First tango in paris, p.13
First Tango in Paris, page 13
“Her mother grew up in poverty and had a fiery temper and a practical approach to life,” Eva replied. “Her mother and grandmother hated each other completely, and her mother’s visits to the estate usually ended with her leaving in a rage. Sand grew up afraid her mother would forget her.”
Brigitte could still hear her own mother and grandmother quarreling on the few occasions her mother had visited from Hollywood. She hurt inside as she remembered how she’d run outside and wandered along the banks of the bayou under the huge overhanging cypress trees every time after her mother left in a rage. Even the mosquitoes that had swarmed her couldn’t drive her inside until it was almost dark.
Eva’s voice grew deeper, more confident as she described how Sand’s grandmother had told her, when she was just thirteen, every despicable thing about her mother she could dredge up, that she was a whore and that no one was sure who Sand’s father was.
Brigitte didn’t want to interrupt again and draw attention to her personal interest in this story, but she couldn’t keep quiet. She whispered, “Did she turn against her mother and side with her grandmother after that?” She shot a furtive glance at the others. It was almost as if she and Eva were having a private conversation now. The rest of the group members had either closed their eyes or were staring out the window. Would Eva understand if she confided in her about how similar her childhood was to this famous woman’s?
“She sided with her mother, even though they rarely saw each other,” Eva said. “This pattern is reflected throughout her life, when she supported the commoners against the nobility and did everything she could to defend the underdog in her writings.” Then she lapsed into silence.
Brigitte gazed at well-kept farmland and an occasional château in the distance as they sped south, trying to let the constant road noise and steady hum of the motor of the minibus calm her. She’d never forget her own grandmother telling her when she was a teenager: Your mother is no better than a prostitute.
Those words had felt like acid dripping on her heart. If Sand had been as hurt, no wonder she’d favored her mother over her grandmother. During the rest of their trip to George Sand’s country home, Brigitte thought about how that one sentence had scarred her for life.
Chapter Fifteen
“Oh, no,” Eva told the hotel clerk. “I specified four rooms, not three. Don’t you have another one?”
“Sorry, but your reservation here at La Petite Fadette is for only three rooms.” He held out his reservation book. “See. Here it is. And now we’re completely full.”
“Someone must have made a mistake. Let me speak to your manager.”
“A thousand pardons, but I am the manager. If I could change the situation, I would do so gladly. But my hands are tied. You will, however, find a nice fruit basket and a bottle of wine in each of your rooms in recompense.”
She shrugged. “Thank you. Since we’re staying only one night, I suppose we can manage.”
“At your service. Here are your room keys,” he said, then turned to the couple standing in line behind her.
She hurried back to the waiting minibus, where the members of her tour group were milling around on the gravel driveway outside it.
“Bad news, I’m afraid, Brigitte. You and I’ll have to share a room tonight. There’s been a mix-up.”
Brigitte appeared distracted. She’d been staring at the estate next door, as if she could hardly restrain herself from walking over to it. “That’ll have to do, I suppose,” she said. “I hope I don’t snore—or that you don’t.”
Brigitte seemed to be in a strange mood, but at least she hadn’t objected to the new sleeping arrangements. And maybe this would give them the chance to really talk.
*
“George Sand’s grandmother bought this estate the year Marie Antoinette was beheaded,” Eva said as they finally stood in front of the Château Nohant. Two stories tall, it stood like a solid taupe castle. Columns of stone worked into the surface reinforced its severe appearance, and only the white shutters on its numerous windows made it seem welcoming.
Brigitte laughed to herself. Her grandmother would have felt right at home here.
According to Eva, the solidly built house made Sand’s grandmother feel safe. Brigitte’s grandmother had had similarly strong feelings about her plantation. She’d grieved because she couldn’t afford to have her house repainted as often as it needed it. At the time Brigitte had thought her grandmother was being silly, but that old house must have embodied the values she saw slipping away. In fact, as a child, Brigitte had enjoyed running a fingernail down the big white columns on the front porch and stripping off the slivers of paint that curled up in the hot Louisiana sun. It was like peeling the bark off a crepe myrtle tree. Her grandmother had spanked her several times before she’d left the paint alone.
“Sand’s grandmother died and left her this estate,” Eva said, “and when she lived here, she opened it to the artistic giants of the day: novelists Balzac and Flaubert, the painter Delacroix, and musicians Liszt and Chopin.”
Brigitte’s mind was wandering, so she stayed as far away from Eva as she could so she wouldn’t upset her if she had another weird psychic experience. How different Sand’s adult life had been from hers. She gazed around, wishing she could have been one of the famous guests invited to stay here. How thrilling that would have been. After her grandmother died, Brigitte had sold the run-down plantation. Now she didn’t even know if the new owners had torn it down or restored it. Perhaps visitors were touring it right this minute, speculating on its past occupants. A well-known call girl from New Orleans was its last owner, she could hear the guide whispering to tourists with a gleam in her eyes.
But all that lay behind her. She followed Eva through the large living room where so many famous figures had gathered. Then they toured the spacious kitchen and climbed the stairs. “This was George Sand’s bedroom,” Eva pointed out, “and there’s the suite she had soundproofed for Chopin to compose in.”
Sand had obviously known love, even if it hadn’t lasted a lifetime. Brigitte ran her hand across the author’s writing desk. Why couldn’t she find someone who would take her to the emotional heights George Sand had obviously conquered?
But Sand, despite her numerous romantic affairs, had reputedly never had a lasting relationship with a man either. Had her numerous affairs ultimately been as unsatisfying as Brigitte’s professional life? How could Brigitte avoid such emptiness?
*
“What did you do this afternoon after we toured the château?” Eva asked her group as they ate dinner in the hotel restaurant.
“Leigh and I walked through the grounds and admired the flowerbeds and vegetable gardens,” Emily said. “In fact the flowers on all the tables here are probably freshly picked.” She took another bite of her pâté and smiled with clear delight.
“And the fresh salad they just served that group over there most likely came straight from their vegetable gardens,” Leigh said. “This place is a real jewel, Eva. Emily and I plan to come here for a longer stay next year.”
“What’s the main course?” Ryan asked as he eyed the dish the waiter had just placed in front of a guest at a nearby table. “I worked up an appetite inspecting the outbuildings with Clover.”
“If you like fish and potatoes, I think you’ll enjoy this dish. It’s called brandade de lieu and contains a lot of cream along with the broiled fish and potatoes.”
“I should be gaining weight,” Clover said, “eating all these rich sauces. But I suppose we’re getting more than enough exercise to prevent that from happening.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Brigitte slid into the empty chair next to Eva. “Nice. Limoges china and crystal vases full of roses.”
For a change, Brigitte’s tardiness didn’t bother her. She smiled indulgently as Brigitte took a bite of pâté. “We’ve been discussing what we did this afternoon after the tour of the house.”
Brigitte took another bite, then lowered her fork. “I walked up the road toward a nearby village, to the spot where George Sand’s father supposedly had his riding accident and died.”
“How did you know where it happened?” Clover asked. Eva wondered too.
Brigitte looked resolute. “I just knew. And I read everything I could about it in the information in the hotel lobby before I left here.”
Eva half listened to the conversation that picked up again after a lull. Brigitte didn’t explain why she’d gone off on her own, and Eva didn’t ask. She simply ate her dessert in silence. She’d ask Brigitte about it later, perhaps when they were alone in their room. Another mystery about her soon-to-be roommate.
As she finished her fruit and cheese, she felt slightly breathless. Had the sharp yet sweet flavor of her dessert made her feel so giddy with pleasure? Or was it the thought of sharing a room with Brigitte? No, it couldn’t be that. But she had to be honest with herself. She couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d already spent more time and energy thinking about Brigitte than she’d ever done with anyone else. She was obviously attracted to her and maybe even willing to risk asking if she felt the same.
As Eva wiped her hands on her white linen napkin, a bit of information about George Sand as a child tickled the edges of her mind. Though some people found it strange that such a young girl would sit for hours and simply stare into space, her mother had always insisted she was simply a dreamer and not to worry about it, because that was her nature. Maybe that type of tolerance—no, respect and acceptance—had made Sand prefer her mother to her grandmother.
Perhaps Brigitte was like that too. Once again, she resolved not to take Brigitte’s strange lapses of attention personally and also to try to have an intimate conversation with her tonight.
*
After they finished eating, Brigitte strolled to the lake and skimmed through one of George Sand’s pastoral novels, La petite Fadette, which she’d picked up in the hotel lobby. It focused on the fairy-tale story of a girl, deserted by a disreputable mother and reared by a wicked grandmother, so of course she had a hard time putting it down. The heroine finally found true love, which made Brigitte hope she could do the same. And after sitting out there and reading by the quiet lake, so unlike the constant noise and confusion of New Orleans and Paris, she felt rejuvenated as she wandered back to the hotel.
Now she sat in front of the mirror attached to the antique dressing table in the room she and Eva were sharing. Behind her now, Eva spoke in a rather shaky voice. “So, how are you enjoying the tour so far?” She sounded almost nervous. Why on earth would she be, unless…
Had Eva been staring at her with lust just now? Brigitte had caught the barest glimpse of her in the mirror as she’d crossed from the door to her single bed next to the wall. Unless Brigitte was imagining things—which was certainly possible after the strange visions she’d been having lately—Eva had looked like she wanted to walk up and put her arms around her. She couldn’t decipher Eva’s expression, but she’d definitely felt some strange energy coming from her. Interesting.
“Oh, the tour’s fine.” Where had she put her jar of Vaseline? She tried to ignore her suspicions about Eva being interested in her as she rummaged around in her overnight bag, finally locating the container.
“Just fine?” Eva’s voice resonated with disappointment. Evidently she wanted to have a real conversation, and one-word responses wouldn’t cut it.
Brigitte unscrewed the lid of the small jar, slid her index finger into the opaque, sticky substance, and rubbed it across her right upper eyelid. She couldn’t let Eva know how nervous even the possibility of being desired made her. But wasn’t this what she wanted? The possibility of a real relationship, finding love? Life was confusing.
She half turned toward Eva, who sat cross-legged on her bed, appearing dejected yet determined. Eva had spent less than five minutes brushing her teeth, splashing water on her face, and pulling on lightweight shorty pajamas. It must be nice to look beautiful in such a short time. Eva was so appealing sitting there like a fresh-faced schoolgirl, Brigitte conceded that she could be attracted to her.
“I’m enjoying the tour a little better than fine, I suppose.” Brigitte turned away again and concentrated on herself in the mirror, beginning to remove her heavy eyeliner and eye shadow with her Kleenex. What was the use of encouraging Eva? This was a one-time situation. They’d be back in Paris tomorrow and would never see each other after this weekend, when the tour ended. Besides, much of the time Eva didn’t seem to even like her. Eva had probably given her that look a few minutes ago only because they were alone together in a romantic setting.
Brigitte relented, though. “Seeing all the places associated with Marie Antoinette’s life and death made her story seem a lot more real than reading about it. But hearing about George Sand’s childhood and actually being here at Nohant…” She refolded her tissue and wiped the remaining black and brown gunk from her eye. Then she applied Vaseline to her left eyelid, and when she gazed at herself in the mirror, she looked at the reflection of Eva in it.
Eva shifted on the bed and coughed, seeming eager for Brigitte to say more. And when she pulled her bed pillow onto her lap and wrapped her arms around it, Brigitte felt drawn toward her.
She tried to decide whether she should say what was on her mind. She glanced Eva’s way again. “It’s just that I see so many parallels between my life and Sand’s. I haven’t read everything about her—just skipped around. You’re filling in a lot of gaps.” Good. She hadn’t said anything very revealing. That was enough. “What you said earlier about the differences and the conflict between her mother and her grandmother brought back a lot of unpleasant memories I’d rather not talk about right now. I need to sort them out. Do you mind?”
“Actually, I do,” Eva said. “I know you must be tired, but something about you has puzzled me since we met.”
That wasn’t the response Brigitte had hoped for. She cleaned the other eyelid and gazed at the results. She looked naked, ugly without her eye makeup. Could she expose herself emotionally as well? Still speaking to Eva’s reflection, she asked, “And what’s that?”
Eva sat up a little straighter on her bed. “Are you really a widow?”
Brigitte pulled out a small bottle of astringent before she spoke. Another surprise. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s just a feeling. Somehow you don’t seem like you’ve ever been married.”
“A feeling? How do I seem?” Damn Eva. She was getting too close.
Eva unclenched her pillow and put it to one side. “Like a woman with an unconventional past. I’m a lesbian, and I’m attracted to you in a way that tells me you’re one too.”
Brigitte gasped and turned around. What the hell? She stared at Eva directly now. She’d certainly underrated her courage. Brigitte took a deep breath. “I just might be one. In fact, I probably am, but I haven’t spent much time exploring that side of myself.”
Eva reached for the pillow beside her again, but before she had a chance to protect herself with it, Brigitte said, “If you really want to know, I told the group I was a widow because I didn’t want to let them know what I used to be.”
Eva stopped mid-reach. “And what was that?”
Brigitte hesitated, but Eva had asked for it. “A very well-paid prostitute.”
Eva’s top lip pulled tight, and Brigitte was immediately sorry she’d opened her mouth. “Please don’t tell anyone in the group. I’m here in Paris to start over.”
*
The harsh alcoholic smell of the astringent Brigitte was using on her face stung Eva’s nose almost as much as the word prostitute did. The news numbed her, but she’d try to think through that revelation later. It was too much to comprehend on the spot. Right now, however, she didn’t want to miss this chance to find out more about Brigitte.
“You have my word.” But could she accept Brigitte for who she was? For who she’d been? She forged ahead. “Why did you want to see where Sand’s father had his fatal riding accident?”
Brigitte lowered the wet tissue from her cheek. “Because mine was killed in a fight while he was gambling in New Orleans. I was just a baby.”
Eva’s throat constricted with compassion. At least her father was still around, though a lot of times she’d wished he wasn’t. “So you never knew him.”
“No. Only through the idealized descriptions of him my grandmother kept up until her dying day. According to her, he was perfect until he fell for my mother and had to marry her because she was pregnant.”
“So I take it that your grandmother and your mother didn’t get along very well.”
Brigitte crumpled her tissue and dropped it into the wastebasket beside the dressing table. “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. They despised each other.” She screwed the cap on her bottle.
Eva couldn’t believe Brigitte was opening up so much, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking questions. With her face stripped bare, Brigitte was even more beautiful than she was fully made up. Eva suppressed her urge to walk over, throw her arms around Brigitte, and kiss her senseless. Brigitte seemed to want to keep some physical distance between them, but Eva had never felt closer emotionally to anyone than she did right now.
“Mother was in town for Christmas,” Brigitte said suddenly, as if reliving the experience. “It was her yearly visit, and I was fifteen. I didn’t know whether to be as enchanted by her as I had been when I was younger or to believe only a fraction of what she said.”
“Why wouldn’t you believe her?”
“Why do you think? Grandmother had poisoned my mind against her for years, and I didn’t know who to side with.” Brigitte rammed her bottle of astringent back into her makeup bag.
Eva tried to calm her. “That makes sense. What happened that Christmas?”
“It was the night before Christmas, and we were in the kitchen. Mother asked if we’d seen the movie Singin’ in the Rain.”
