“They say it’s good luck to be married on a rainy day,” I tell Fabien as we enter the ballroom.
“Luck is a child’s hope,” he says. “You either become who you set your mind to become, or you don’t.” He shrugs. “You either grow together as husband and wife or you grow apart. There is no rolling of a die.”
I don’t reply but think this over as I scan the room for his cousin.
“If a couple is committed to one another, there is no reason for a relationship not to work out,” Fabien continues. “You don’t simply stop loving someone.”
“You don’t think?” My parents stayed married and never left one another, but I don’t know how into each other they were. They seemed to live such different lives, under the same roof but joined only by the mutual goal of raising their children together. They were as different as two people could be.
“I don’t. I think falling out of love has more to do with a series of choices than a feeling that dissipates.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?”
It is, but I don’t know if I want to get into the why of it with him.
My heart beats a little faster. He has opinions on this, it seems, opinions that excite me and give me hope.
“It’s just that… well…” How do I put into words what’s on my mind?
Why would he be looking for a woman at a brothel if he has such feelings on love and marriage? Is it because he knows the chances of finding love there are so slim that he’s safer? That he could find a woman like me, use me for his purposes, then discard me when he’s done?
He’s waiting for an answer, and I don’t know how to give it to him.
“Mademoiselle?” a waiter asks to my left. I turn to see a tray of wine flutes brimming with champagne.
I start to take one as Fabien’s phone rings.
“Yes?”
His hand clenches into a fist while he listens to the caller. Beside me, I can feel his body go rigid.
“What is it?” I mouth.
“Cosette,” he whispers back.
No.My heart beats faster. I reach for my phone to check my messages when I realize with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that I left my phone in his room to charge.
I make the phone signal with my thumb to my ear and pinky to my mouth and point out the door. Fabien looks to where the bride and groom are coming. We can hear them approach by the sound of the cheering that precedes them. The grand home quickly fills with guests and staff. The rich aromas of coffee and baked goods and the traditionalsoupe l’oignon,often served at French weddings, permeate the air.
“Nicolette.” A woman’s voice comes from behind me. Avril’s dressed in an elegant soft gray gown that nearly sweeps the floor. “Those pearls areexquisite.May I?”
I nod when she reaches a tentative finger out to touch them.
“Thank you. And yes, of course.”
Thayer’s merciless gaze swings over to us and narrows.
Uh oh.
“They were a gift from your son,” I say, not looking at Thayer. “He has excellent taste, doesn’t he?”
“Insomethings.” Fabien’s grandmother stands behind Avril. I feel the sting of her insinuation and bite back a sharp retort.
Avril colors and gives me a sheepish smile. “Inallthings,” she whispers.
Fabien’s still on the call and misses the exchange. It feels warm in here suddenly, and I need to get to my phone. If my friend is hurt…
