Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! (17 page)

Sitting on straight back chairs with tufted seats and polished wooden legs, Amy and I waited in the grand parlor. I felt as if we had stepped back in time. If this was the home where Grandmere had first picked up a needle and thread, as her letter had said, then I found it easy to believe this could have been the chair she sat in to begin her sewing lessons.

Norene said something to Amy and then stepped into an adjoining room.

“She says her mother is eager to meet me,” Amy translated. “She’s getting some pictures to show us.”

“Amy,” I said in a low voice, “please don’t feel as if you have to translate everything for me. This is your moment. I’m thrilled to be here, but I want you to enter in without having to flip back and forth to keep me in the loop.”

Amy looked relieved, “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

I nodded, content to be the wallflower.

Amy mouthed the words, “Thank you, Lisa,” as Norene returned with an ornate tray holding a crystal
carafe and four beautiful cut crystal glasses. She continued speaking to Amy, occasionally turning to nod in a polite effort to include me in the conversation. I nodded back as Norene poured the special offering into the crystal glasses, which signified a moment of celebration, I was sure.

We heard heavy steps approaching. Amy rose from her seat as a thick-ankled woman with fabulous white hair entered the room like a Grand Sovereign. I stood as well.

The woman wore an embroidered shawl around her shoulders. The rich shade of blues and golds in the handiwork blended in with the furniture. Coming to us with open arms, she kissed us both, starting with the right cheek and then the left. Her fragrance was extraordinary. I felt as if we had stepped into a scene from one of the works of art that we had seen at the Musée d’Orsay. Any moment a ballerina could enter this room. Nothing would surprise me.

Amy offered the bouquet of flowers to Madame du Bois. She appeared honored. At first Amy seemed to be trying very hard to remember her manners and her French words as Norene pointed to the letter, and Madame du Bois nodded her understanding. Then we sat down, and I watched Amy fall into a more relaxed communication rhythm. Soon the three women were exchanging long strings of French words with as much delight and reverence as if they were exchanging strings of pearls and then admiring them around the other’s neck.

Madame du Bois handed Amy a small framed picture
of seven young girls, all wearing 1920s-style straight dresses with dropped waists and wide sashes around the area that separated the elongated bodice from the pleated skirt. Several of the girls wore big bows in their hair. Other girls wore stylish hats or had bobbed hair with curls at their jawlines.

They were a fashionable bunch. No doubt Grandmere was among them. Although when Amy handed the picture to me, I couldn’t guess which one she was.

“This was a group of girls who were in a sewing class led by Madame du Bois’s mother,” Amy told me. “The class was held here, in this house. Can you believe that? The picture was taken in front of the linen shop.” Amy drew in to take a closer look and pointed to the girl with the straight posture right in the middle.

“That’s Grandmere,” she said confidently. “I’ve seen two other pictures of her at this age, and that’s definitely Grandmere.”

Norene rose and carried the tray of refreshments to us, offering it to Amy first and then to me. I said, “Merci,” and received the beverage. The cut crystal felt weighty in my hand. It was old. Opulent. I wondered how many births, engagements, and anniversaries had seen the filling and clinking of these beautiful glasses.

Madame du Bois offered the toast, the joyous French words rolling off her thick tongue. I was sure she was saying something substantial and nurturing. I didn’t think
about how I was breaking my forty-five-year moratorium on all things alcoholic. Rather, I took the smallest of sips and let the deep-textured, amaretto-laced beverage spread over my tongue like a fine linen tablecloth, setting the palate for a banquet.

I thought of Amy’s mom. She should have been here; this was the sort of moment she esteemed. This was the sort of joie de vie she had demonstrated to me as a child when she had served me pink Hostess Sno Balls on a hand-painted plate. I was surreptitiously taking her place with Amy today and felt determined to make Grandmere proud.

I sat up straighter and pulled back my shoulders. Today, more than any day in my life, I wanted to be an honorary DuPree woman.

Norene slipped in and out of the room several times. Each time she returned with a plate of simple but beautifully presented food. First came a bowl of freshly washed strawberries and a small ramekin of sugar for dipping the strawberries. Next she brought a round of goat cheese. Then the last plate included a decorative knife, a fan of crackers, and a dark spread.

“Pâté.” Amy raised her eyebrows appreciatively.

Knowing full well that I was being offered goose liver, I spread a modest amount of the pâté on a cracker and took a bite. The flavor made my taste buds stand up and do a little cancan dance on my tongue.

Amy asked how I liked it. The du Bois women waited for my response. I said the first appropriate thing I could think. “Ooh la la!”

The women smiled and offered me more goat cheese. I silently congratulated myself for passing International French Diplomacy 101 with such an easy final exam. I felt honored to be a guest in the fabulous room with such charming women. I knew Amy couldn’t possibly be more pleased with what she was experiencing.

Our visit lasted a little more than two hours. As the conversation wound down, Madame du Bois rose and offered Amy and me fragrant kisses on each cheek. We returned the gesture and followed Norene downstairs. I noticed that Norene had put up the closed sign on her shop door while we had been upstairs celebrating.

Before she opened her doors again to the public, Norene turned to us. “My mother and I would like you to select anything from our store as a memory to take with you.”

I shouldn’t have been stunned that she spoke perfect English, but I was. I realized that probably Madame du Bois spoke English as well. But this was their home. Amy had honored them by speaking their language, and no doubt she had endeared herself to them as a result. She had done what Grandmere had asked. She had blessed the du Bois family that afternoon.

“Thank you,” I said to Norene. “Merci. You have been very kind and generous to us.”

“You brought joy to my mother. I am the one who offers a thank-you.”

Amy and I took our time, viewing the amazing assortment of fine French linens. We had observed in the other shops that the French considered it impolite to finger everything while looking, so we put our hands to our sides and used our eyes to evaluate the rows of bedsheets and stacks of tea towels.

I selected a striped tea towel for my kitchen. Norene insisted I take two. I tried to decline, but Amy gave me a firm look from across the room, and I relented. As Norene expertly wrapped the matching tea towels in tissue paper and tied the flat bundle with a raffia ribbon, I told her that every time I used the towels I would think of her, her mother, and their beautiful shop and home.

She looked pleased.

However, she was much more pleased when Amy took a bold step, went all out, and decided to take home a complete set of sheets. I was stunned. I didn’t think selecting something so expensive would be polite. Norene, however, looked as if Amy was paying her a compliment by wanting the nicest quality linen in the store.

It was all so fitting. Amy went after life wholeheartedly. She always had.

In a further gesture of generosity, Norene insisted on shipping the gift home for Amy so she wouldn’t have to pack the thick set in her suitcase.

With addresses exchanged, more airy kisses on the cheeks, and a potpourri of French and English farewells, Amy and I stepped out the door into the
plein air.

“Well?” I grinned at my radiant friend. “That was wonderful.”

“Yes, wonderful.” Amy murmured. “So wonderful.”

“Would you mind if we did a little backtracking?” I asked.

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“Back to the blouse shop.”

Amy looked surprised. “Change your mind?”

I nodded. “Every now and then it’s good to be a little extravagant and celebrate life, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. Especially when the last time I remember your being extravagant was seventeen years ago.”

I tried to remember what I’d bought seventeen years ago and couldn’t recall the memory that Amy seemed to have at her fingertips.

“For Jeanette. At the hotel room. Don’t you remember the huge basket with all the gifts? That was immensely generous of you.”

I remembered how much I’d hesitated and second-guessed myself that day. “It’s not easy to break through the money barrier after growing up celebrating frugality.”

“True,” Amy agreed. “And it’s not easy breaking through the discipline barrier when sugar is practically a daily food group. But you know what? We’re getting better,
you and me. We’re finding a little balance in life.”

I wasn’t quite ready to pat myself on the back. I hadn’t bought the blouse yet.

T
he shopkeeper
at the blouse store recognized Amy and me and seemed surprised to see us when we entered. She switched to English when I said I had returned to buy the blouse I had tried on. She asked if we had gone far before returning to her shop.

“No,” Amy said. “We’ve been at the linen shop. Madame du Bois’s mother taught my grandmere to sew.”

The shopkeeper’s face burst into a smile followed by many friendly words in French. We left her shop twenty minutes later with my new blouse wrapped in tissue and cradled in a silver box with a white ribbon around it.

“She really didn’t have to give me that discount,” I told Amy. “I was prepared to pay the full price.”

“I know. I think she wanted to do something nice since we were friends with the du Boises. It wasn’t a very
big discount. You probably saved a total of ten dollars. Maybe fifteen.”

“Still, it was kind of her.”

“Then just receive it and be blessed,” Amy said.

We walked with our shopping bags tapping against our legs. Part of me struggled with feeling as if the expensive blouse, discount and all, was something I shouldn’t have splurged on. This whole trip was such an extravagant gift. The rich experiences were enough in and of themselves.

It was the first time I remembered admitting to myself that I had a hard time receiving gifts. I was fine with giving and doing for everyone else, usually in moderation, but nevertheless with a willingness to help out. Receiving was a different story. Something deep inside whispered that I didn’t deserve anything extra.

“Where are we going?” Amy suddenly asked.

I shook off my inner contemplations and looked around. We were heading toward the Eiffel Tower, as if a magnetic force were pulling us closer. “I wasn’t paying attention. I just started walking. But since we’re so close to the Eiffel Tower, let’s take a few pictures.”

Amy agreed, and we kept walking. And walking. The crazy part about the Eiffel Tower is that it’s so huge it looks as if you could reach it in no time. But our little trek took half an hour.

We snapped each other’s pictures during our approach,
upon our arrival, and again from the center looking straight up. The structure looked different in the afternoon light. Amy said it seemed rickety and not romantic, like it had at night. I thought it looked sincere. And aging.

“We have plenty of time before our eight o’clock dinner.” I nodded toward the line at the ticket booth. “Are you ready to go up?”

Amy laughed. “I’m not going up there.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.

“Amy, it’s the Eiffel Tower.”

She glared at me.

“You know? Paris? Pair-ee? The Eye-full Tow-er. I really, really, really think you should go up.”

“Well I really, really, really don’t think I want to.” Her hands were on her hips now, and she was getting her sass going. Shirleene’s influence was showing up loud and clear.

With my hands on my hips, I tried to menacingly shake what my mama gave me. “Amy-girl,” I raised my voice, “you are going up this thing, and you are going up it now!”

Amy stared at me. “What in the world was that?”

“Nothing.” I put my hands down and silenced my rhythm-challenged hips. Switching quickly to what I hoped was psychology, I said, “You have one question to ask yourself. That question is, how can I go home from Paris and tell people I was this close but didn’t go up the Eiffel Tower?”

“Easy. I just say I went
to
the Eiffel Tower. I don’t have to say I went
up
the Eiffel Tower.”

“You have to do this.”

“No I don’t.”

“Amy, I understand your fear of heights, and I respect that. But this backing down thing is not like you. You are a woman who faces challenges with gusto. I saw the way you gave birth to your babies. And look at how you conquered your weight in less than a year.”

“I never hit my goal. I still had six pounds to lose when we left home. So you can’t say I exactly conquered my weight.”