CH 82 Paris: Reunion
Bonnie emerged from customs and into the bustle of Charles de Gaulle airport to find that her grandmother had ignored her express wishes and dispatched an emissary to meet her flight. She acknowledged the man's sweeping wave with a smile, and wove her way through the rushing stream of travelers toward him. "Richard!" she said, leaning in to touch her cheek to his the requisite four times. "You didn't need to come! Not that I'm not very glad to see you, but I told Grammy I was fine with taking public transportation."
"I know," he said, relieving her of her suitcase, and easing her into the flow toward the exits. "But she wanted to spare you the bother, and, besides, it's my pleasure! I'm anxious to hear how your presentation went, but, first, tell me, how was your flight? Did you get any sleep? I suppose they gave you breakfast?"
Bonnie reassured him on all counts. She'd taken advantage of traveling solo on the outbound leg of her trip to upgrade her ticket to business class and had slept so soundly in her flat-bed seat, she felt rested and ready to go, which was just as well as it proved to be a considerable trek through the cavernous terminal to the pick-up area where the car Angela had hired stood waiting.
It wasn't much past dawn, but the day already promised to be fine, the sky above the broad highway a rain-washed blue, and the fields and rooftops of the small communities they sped past amber gold in the low rays of sun. Bonnie filled Richard in on the predominantly positive feedback she'd received on her paper, and the minor adjustments she'd made based on her colleagues' recommendations, and Richard, in his turn, reported on his as-yet unrewarded efforts to turn up Madeleine's death record and his more successful, if not especially relevant, inquiry into what had become of her children. In this way, the ninety-minute commute into the city, the last third at little more than a crawl, passed off very pleasantly, and it was no later than mid-morning when, to Bonnie's rising excitement, the car turned onto a familiar tree-lined avenue and pulled up opposite the imposing nineteenth-century building her grandmother called home.
Richard collected her bag for her, and waited while she punched in the building's entry code, but then only followed her into the foyer as far as the elevator. "I have an appointment," he said, saluting her cheeks in good-bye. "But I'll see you this evening. That is, if we're still on for the reception tonight?"
"Yes, of course! I'm counting on you."
He puffed up with pleasure. "Very well, then. À ce soir."
Bonnie was still smiling at Richard's delight and at her grandmother's genius in suggesting she ask for his escort when the elevator completed its stately rise and came to a stop at the penthouse floor. Bonnie let herself out of the car, and hurriedly crossed the landing to the single set of doors, one of which opened even as she approached, framing her Grams in the doorway. Seeing her, Angela broke into her beautiful broad smile, and then Bonnie was throwing herself into the arms her grandmother held out, and being gathered in a warm embrace.
"I'm so glad you're here," Angela said, drawing back and taking Bonnie's hands in her own. "It's such a treat, having you stay! Now, come into the light, and let me have a better look at you. No," she said, when Bonnie would've turned back for her suitcase, "Jeanne will see to that."
Indeed, the indispensable Jeanne, in her self-imposed uniform of dark skirt and white blouse, graying hair scraped back in the usual knot, was hovering in the entryway, a shy smile of welcome on her lips. She returned Bonnie's greeting with a head bob and a "Bon retour, mademoiselle" before slipping past them onto the landing.
"Coffee, please, Jeanne, when you have a minute," Angela called after her. "In the salon."
"Bien, madame."
They went through to the living room, a bright, airy space with eggshell-white walls and light-colored furnishings that reflected the light streaming in through the south-facing French doors. The year Bonnie'd lived in Paris, Angela had often talked of redecorating, but she'd apparently decided against it; the huge, ornate mirror, the delicate, cabriole-leg tables, the escritoire desk and the brocade-upholstered arm chairs were all in their familiar places. The only change Bonnie spied at a glance was in the collection of paintings that graced the walls. There were several new pieces, likely, if her grandmother was running true to form, works by some up-and-coming artists she wanted to support.
Angela sank down onto one corner of the great tan couch that dominated the room, and patted the cushion beside her. The strong morning light was unforgiving, but even so Bonnie saw nothing to worry her in her grandmother's appearance. She sat straight-backed against the pillows, neat as a pin in a crisp open-collared shirt and tailored slacks, her feet tucked into practical rubber-soled flats. Her face had grown a little fuller, her jawline softer, her bobbed white hair a trifle thinner, but she could still be mistaken for a good decade younger than she was. "You look wonderful, Grammy," Bonnie said with feeling, settling down on the couch beside her. "Someday you're going to have to let me in on your anti-aging secret."
Angela's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Flatterer! I remember, now, what I enjoyed about having you around so much! Are you sure you can't stay longer? As in forever?" They shared a laugh, and then, reverting to grandmother-mode, Angela inquired about Bonnie's journey: had she eaten, slept? Was she tired, hungry?
They had moved on to family news by the time Jeanne brought in the coffee and, with it, a plateful of freshly-baked madeleines. Bonnie couldn't resist the small, fragrant cakes and unwisely ate rather too many, so that, even with lunch put off until one, when they sat down to the three-course meal Jeanne had prepared, she didn't have the appetite to do the food justice. She felt bad enough about it to apologize to Jeanne, but Jeanne merely smiled calmly and silently cleared her plate away.
After lunch, as was her habit, Angela excused herself to take a nap, and suggested Bonnie might like to rest as well. "Your room's made up, and you should find everything you need, but if not, just let Jeanne know. She's probably taken it already, but if she hasn't, give her the dress you're planning to wear tonight so she can press out any wrinkles. Oh, and I should mention I've arranged for my stylist to come 'round at five to do your hair."
"Grammy! You didn't need to do that!"
"I know, sweetie." Angela cupped Bonnie's face in one hand and ran a gentle thumb over one cheek. "But I don't have as many chances to spoil you as I'd like, so I have to make the most of those I have. And, besides," she added, with a roguish smile, "you'll adore Pierre-Louis! He's a styling savant!"
Bonnie did retire to the guest room, but she did not immediately stretch out on the bed. Instead, she opened the French doors and, stepping through onto the terrace, treated herself to the penthouse's breathtaking view over the seventh arrondissement. A little distance to the west, the Eiffel Tower rose majestically above the mansard roofs and red brick chimneys of the neighborhood's massive apartment blocks, its upper platforms and iconic tapered spire silhouetted against the sky. The sun was past its zenith now, but it still shone bright, and its rays were so pleasantly warm on her skin, Bonnie didn't retreat inside but drew a patio chair close to the wrought-iron railing, and sat a long while listening to the muted hubbub of traffic and watching the spectacle far below of a busy quartier going about its business. She knew a sudden urge to go down to the street, herself, and take a brisk walk — the green expanse of the Champs de Mars was only a tantalizing block away — but then, she thought of the evening ahead, and returned sensibly to her room, closing the doors behind her and drawing the curtains.
She didn't expect to nod off, but she did, and it was only a sharp rap at her door and her grandmother's calling her name that woke her. She had to scramble, then, to get ready for Pierre-Louis' arrival, but she was showered and wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair freshly washed, when he turned up precisely on time. Angela proved right: she did love Pierre-Louis. He was engaging, direct, and so self-assured that when he asked her to put herself completely in his hands, she couldn't say no. He began by making a careful study of her face and hair, then asked to be shown what she was planning to wear — the dress, the accessories, even the shoes. The whole "look" — a form-fitting navy blue sheath, diamond-pendant necklace, matching drop earrings, and high-heeled silver sandals — was laid out for his inspection, and, after a moment of thoughtfully tapping his lips, Pierre-Louis gave a single, decisive nod, and, sitting Bonnie down at the vanity in her grandmother's room, set to work.
For drama's sake, while he tugged, twisted and tucked, he had her face away from the mirror and so, when he finally stepped back from his creation and invited her to look, it was with a mix of trepidation and excitement that Bonnie turned to her reflection. What she saw made her gasp aloud: he'd given her a soft, romantic updo that perfectly balanced the severe elegance of her dress. She dipped and turned her head, the better to admire the crown-like braid woven into her hair, and the artfully messy side-bun low on her neck. "Oh, Pierre-Louis," she breathed. "I love it! Thank you so much!"
"Oui, mon ami." Angela, who'd been called in for the "big reveal," smiled warmly at Pierre-Louis and gave his shoulder a grateful pat. "Merci bien. You're a treasure." All at once, her brow creased in thought, and, with a murmured "I wonder…," she went to her dresser and began rummaging through the top drawer. She came away with a small, square box, and, removing its lid, handed it to Pierre-Louis. "What do you think?"
His face split into a brilliant smile. "Parfait!"
Bonnie craned her neck for a look at the contents. "What is it, Grammy?"
Pierre-Louis lifted the trinket from its box, and held it out in his palm for Bonnie to see. It was a jeweled hair comb, vintage by the looks of it, a glittering spray of flowers fashioned of rhinestones and pearls. "Oh, Grammy, it's gorgeous! Why have I never seen this before?"
"I suppose because I never wear it." She grimaced lightly. "It was a gift from your grandfather, but, to tell you the truth, like so much of the jewelry he gave me over the years, it's really not my style — too dainty." She fell silent as Pierre-Louis positioned the comb and slid it carefully into her bun. "There! Just the final touch you needed!"
Bonnie fingered the twinkling blossoms reverently. "I'll take good care of it, Grammy. Promise."
"Oh, as to that, sweetie, it's yours now, something to remember Grandpa Hodgins by. Now, off you go. Get dressed. Pierre-Louis, a glass of wine before you leave?"
When, decked out in all her finery, Bonnie entered the salon some time later, Pierre-Louis was nowhere in sight, but Richard had arrived and was sharing a pre-dinner drink with Angela. As was customary for l'apéro, a platter of savories — olives, cured meats, sliced cheeses, potted spreads — was set out on the coffee table along with a basket of toasted bread rounds and an open bottle of wine. Richard rose from his chair to greet her, an appreciative smile slowly curving his lips. "Bonsoir," he said, as they kissed their hellos. "May I say you look magnifique?"
"You both look sensational," Angela said, before Bonnie could reply. And it was certainly true that Richard cut a dashing figure in his tux. Bonnie saw, and appreciated, that he'd taken great pains with his appearance, pains that, judging by his newly-trimmed hair and bay-rum scent, had included a visit to his barber.
"Richard's ordered a taxi for seven, Bonnie," Angela continued. "So, there's time enough for you to sit and put a little something in your stomach. You only just picked at your lunch, remember, and who knows when, and what, they're going to be serving at the reception. Try some of Jeanne's caviar d'aubergines, why don't you? She made it especially with you in mind."
Bonnie's impatience to be off to the Louvre — and to Bear — was such that she doubted she could eat, but, as usual, her grandmother was right: she was hungry, and the eggplant spread delicious. At long last, though, the time came to set off, and, taking up her evening bag and blue satin stole, Bonnie kissed her grandmother good night and took the elevator with Richard down to the lobby. Outside, their cab idled at the curb, and, as they hurried toward it, above the rooftops, as if to get their evening off to a fabulous start, the Eiffel Tower burst into a dazzling dance of sparkles.