue, a gesture that could mean anything from so-so to absolutely amazing.
I asked, “Is your son settled in?”
“Yes, very much settled in. He has been very comfortable with my sister’s family since he arrived there in January. She tells me he is working very hard. He has only two more months now to prepare for his baccalaureate exams. And then?” Another shrug, meaning who knows?
His smile was wistful. “I was near him for one week. I hadn’t seen him since New Year’s Day, and still I managed to get him away for dinner only once.”
I put a hand on his arm. “They grow up, Jean-Paul.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “And they fly from the nest.”
“What are his plans?”
A little shrug, head canted a bit to the side, a who-can-fathom-the-mysteries-of-the-human-heart gesture.
“If Dom does well enough on his exams to get into one of the grandes écoles, then that’s what he will do. If not? Well, then the possibilities are as vast as the world is wide, yes?”
I asked. “If he goes to university in France, will you go home?”
He laughed softly as he gave my hand a little squeeze. “If I did, it would be for my own reasons, not because my son needs me to watch after him. Dom made that quite clear last week.”
My daughter, Casey, living in a dorm at UCLA, wasn’t as far away from me as Jean-Paul’s son, though she might as well have been. I saw her on holidays and when she wanted feeding or wanted to take a friend riding in the mountains around our house. She called regularly, but she seemed to find her friends and campus activities to be more interesting at the moment than her mother.
The Hanging Page 8
