Face flaming,I retreat another step, hands up in apology. “I didn’t realize.”
“Please,” a second voice breaks in, “you are welcome to use the gardens.” The words carry from behind the shrubbery, and a woman in a wheelchair rolls forward to reveal herself. Much older than the blonde, but equally elegant. Even sitting, her stature is regal, gray hair twisted in a classy chignon.
She darts her sharp gaze to the other woman. “Please, excuse my daughter-in-law. I’m sure Chantal is only surprised.” Her voice is smooth as silk, barely catching on the pointed barb.
The blonde stands taller but stares at the ground. I get the sense of an established hierarchy. And Chantal is not on top.
The woman in the chair rolls closer. “My name is Musidora Marteau.” Everything about her shouts authority, and I’m certain I’ve met the mistress of the house.
“Luci said you’d arrived late.”
“I did. My flight was rerouted.” The heat recedes from my cheeks, but then I remember my suitcase clattering in the courtyard. “I hope I didn’t wake anyone.”
“Not at all.” She lifts her chin and studies me, friendly but appraising. “Will you be with us for a while?”
“A couple of weeks.”
At this, Chantal makes a sound in her throat and stalks away, as if sharing a roof with a commoner is too much to bear.
Musidora continues to hold her smile, ignoring the other woman’s behavior. “We want you to be welcome and at home.” Crossing her hands in her lap, she nods once, as if she’s made adecision. “You should join us for dinner. Tomorrow night.” Her words offer invitation, but her voice issues command.
I feel like I can’t refuse, but the idea jangles my nerves. Dinner means conversation, conversation means questions, questions mean evasion.
Which is a nice word for lying.
“Thank you, but I’d hate to be a bother.”
“Nonsense. You’ll have a chance to meet the rest of the family.” She wiggles her brows. “So no one will accost you if you dare wander in the garden.”
I can’t keep my lips from turning up at the corners. The older woman and I have a silent exchange, acknowledging Chantal’s rudeness without saying a word.
I move closer, holding the hat to my chest like a shield. “Your home is beautiful, and it’s nice that you all live here together.”
“Oh, yes. Chantal and my son Vincent, their two boys. And Luci, of course.”
She doesn’t mention Luci’s parents, and I don’t ask. Instead, I work up a cheery grin. “I’m on my way out for groceries, but I’m glad I got to meet you. And dinner tomorrow, what time should I?—”
“Eight o’clock. You’ll be welcomed at the front.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, telling the lie smoothly, like the actress I am. But this family speaks English as if born to the language, and I get the sense nothing slips past Musidora Marteau.
She inclines her head. “Enjoy the city.”
As she rolls back to whatever she’d been doing before, I continue on the path, my muscles melting with relief, as if I’ve passed a test I didn’t know to study for.
Dinner wasn’t on my schedule for tomorrow, and I hate to give up the time I could be working instead. But I also don’t want to offend Musidora. Clearly, she’s the family matriarch.
At least I know how to mingle with the privileged few, a skill required to navigate Hollywood. Whether Los Angeles or Paris, one thing holds true.
The rich and powerful are a different species.
The gardens span half the length of the park, but eventually I reach the back gate. More black metal bars but older, the door opening with a creak to a shaded alley.
Stone walls enclose the walkway like a labyrinth, three paths curving in different directions. Children’s voices carry on the air, so I let them guide me toward the park.
As I round the outer wall of the mansion gardens, I find a mismatched patch of cobblestones, the stones slightly off-color and more worn than the rest. Ivy trails over most of the wall, but the exposed lower section looks like a metal door.
Where does it go? Does it lead to the gardens? Maybe an old entrance no longer in use?
