three of us. “Juliette,
ma chère. C’est tellement bien de vous revoir
.”
My grandfather had known her for decades, but he still used the formal
vous
with Juliette.
Tu
implied an intimacy to someone of his generation that I was somehow glad he didn’t feel was appropriate between the two of them.
Juliette withdrew her hand and touched Pépé’s shoulder like a caress. “It’s good to see you, too, Luc,” she said in French. “And Lucie. For a moment, my dear, I thought I was looking at a ghost of Chantal … I don’t know why. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I take it as a great compliment.”
Her smile seemed strained. “Please, both of you make yourselves at home. Get a drink. The waiters have champagne, but there is a bar outdoors by the swimming pool where there is anything you wish. It’s just through the library and out the door to the back terrace.”
The doorbell rang again. Her eyes strayed past us as the front door opened and closed and more guests arrived.
“We’ll find Charles,” Pépé said, “and leave you to your duties as hostess.”
“Thank you. We must catch up later … so many things to talk about,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Charles is terribly anxious to talk to you, Luc. Both of you, in fact.”
As she walked by us to greet the new arrivals, I’m sure I heard her say in a voice meant for my grandfather’s ears only,
“Tu me manques énormément.”
I miss you terribly. She didn’t use
vous
. She had used the intimate
tu
with Pépé.
Pépé accepted two champagne flutes from a waiter as we walked into the library. He handed one to me without bothering to ask what I wanted to drink as he usually did, and I knew what Juliette had said had disturbed him.
In contrast to the vibrant foyer, the library was dark and masculine. Though it appeared to have none of her lighthearted decorating joie de vivre, Juliette’s presence still overwhelmed the heavy furniture, floor-to-ceiling shelves of gilt-edged leather-bound books, and antique maps because of a frankly sensual oil portrait that hungover the fireplace. I recognized her instantly, in spite of the fact that it must have been painted when she was a young woman about my age, some forty or more years ago. She had posed in a shaded garden or a wooded setting of mottled pale and fierce greens, head thrown back just a little as she sat languidly in an oversized rattan chair. Barefoot, her long dark hair carelessly pinned up as though she were hot and wanted it off her shoulders, she wore a strapless silk gown the color of a sultan’s rubies. The dress was so low cut that the French word for it is
osée
, something between daring and risqué. I found it impossible not to stare at Juliette’s décolleté, her ethereal beauty, the contrast of milk white skin against bloodred fabric, and the laughter dancing in her dark eyes as she watched someone or something out of view that amused or entertained her.
“Did you know Juliette in those days?” I asked my grandfather. His eyes flickered briefly at the portrait. “Yes.”
“Do you know where it was painted?”
“In France.” With uncharacteristic abruptness he said, “We should find Charles.”
I saw Charles on the other side of the swimming pool seated at a long stone table lit by flickering votive candles and talking to a group of men and women, all of them holding drinks. The withering heat had vanished as predicted, clearing out the humidity. A cool breeze rustled an arrangement of ferns and ornamental grasses growing in a planter set above a waterfall that spilled into the pool. Stone urns filled with more scarlet geraniums sat on pedestals at each corner of the octagonal pool and on either side of the waterfall. Someone had already turned on the lights so the water glowed celadon and turquoise like a tropical lagoon and the underlit plants threw swaying shadows on the white stucco wall behind them.
Charles, like Juliette, fixed
ma chère. C’est tellement bien de vous revoir
.”
My grandfather had known her for decades, but he still used the formal
vous
with Juliette.
Tu
implied an intimacy to someone of his generation that I was somehow glad he didn’t feel was appropriate between the two of them.
Juliette withdrew her hand and touched Pépé’s shoulder like a caress. “It’s good to see you, too, Luc,” she said in French. “And Lucie. For a moment, my dear, I thought I was looking at a ghost of Chantal … I don’t know why. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I take it as a great compliment.”
Her smile seemed strained. “Please, both of you make yourselves at home. Get a drink. The waiters have champagne, but there is a bar outdoors by the swimming pool where there is anything you wish. It’s just through the library and out the door to the back terrace.”
The doorbell rang again. Her eyes strayed past us as the front door opened and closed and more guests arrived.
“We’ll find Charles,” Pépé said, “and leave you to your duties as hostess.”
“Thank you. We must catch up later … so many things to talk about,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Charles is terribly anxious to talk to you, Luc. Both of you, in fact.”
As she walked by us to greet the new arrivals, I’m sure I heard her say in a voice meant for my grandfather’s ears only,
“Tu me manques énormément.”
I miss you terribly. She didn’t use
vous
. She had used the intimate
tu
with Pépé.
Pépé accepted two champagne flutes from a waiter as we walked into the library. He handed one to me without bothering to ask what I wanted to drink as he usually did, and I knew what Juliette had said had disturbed him.
In contrast to the vibrant foyer, the library was dark and masculine. Though it appeared to have none of her lighthearted decorating joie de vivre, Juliette’s presence still overwhelmed the heavy furniture, floor-to-ceiling shelves of gilt-edged leather-bound books, and antique maps because of a frankly sensual oil portrait that hungover the fireplace. I recognized her instantly, in spite of the fact that it must have been painted when she was a young woman about my age, some forty or more years ago. She had posed in a shaded garden or a wooded setting of mottled pale and fierce greens, head thrown back just a little as she sat languidly in an oversized rattan chair. Barefoot, her long dark hair carelessly pinned up as though she were hot and wanted it off her shoulders, she wore a strapless silk gown the color of a sultan’s rubies. The dress was so low cut that the French word for it is
osée
, something between daring and risqué. I found it impossible not to stare at Juliette’s décolleté, her ethereal beauty, the contrast of milk white skin against bloodred fabric, and the laughter dancing in her dark eyes as she watched someone or something out of view that amused or entertained her.
“Did you know Juliette in those days?” I asked my grandfather. His eyes flickered briefly at the portrait. “Yes.”
“Do you know where it was painted?”
“In France.” With uncharacteristic abruptness he said, “We should find Charles.”
I saw Charles on the other side of the swimming pool seated at a long stone table lit by flickering votive candles and talking to a group of men and women, all of them holding drinks. The withering heat had vanished as predicted, clearing out the humidity. A cool breeze rustled an arrangement of ferns and ornamental grasses growing in a planter set above a waterfall that spilled into the pool. Stone urns filled with more scarlet geraniums sat on pedestals at each corner of the octagonal pool and on either side of the waterfall. Someone had already turned on the lights so the water glowed celadon and turquoise like a tropical lagoon and the underlit plants threw swaying shadows on the white stucco wall behind them.
Charles, like Juliette, fixed
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