Crossroads (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

W
e must remember,” Cassandra said, “that the fork goes in the left hand.” They were sitting in yet another of the cafés that seemed to be in endless supply in Paris. This was one of Cassandra’s favorites. There seemed to be an endless supply of those, too, Gwen thought. And her mother was determined to drag Gwen to every one of them—along with everything else she loved about the City of Light.

If I have to hear one more word about the first time she was here
with her father, or all the other trips she’s taken to France, I’m going
to scream,
Gwen thought. But she knew that wasn’t the reason she was so angry at her mother.

Cassandra’s eyes were sparkling; she was enjoying this. “I often wonder,” she said, “how these customs develop. At home it would be odd to hold your fork in your left hand, unless you were left-handed, of course.”

“It’s just people minding other people’s business,” Gwen mumbled. “What difference does it make how you hold your fork? It’s a lot of nonsense, all this stuff about manners and ceremonies!”

“Well, I guess it can be, but when you think carefully, you see it’s not
all
nonsense. Manners are the element of society. They keep things in order, they oil the wheels. Haven’t I always told you that?”

Oh, yes, you have. It’s one of the things you love to preach about.
Although, you’re not really in a position to preach to anyone, are
you? Not after what you did to me for seventeen years.
Gwen slouched low in her chair.

*                           *                           *         

Cassandra watched Gwen slouch down until she looked like she was going to slide on to the floor. Where were the days when her little daughter, eager to please, sat straight and tall at the dinner table as she’d been taught? Clearly, all the childhood training had worn off and now Cassie was facing an irritating rebel. Or whatever role Gwen thought she was playing.

And I’ll admit I don’t know what that role might be. I’m trying to
understand her, but I just can’t. Ever since we got to Paris she’s been
sullen and rude. I hate rudeness. And I hate that passive arms-crossed-over-the-chest stance that teenagers take when they’re angry
about something. For heaven’s sake if you have something to say,
say it!

But at that second Gwen looked up and there was something in her eyes, something that was almost like a plea. Cassandra sighed.

Walter would say I should be patient. He’d say there’s got to be an
explanation for the way she’s behaving. And of course he’d be right. I
don’t know what’s going on in her mind—at her age it could be
anything.

She made herself smile at her daughter, who was now picking at her éclair. “I bought you a little present,” she said cheerfully as she reached into the bag she’d been carrying and pulled out a book. “I thought since we’re going to be seeing the Petit Trianon at Versailles we should read up on Madame de Pompadour. Most people think of Marie Antoinette when they think of the Petit Trianon, but it was actually de Pompadour who inspired it, when she was the mistress of Louis the Fifteenth. Her favorite architect designed it and—”

“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Gwen broke in. She had finished decimating the pastry and had gone back to slouching.

“We wouldn’t have to read the entire book, just skim it. . . .”

Suddenly the slumping figure across the table sat up, her eyes glaring. “I’m not interested in reading about Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress.”

“She was a fascinating woman, a courtesan in the grand tradition—”

“I don’t want to hear about kept women or great courtesans or any other euphemism you’ve got for them. I don’t want to hear about their illegitimate children. Or—if you want to be vulgar—their bastards. It hits a little too close to home for me. I should think you’d feel the same way.”

“What on earth are you—”

“My mother! She was my father’s mistress—right? And my father was your husband. And I’m his . . . how should we say it? Love child?”

And there it was. The secret Cassandra had kept at so much cost for so many years. The secret that was hers and hers alone to tell. When she was ready. In her own good time.

“Who told you?” she heard herself ask through the mists of shock and rage. And she knew from the look on Gwen’s face that it had been the wrong thing to say.

“What difference does it make? At least someone finally did.”

“I was going to tell you. . . .”

“You’ve been lying to me for my whole life.”

It was the disgust in Gwen’s voice that got to Cassandra.

She wanted to tell her daughter to drop that tone instantly. She wanted to demand an apology. But Gwen was right. Partially right. “I was trying to protect you. . . .”

“From what? The truth? I had a right to know.”

Walter said that. But I didn’t see it. He was right and I was
wrong.

“It was a complicated situation, Gwen, and I—”

“Other people knew about it! Didn’t you realize someone would tell me someday? Did you think about what that was going to be like for me? To sit at lunch with my mother’s receptionist and have her tell me what I should have known already?”

It was Jewel Fairchild!
For some reason Cassandra wasn’t surprised.

“She was enjoying pitying me. . . .”

I’m sure she was gleeful. That horrible girl.

“I did what I thought was best—” Cassandra started to say.

“No, you did what was easiest for you. You weren’t thinking of me.”

Be patient. Walter would tell me to be patient.

“Gwen, if you’ll let me explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about the great lady who took in her husband’s stray. . . .”

Be patient.

“I don’t want to hear that you lied to me for my own good. I don’t want to hear that you, in your infinite wisdom, decided that this was something I didn’t need to know.”

Later, when Cassandra was full of regret, she would realize that Gwen had touched all her most vulnerable points: her dislike of being wrong, her pride, and, most of all, her sense of herself as a decent person. No one had ever attacked her like this. No one had ever called her a liar. And when she looked across the table all she could see was that red/brown hair. And that jawline and that chin. Something inside her snapped.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said in a frigid voice. “Perhaps I didn’t want to remember that I had the bad judgment to choose an adulterer who married me for my business and my money, then proceeded to destroy the first and squander the second on a woman he picked up while he was slumming. Perhaps I was embarrassed to admit to you just how arrogant and shallow and ultimately stupid he was. However, if you’d like all the squalid details of his life, I’ll do my best to oblige you. As to your birth mother, all I know about her is that she was a barmaid. And, apparently, she had no problem being kept by another woman’s husband.”

“You hated him.” Gwen shot the accusation across the table.

“Do you blame me?”

That was when Gwen started to sob. And then she started to run.

*                           *                           *                           

Gwen would have done anything not to cry. And the last thing she wanted to do was race out of the stupid little café like a bad child and run through the streets of Paris like a bad cliché until she reached their hotel. But she did just that. Then she ran through the lobby and into the elevator, just another crazy American—well, the staff was used to those—and into her room in the suite she shared with her mother. And she kept on crying. Because she was so angry at herself. And at Cassandra. And at life.
I knew I shouldn’t have told her I knew about my father.
If she just hadn’t brought up Madame de Pompadour . . . no, be
honest, I was looking for an excuse to throw it in her face.

Her mother had entered the other room; had she run through the streets? No, Cassandra would have found a taxi. And now she was opening the door that separated the two bedrooms.
Why
the hell didn’t I think to lock it?

“Gwen, I shouldn’t have said all that.” Cassandra was searching for words. “Your father was very charming . . . and he could be witty . . . people liked him. . . .”

“And you hated him.”

“I didn’t—” Cassandra stopped herself. “Hate is a strong word,” she said.

But it was what you felt,
Gwen wanted to shout.
You still do.
When I did something that reminded you of him—and there must
have been times when I did—did you hate me?

“Gwendolyn, please stop crying,” her mother said. “It won’t help.”

And for Cassandra Wright, descendant of generations of stoic Wrights, probably it wouldn’t. But it was helping Gwen to cry—big gulping sobs with her eyes and nose running and her face getting all blotchy and red. It was like being sick; you didn’t exactly enjoy the process, but you knew you were going to feel better after you’d finished. Maybe that knowledge was Gwen’s legacy from the woman her father had picked up while he was slumming.

“It doesn’t matter what your father was,” her mother went on. “That has nothing to do with who you are.”

But it does, because I am a part of him. And I am a part of the barmaid
who may have needed to cry as I do. I had a right to know
about them years ago. And you should have been the one to tell me.

And her mother seemed to be thinking the same thing because she said, “This is not the way I wanted you to find out. I was going to tell you myself, while we were here in Paris.”

You were going to tell me at your convenience—when you were
in control. And this is one of the few times I’ve seen you when you
haven’t been. Maybe I owe Jewel something after all.

“I wanted this to be such a good time for us. I wanted us to . . . Gwen, I’ll do whatever you’d like. If you want to cancel the rest of our trip and go home, just say the word. But there’s no point in trying to continue if we’re going to be angry at each other.” There was a pleading note in her mother’s voice now. To her surprise, Gwen stopped crying and looked at her. Every hair was in place, of course, and her face wasn’t even pale. But the expression in her eyes . . . had she ever looked so vulnerable? So scared?
She’s afraid I’ll take her up on it,
Gwen realized.
She can’t
ask me to forgive her, but she’s afraid I won’t. And that will hurt
her . . . she’s afraid of how much it will hurt.
And for a moment, Gwen wanted to do it—to hurt Cassandra as much as she’d been hurt herself. But then she looked again at those frightened, vulnerable eyes.

“No, Mother,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to cancel the trip.”

“This has been so awful, because it happened in the wrong way.” Cassandra was trying to regain control now, and Gwen didn’t stop her. “I think perhaps we should put it aside for now and talk about it again when we are less . . . heated.”

That means we never will,
Gwen thought.

But because they were civilized, and because Cassandra was a Wright, and Gwen—in spite of everything—was her daughter, they put it aside. They patched up their . . . what should it be called? The word “quarrel” was too simple; “fight” was too violent. Gwen had a vision of a piece of fragile silk cloth, thin as a membrane, being stretched until it ripped, and then it was darned. The darning thread would always show, there would always be wrinkles where the fabric had been pulled together to mend the tear—but it was patched up.

*                           *                           *         

Gwen and Cassandra began their Paris stay in earnest. They went to Versailles and they saw the Petit Trianon. In the following days, they ate at the sixth-floor tearoom in Au Printemps, at a fabulously expensive restaurant in the Eiffel Tower, and at a little brasserie on the Ile Saint-Louis. They drank café au lait at the Café Marly and looked out the window at the Pyramid entrance to the Louvre. They toured the Louvre, the Musée Rodin, and the Musee d’Orsay; they stood in awe in front of the
Mona Lisa
and
The Thinker
. They explored the tourist attractions because, as Cassandra said, they were tourists and it would be silly not to admit it. Besides, one could not leave Paris without seeing Notre Dame Cathedral and the Ile de la Cité, the Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, the Opéra Garnier, the Obélisque, and what seemed to Gwen to be a million fountains. They window-shopped on the Champs-Elysées and, corny as it was, took a ride on the Seine in a
bateau-mouche
. They wandered through the green metal stalls of the
bouquinistes
along the banks of the Seine and watched the fishermen drop their lines on the waterfront of the Ile Saint-Louis. And garden lovers both, they reveled in the beauty of the Jardin des Tuileries, the Jardin du Carrousel, and most of all the Jardin du Luxembourg.