by Nell Goddin
Molly was thrilled to celebrate Lawrence’s birthday, hoping it would help to drag him up out of the ‘slough of despond’, as he put it. But that wasn’t all she was hoping to accomplish.
She had another plan. Sort of.
36
By Thursday morning, the day of, Molly was exhausted. She and Eugenia had spent the day before cooking everything they could in advance, which necessitated a massive clean-up in the kitchen and left the refrigerator stuffed to the gills. She had made several emergency trips into the village for supplies and ingredients, and had to borrow Nico’s car at one point to drive into Périgueux for a few things she couldn’t get in Castillac. Because as anyone will tell you, you cannot have a 70s disco party without a glitter-ball to light up the dance floor.
But nevertheless, so far everything was going fairly smoothly. Frances reported that she had gotten perfect outfits for them, including Lawrence, and Constance had shown up on time and gone about her tasks in her usual cheerful and inefficient way.
“I know I sound fussy, but Constance, you’re going to have to bring the vacuum back over here and vacuum the sofa cushions.”
“Are you putting your shoes up on the sofa, you heathen?” shot back Constance.
“No! It’s Bobo. She knows perfectly well she’s not allowed on the sofa, but she sneaks in here when I’m asleep and you see the result. I’m sure the dog and cat owners of the party will be mostly understanding, but the others will be horrified.”
“Well, the vac is not going to get that up. Lucky for you I brought my magic brush.” She went to her bag sitting on the floor of the foyer and brought out a nondescript plastic brush with a sort of velvety pad on it. She swiped it along the sofa and held it up to show Molly.
“That is a magic brush! Wonderful, thank you! And thank you again for coming today. I really appreciate it.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Constance under her breath.
She did a decent job clearing the evidence of Bobo’s misdemeanors, while Molly made the salad dressing and toasted slices of baguette.
“Why oh why did I decide to make profiteroles?” she moaned.
“Because they’re yummy?”
“Well, of course, but so are a million other things that don’t require a ton of work right before you serve them!”
“They’re very high-impact, though, Molls. Just think of what a wow it will be when you walk outside with that platter piled high with them. Are you sticking candles in them? And filling them with ice cream or whipped cream?”
“Ice cream. Sometimes I think I make these ambitious plans just to see if I will tip right over the edge and not come back.”
Constance shrugged, not understanding what Molly was going on about.
She made the pâté à choux for the profiteroles, grateful that she had picked up a few tips from Nugent during their lesson even while she had been listening intently to his rantings. The bowl barely fit in the small European refrigerator, but she managed to squeeze it in.
The two women continued to work until about two in the afternoon, when Constance went home and Molly lay down to rest. The minute she was stretched out on her bed, thoughts of Ben and Iris came tumbling into her head, her brain feeling a bit like it was stuffed with a pack of chattering monkeys.
It’s not fair for him to be angry with me because Pierre died.
Who pushed you down the stairs, Iris? I don’t really believe in any kind of life after death, but what do I know? So if your spirit is listening, give me a sign, will you?
Pierre. Did you get pushed too?
Oh no, I forgot to invite Roger Finsterman!
Molly lurched out of bed and ran her fingers through her hair. Calling Bobo, she headed out through the French doors to the terrace, past the row of tables Eugenia had miraculously scrounged up from somewhere, and walked over to the pigeonnier to invite her other guest, but he was nowhere in evidence.
Frances came over at around four and found Molly sound asleep in bed.
“Girlfriend, what in the world? You’ve gotta get ready to par-tay!”
“Oh my heavens,” mumbled Molly, rolling over, bleary-eyed. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Well, get into the shower and get with it! Wait ’til you see what you’re going to be wearing!” Frances was already dressed for the party in a tight minidress that showed off her long legs. “I found this place in Bordeaux that had almost everything I was looking for! Well, except for shoes. That’s always problematic. So we’re totally authentic 70s except for the ankles down. I did find one pair of platform boots but they wouldn’t have fit any of us.”
Molly was staring at Frances, not really following her chatter. Then she blinked hard and shook her head. “Okay! I’m getting in the shower. Did you get anything for Lawrence?”
“Just dropped it off at his place. I’m really glad you’re doing this, Molls—he looks so damn sad. Is it still about that guy in Morocco?”
“Not sure,” said Molly, putting the bell-bottom pantsuit Frances had given her over the back of a chair and heading to the shower. “But whatever it is, we’ll at least show him a lot of love tonight.”
Molly tried to keep her anxiety hidden from her guests and was careful to stick to one kir as she welcomed them at the door. Madame Gervais was the first to arrive.
“I don’t have the stamina I used to, you know,” she said, in her lilting voice. “But I had a feeling this was a night I didn’t want to miss.”
“I hope so, Madame Gervais. I very much hope so. What would you like to drink? Thomas, get it for her, please?”
Eugenia was in the kitchen, warming up the camembert-fig tartines, while Molly stood at the door. Bobo was on her best behavior, greeting guests without jumping up on them even once. Into the foyer came Nico and Frances, followed by Roger Finsterman.
“I’m so glad you got my note! How have you been?”
“Terrific burst of productivity, Molly. I’m starting to think La Baraque has magical properties! I’ve never accomplished so much in so little time, and I’m feeling unusually good about the quality too.”
“Wonderful!” said Molly, kissing him on both cheeks and meaning what she said, though it was his optimism she thought was wonderful, not so much his paintings.
More guests piled through the door: Lapin, Caroline Dubois, followed shortly by Tristan Séverin. Angela Langevin, the florist, along with her husband, who looked very studious, wearing a vintage suit and old-fashioned pince-nez. Edmond Nugent arrived, clearly having gotten the message about the party’s theme—he was wearing a shirt open to the chest and a pair of tight bell-bottoms that might have been in his closet since 1977.
Thomas handed out lavender spritzers or glasses of Dubonnet to anyone who wanted them, and Constance started the music. Soon the living room was a loud hubbub of villagers drinking and chatting, some moving their hips to Earth, Wind, and Fire and then The Pointer Sisters.
“I don’t want you to have to serve,” said Molly to Eugenia, who had started making her way through the crowd with a platter of tartines.
“Oh, I don’t mind at all. Gives me something to do. It’s not like I can talk to anyone!” she said with a wink.
“What I want to know,” said Lapin loudly, “is where is the appropriate food? If the theme is 70s American disco, shouldn’t we be eating 70s American food?”
“I don’t think anyone would want to,” said Marie-Claire Lévy with a laugh. “Of course I don’t speak from experience. But I did visit America once, and some of the things they ate were positively shocking.”
Molly did a quick translation for Eugenia, who had appeared with a fresh tray of tartines.
“Oh now,” said Eugenia, smiling at Marie-Claire. “Yes it’s true, some things that get popular are too awful for words. Deep-fried Oreos and such-like. But if you ever come visit me in New Orleans, I’ll take you to some places that will knock your socks off!”
Marie-Clarie spoke good enough English to follow what Eu
genia was saying, but was baffled by what New Orleans food had to do with her socks.
“So what did American eat in the 70s?” asked Lapin.
“Jello?” said Molly. “Space food sticks?”
“Space food sticks?” repeated Lapin wonderingly.
Molly saw Caroline standing alone and excused herself to go talk to her. “Bonsoir, Caroline!” she said, and kissed cheeks. “I do want to apologize for the other night at Chez Papa. I was unforgivably rude to sit down at your table uninvited.”
Caroline gave her a cool look. “Thank you,” she said.
“And I know…that this whole thing, all of it, has been terribly hard on you. I’m sorry for that.”
“Well, it’s hardly your fault, is it? I mean, I see that you like to wedge yourself right in the middle of everything, but honestly, it’s got nothing to do with you, has it?”
Molly stood up straight and spoke evenly. “Again, I’m sorry for the difficulties. And despite what you might think, I’m glad you came tonight.” She edged past her and went into the kitchen to get a tray of tartines to pass around. Then she heard Ben’s voice, and a stab of some feeling she couldn’t identify went through her. It had been days since they’d seen each other, or even spoken.
I’m not running over to him, she thought defiantly. Not after how snippy he was to me the other day. He can come to me.
Almost everyone who was invited was there—she had figured Lawrence would wait a bit so he could make an entrance, but where was he? She stood on tip-toes to check out the crowd, and the guests looked happy and ready for a good time. The room had gotten loud and it was time to invite them out to the grassy dance floor and get them moving.
And then? Well, she didn’t quite know. She was pretty sure she had the dynamite and the match, but how to get one thing close enough to the other for the desired explosion to occur?
37
Molly was dancing the Bus Stop with a kir in one hand when she heard shrieking from inside the house. It sounded like shrieks of hilarity but she was on edge and ran inside with trepidation. There in the living room, finally, stood the guest of honor—Lawrence, in his glory, posing in a white bell-bottomed suit, shirt open with a gold chain twinkling on his chest.
Everyone in the room was howling, which noise only got rowdier when the first notes of “The Love Machine” started playing and Lawrence’s hips started to twitch. He reached for Molly’s hand and the two of them whirled through a number of disco moves including the Bump, the Butterfly, and even the Point Move. When the song was over she fell into his arms and they roared with laughter.
“Not bad, Molly,” he said, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. “I had no idea there was a disco queen lurking inside you.”
Molly went to the bar Thomas had set up on the kitchen counter and poured herself a lavender spritzer. “Well, you know, disco was something my girlfriends and I used to do together when we were around twelve, that age right between childhood and being teenagers. We were very serious about getting all the moves just right,” she added with a laugh. “We studied Saturday Night Fever like a sacred text.”
“Drink, birthday boy?” asked Nico, already starting a Negroni.
Lawrence nodded, smiling. “I must say, Frances out-did herself. Can you believe she found this outfit? And in my size? She is a miracle worker.”
Nico smiled dreamily.
“She’s outside teaching line dancing to everyone. You know, if I ever get married again—which, shut up, I don’t expect to, I’m just ruminating here—the guy has got to be able to dance. That was just too much fun.”
“Oh, so you’re going to marry a gay man then?”
Molly laughed.
“I resent that,” said Nico, handing Lawrence his Negroni.
“So do I,” said Caroline, who appeared next to Molly with her eyebrows furrowed.
“He’s joking. Joking!” said Molly. “Though just as a data point, I’ve never had a boyfriend who could dance. Or who knows, maybe they could have. They were unwilling to try.”
“I seem to remember Ben acquitting himself quite handsomely on the dance floor at the Gala last year,” said Lawrence with raised eyebrows.
Molly shrugged. There was an uncomfortable silence. She craned her neck to see if she could see Ben somewhere, but did not. He was probably outside with the crowd. Maybe he was dancing.
I’ve been so unforgiving. I’m a terrible girlfriend.
“Lawrence, you made such a fashionably late entrance that you missed all the tartines, and let me tell you, they were absolutely fantastic!” said Molly.
“Concur,” said Nico, smiling. “But you’re changing the subject.”
Molly waved him off.
“I’ll make up for missing the tartines with unrestrained gluttony for all the remaining courses,” answered Lawrence. “Now I must go greet my public.” And he swanned out through the French doors to the terrace, leaving the rest of them still giggling over his outfit.
Molly consulted with Eugenia about whether it was time to serve the duck, and then followed Lawrence outside. She was keeping an eye on several guests, wanting to monitor their demeanor and whom they were talking to. Nugent was sitting by himself at the long table, glowering at the dancers in the yard. Caroline had followed her outside and was standing with her arms crossed, also glowering.
The rest of the guests were were living it up—dancing, drinking, and eating the last crumbs of hors d’oeuvres. She even saw Madame Gervais on the dance floor, waggling her hands in the air and supported by the ever-gentlemanly Rémy. Tristan Séverin had not brought his wife and was dancing with Marie-Claire Lévy, his arms and legs flying out all over everywhere, looking as though he was having the time of his life.
To her surprise, Molly had a pang of missing Pierre. It was easy to imagine him there, looking uncomfortable in that gruff way he had, but showing up nonetheless. After hearing of his death, she had tried out the idea that he had murdered his wife and then killed himself out of guilt, but the idea hadn’t stuck with her, and after much thought she had realized a few things that put him entirely in the clear. At least—if she was right.
She knew she had to make peace with Ben. He had been right all along about Pierre, and the least she could do was admit that. But the guests needed to be served their duck and ratatouille, and the profiteroles had to be stuffed with ice cream. First things first.
Once everyone was seated at the long table—which was covered with a simple white tablecloth and bowls of roses from Molly’s garden—Eugenia, Nico, and Molly came around with big platters of duck confit and served. Thomas followed with a platter of ratatouille, and the salad was held for a separate course the way the French do it.
Cheryl Lynn’s “Got To Be Real” was playing, and the glitter-ball twinkled as it hung from a nearby oak. Constance turned down the music to make conversation easier; one heard French, English, and much laughter and joking as the guests dug into the feast and filled their glasses. A casual observer might have thought the party was the picture of village cheer, a group of friends enjoying a birthday celebration on a warm summer night.
But perhaps a more alert observer would have noticed that not everyone at the table was feeling joyful, or even sociable.
Molly took a seat next to Caroline and across from Nugent and Séverin. Ben was sitting at the far end with Maron and Monsour, who were watching the guests with something of the detachment that scientists might show as they observe pond creatures under a microscope.
After pointing at the gendarmes discreetly, Caroline asked, “Do you think they are, um, on duty even here at a party?” She was sitting next to Nathalie Marchand, the manager of the almost-Michelin-rated restaurant, La Métairie.
“Might be,” whispered Nathalie. “You must have heard—we had a murder take place right in the restaurant last year! I met Gilles Maron during all of that. He’s…he’s actually rather nice, though he doesn’t make the best first impression.”
“I�
�ll say,” said Caroline. “I don’t like gendarmes, police, any of it.”
“Have some wine?” asked Nathalie, picking up the jug of red.
Across from Molly, Nugent picked at his duck.
“Don’t tell me you only eat sweets!” Molly teased.
Glumly, he lifted his eyes from his plate, then made a theatrical shrug.
Next to him, Tristan was chatting to Marie-Claire, who sat on his other side, about his plan to take the ten year-olds on a rock-climbing trip the following spring. Marie-Claire was a good listener and seemed interested in Severin’s scheme, interrupting with a question every so often as Severin’s enthusiasm bubbled along.
Okay. It’s showtime.
“Tristan, that does sound like an adventure they’ll never forget,” Molly said, joining in to their conversation. Nugent shot her a dark look.
“Oh, the young ones love trying something new like that!” he answered. “Their heads are so full of fantasy, you know. They’ll imagine themselves as heros, scaling heights to save the princess!”
Molly took a quick breath. “Speaking of princesses, I know you and everyone here who knew Iris must be thinking about her tonight. I was wondering—do you think it would be all right to make a toast to her, or some sort of remembrance?”
Nugent narrowed his eyes at her. Séverin bowed his head for a moment and then looked at Molly with a sad smile.
“Oh yes, of course, all of us are thinking of her. Iris…an amazing woman. Everyone would say so.” He raised his glass, the disco light catching the wetness in his eyes.
“Well…I don’t mean to get overly personal, but you know how crass Americans are sometimes,” Molly said with a laugh that anyone who knew her well would know was utterly fake. “And nosy, too. So I was wondering…did something happen to change your mind about her? I mean, word has gotten out about the email you sent. The night she died, actually, now that I think of it.”
Séverin looked at Molly with surprise. “What?”
