When Cady didn’t answer, Maxine added: “Or do you think, perhaps, that you can trust me this once? Trust me just this one time, and see if my years of experience might be helpful in making your life better.”
Cady avoided her too-knowing eyes.
“You’re not stupid, Cady,” Maxine said, a weary note in her voice. “I’ve met lots of stupid people in my life, and you’re not one of them. Not by a long shot. You’ve just had a very tough road. I don’t generally like children, but for some reason I like you. You’re moody and stubborn and a pain in my patootie, but I like you.”
“Patootie?Whosaysthat?”
Maxine gave a slight smile. Cady’s heart soared at the sight of it.
Still, she hesitated, staring at the spot where the blue paint was chipping away from Maxine’s junky old Ford sedan. Cady wanted so very badly to believe what the old woman was saying. To trust her. To know that someone understood what was going on, could (and would) give her advice and help her. She wanted it so badly, and yet it scared the hell out of her, took her breath away just to imagine such a thing, because what if she was wrong?
Cady reached a hand out to the chipping paint, digging her nail into it, feeling the sharp poke of a flake in the tender flesh under her fingernail.
“You ruin one more thing of mine, Ms. Cady Anne Drake, and we’ll have more than words.”
Maxine had come around the car and was standing right behind her.
Cady met Maxine’s eyes. She could feel her lower lip tremble. She breathed in Maxine’s scent: a mixture of some kind of cooking spices and the oil she used in the shop, paint, and old-lady perfume. Cady had come to associate the aroma with someone who was happy to see her every day, with being in a safe place. For the first time in her life.
Cady couldn’t hold back anymore. She hiccupped, tears spilling down her cheeks. Maxine’s stout arms wrapped around her, and Cady sobbed into the bodice of her ugly flowered polyester tunic.
After a few moments, Maxine held Cady at arm’s length, wiped the tears from her face with an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief, and said:
“Now that that’s taken care of, let’s you and I go learn to read.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1900
ANGERS
Maëlle
Monsieur Maréchal, the foreman, barks his orders to the men. At first he had scared Maëlle, but now she appreciates his focused demeanor, his habit of remaining silent when not issuing demands or rebukes. Sometimes, over their morning tea, they speak of the smell of the ocean in the morning, of her hometown by the sea, and of the promise of the new century. He has two grown daughters, and he enjoys arguing with Maëlle about her views on a new future for women.
And she realizes how much she has to learn. Not only concerning the craft, but about the history of carousels. Monsieur Maréchal insists she can never be a gifted carver if she doesn’t understand the origin of the art of the carousel.
“The word comes from the Italiangarosello, which means ‘little battle.’ It was a training method used in Turkey and the Middle East, brought back to Spain and Italy during the Crusades,” he tells her as he watches her sand the fourth coat of gesso on a prancing horse. “They became common in France after a jousting accident killed King Henry II, Catherine de’ Medici’s husband. Knights started practicing spearing suspended rings with their lances, rather than risking hurting each other.”
Monsieur Maréchal pauses to point out a few spots Maëlle has missed; the primer must be absolutely smooth for the paint and gilt to adhere properly.
“Then in 1662, for the birth of the dauphin, Louis XVI held a huge, glorious festival in front of the Tuileries in Paris. Fifteen thousand guests watched as knights competed in extravagantjeux de bagues. The location of the grand affair is known today as the Place du Carrousel.”
“I hope to visit Paris one day, to see it,” Maëlle says, breathless at the thought.
“There is much more than that to see in Paris,” says Monsieur Maréchal, with a nod. “And I have no doubt you will get there one day, Maëlle. You are ambitious, and smart. Just”—he glanced toward Léon, who labored over a small pig, the sinuous movements of his biceps clear under his muslin shirt—“remember what you are working toward, and you will achieve your dreams.”
• • •
One day Monsieur Bayol tells Maëlle she will be working with Léon to learn the art of gilding.
“So, you have worked yourself into the position you wanted, I see,” Léon says, looking down at her with a slight smile on his lips.
Maëlle is so pleased she cannot keep the grin from her face.
“As in most aspects of life, gilding is primarily about proper preparation,” Léon says, his voice suddenly businesslike. “First, the bare wood must be perfectly smooth, the holes and nicks and joints filled and sanded, then cleaned of all dust. Afterward we seal the wood with rabbit-skin glue.”
The amber liquid reeks, but Maëlle does not shrink from the stench. With every stroke she is closer to her dream.
