I arrive ten minutes late for my dinner with Matthew. “Keep him waiting,” Lucie instructed me. Everything inside Lapérouse looks breakable. I glance at the menu by the hostess stand; a hundred francs for a filet of pigeon? A birdlike woman wearing a tight black lace bustier approaches the dais with a clipboard.
“Avez-vous une réservation?”
“Swanson,” I reply. She leads me through a heavy red curtain and up a dark flight of stairs to the most opulent dining room I’ve ever seen. A half dozen crystal chandeliers wink from the ceiling, though the lighting is so low I can barely make out any patrons’ faces.
The hostess deposits me at Matthew’s table, where he’s already sipping from a glass of amber liquor.
“Are you trying to impress me?” I ask, as I kiss him hello on his cheek.
“Yes,” he says, and pulls my chair out for me. “To apologize for my terrible behavior. I should have called.”
I raise my hand to stop him. “You’re grieving. You didn’t owe me anything.”
“But you were so helpful, so kind. You were there for her in the end. I can’t thank you enough, truly.”
“What’s good here?” I say, avoiding his earnest stare.
“Take a look at the menu.”
“You aren’t ordering for me this time?” I tease.
“I thought I’d let you do the honors.”
“A hundred-franc pigeon sounds delicious.”
“It is. But the sole is better.”
We carry on like that through appetizers and entrees. A flirtatious verbal volley that almost feels like a real date instead of a job. I wonder if Lucie ever loses herself like this. I try not to drink too much, but I want him to drink enough to get loose and comfortable with me. That doesn’t turn out to be a problem. He’s looking for a soft place to land for a night.
By the time dessert rolls around, he’s finished two of my glasses of wine that I poured into his goblet while he was in the restroom. His eyes well up when I ask him what happened to all of Stella’s things.
“The apartment’s been completely cleaned out,” he says. “I was there when they did it. I boxed up as much as I could carry and then fit in my car, but the cleaning crew was very efficient. Father is selling the place as quickly as he can. It was the one asset he couldn’t wrestle away from her. The French courts are kind to wi…” He pauses. He was about to say “widow.” I know it. But he also must know how his grandfather tricked Stella into believing they were married. “They’re kind to the women left behind,” he says instead.
I wouldn’t call it kind; I would call it humane and dignified.For as much as I believe he loved his grandmother, I don’t think Matthew ever did a single thing to try to actually protect her or care for her, and I remember what Stella told me about the intoxication of wealth and how it ultimately trumps love in too many cases.
“It was going to take forever to evict her.” He’s still going on about how hard it would have been for his father to remove Stella had she lived, but I try to hide my contempt.
“What did you keep?” I place my hand over his trembling fingers. “From Stella’s apartment?”
“Things she loved. Some jewelry, scarves, a few photos, her Limoges china cups. I packed up twenty Limoges china cups and saucers. They’re still in the trunk of my car, hopefully not smashed to pieces. But I couldn’t bear Father letting them be thrown away or carted off to the thrift store.”
I hide my smile. I know Stella will find this particular detail and insurrection entertaining.
“We could have a tea party,” I say, squeezing his hand.
“We could, couldn’t we.” He laughs and brightens. “Now?”
This was the goal, to be invited back to his place, to let whatever happens there happen, to get him to want to see me again. A tea party is as good an excuse as any.
“Why not?” I try to purr as seductively as I’m able. It doesn’t come naturally. Pascal used to tell me that the most adorable thing about me was my inability to be purposefully alluring.
“Why don’t I order us some dessert to go,” I say.
He flips his palm over so that we’re holding hands. Shadows from the crystals above us cast a pall over his handsome features. He’s smiling even though his cheeks are now wet with tears. “Thank you for letting me talk about her. I can’t do it with anyone else.”
“Of course. Remembering helps. It’s a tragedy you won’t hold a memorial service. I’m sure there were many who loved her.”
“I thought about reaching out to some people, but I didn’twant word to get back to Father.” This truly is the least sexy thing about this terribly attractive man, his utter terror of his family and unwillingness to overcome it for a woman he loved. I push my disgust aside. It’s not useful now. I signal to the waitress and order two desserts for takeaway in French. I want to show Matthew that I am a woman who can take care of him.
