Margot was attacking her housework with vigor and trying not to think about Andrew Mountbatten. Without his intoxicating presence deranging her mental faculties, she ought to be able to figure out a way to make it clear she thought of him as a friend and potential colleague, but her thoughts kept straying to that kiss.
If only she could throw caution to the wind and give in to that delicious, heady feeling. But what she wanted and what was good for her when it came to men were clearly two different things.
Her own lack of stability had been highlighted when Claire had come in late the night before, half delirious with happiness and exhaustion, telling them all about her triumph with Thibault and Hervé’s declaration of love. Thrusting aside her own worries, Margot had jumped up and down and laughed and cried along with Claire, demanding to know the entire history of her romance with Hervé. She was genuinely happy for her friend, but she’d lain awake that night, sick with longing for a time when she might again feel that kind of unalloyed joy and security in a loving relationship. She’d come to doubt she ever would.
Gina had been upset about something for days now, but whenever Margot inquired, she forced a smile and said it was nothing. Gina had thrown herself into her work with almost frenzied gusto, which was good for the book, no doubt. But was it good for Gina? From experience, Margot knew that all she could do was to wait for her friend to be ready to talk. It couldn’t be easy for her, what with Hal still in Paris and her father’s demands.
As Margot vacuumed the drawing room, Gina was sitting at her desk, making corrections to her manuscript. Without looking up from the page, she lifted her feet so Margot could vacuum under the desk, then set them on the floor again and kept working.
At first the other two women had felt guilty about Margot’s shouldering the housework alone at the apartment and tried to persuade Margot to share her duties, but she’d refused. Claire cooked and Gina cleaned and washed up after her—no small task. Margot did the tidying, dusting, vacuuming, mopping, and ironing. She liked housework, she was much better at it than the other two, and her allotted tasks were only necessary once a week, which suited her just fine.
Today was Saturday, overcast and dull, threatening rain. She would whip through her chores this morning and spend the afternoon reading as her reward.
Margot switched off the vacuum. The ensuing silence was palpable. She unplugged the appliance and hauled it into Claire’s room. “Dust first,” she said to herself, fetching the fancy feather duster from where she’d left it in the drawing room.
As she came back into the bedroom, the dark clouds parted, and sunshine burst through the windows, flooding the room with light.
Claire’s closet door hung open—that girl was as messy as Gina!—and the glint of beading caught Margot’s eye.
Leaving the feather duster on the vanity, she went over to the closet and pushed aside Claire’s other dresses. The hangers screeched a little in protest. Then she took out the gown and hung it on the tall stand Madame Vaughn had kept for this purpose.
Ah, Dior. Each time she looked at this creation, it seemed more beautiful than before. In the sunshine, each individual crystal and sequin threw off a tiny rainbow. The creamy skirts gleamed as if a goddess had spun silk from champagne pearls and woven them with threads of moonlight.
A longing Margot had ruthlessly suppressed unfurled its petals and blossomed inside her. What with Gina already wearing the Dior gown before Claire had the opportunity, somehow Margot hadn’t felt right asking Claire if she could borrow it.
Maybe it wouldn’t suit her anyway. Maybe it wouldn’t fit. You could ask Béatrice to alter it for you, argued a treacherous voice in her head. Suit you? Of course it will. How could anyone not look ravishing in such an ensemble?
As if in answer to her question, the sunshine beaming through the window intensified and the gown seemed to glow with promise, as if it were a treasure in a movie. It beckoned her to throw off the mask she’d been hiding behind for months—no, years—now, to return to her old self, the self she had been proud to be.
Spellbound, Margot started to undress.
“What are you doing?”
With a gasp, Margot spun around, her arms covering her chest. She was down to her bra and knickers and it wasn’t anything Claire hadn’t seen a million times, but she felt exposed.
Her heart thumping in her chest, Margot said, “I’m sorry.” She snatched up her dress and pulled it over her head, wishing she hadn’t given in to temptation like that.
Feeling like a child caught in wrongdoing, almost nauseous with guilt and shame, Margot would have rushed from the room, but Claire put a hand out to stop her. “Wait.”
Margo halted, staring down at her feet.
Claire was laughing. “Margot! There’s no need to be sorry.” She nodded her encouragement. “Try it on. Come on. I’ll help you.”
She should have known. Claire’s heart was so big, so generous, she would not even comprehend why Margot had been reluctant to ask her this favor.
“The gown is to be worn,” said Claire, “not preserved like a . . . What’s the word? Something in the Louvre, for example.”
“Artifact?”
“Oui, c’est ça. ‘Artifact.’” She gestured toward the gown. “Please. Let me see how it looks.”
But Margot shook her head. “No, I really shouldn’t. Not hot and bothered from cleaning, anyway. But I did want to ask you . . .” She bit her lip. If she asked and Claire said yes, there was no going back. She would be committed to attending Charlotte’s masquerade.
“She wants to wear it to the Mountbattens’ Venetian ball.” Gina’s drawl came from the doorway. “I told her you wouldn’t mind.”
“You’re going?” Claire’s delight was genuine. She pulled Margot into a tight, strong hug. “Oh, ma chérie, I am so pleased for you! Yes, yes, you must wear the gown. I can’t believe you were finding it hard to ask. What’s mine is yours, always. You know that.”
“And we might not have your expertise with hair and makeup and such, but we will both be here to make sure you are the most beautiful woman at the ball.” Gina’s mouth quirked up. “Shouldn’t be too hard, considering what we have to work with.”
Margot looked from one of them to the other. Everything was falling into place as if fate were lending a guiding hand. Madame Delahaye had told her that her destiny was not at Dior. That might have been the kind of generic advice she gave to everyone—Doc MacFarlane would have argued this to be the case—but half of destiny was seizing opportunity, making the most of one’s luck. That was something Margot knew how to do.
She made a sound between a gasp and a laugh. “I’m scared.” Not to a living soul would she have admitted such a thing before. But these two women would never use her weakness against her. Their friendship, so easy and fun in the early years of their acquaintance, had deepened and matured with time, strengthened by the hardships each of them had faced.
Gina said, “I know it’s a big step, attending Charlotte’s ball. But even if it doesn’t work out with Andrew, you will have the satisfaction of knowing you overcame your fear of going back to your old life, being seen by your socialite friends. You’ve punished yourself enough, staying hidden all this time. After the masquerade, you can start to truly live again.”
Claire’s arm was still around Margot. She squeezed her shoulder. “Gina’s right. And who knows? You might just have the night of your life.”
That felt like too much to hope for. But one thing was certain: she’d regret not taking the leap. And most wonderful of all? She knew without a doubt that her best friends would be there to catch her should she fall.
When Gina answered the telephone at ten o’clock that evening, she expected it to be Jay calling to try to make amends before he left Paris.
“Gina, hi.” The voice was Hal’s. “Listen, can we meet?”
“Now?” She was about to turn in for the night but she wasn’t going to admit that to him. She was on the verge of finishing her book and she’d been rising earlier and earlier to get more pages done, to keep the momentum going. That meant going to bed earlier, too. Otherwise, she’d be following Monsieur Florie’s example and snoozing during her lunch break at the bookstore each day.
“It’s important or I wouldn’t ask.” Hal hesitated.
“Is it about my father?” She didn’t want it to be about Jay.
“Look, I’ll tell you when I get there. The brasserie, okay?”
“I guess.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” said Hal.
She hung up and hurried to the bedroom, where Margot was sitting up in bed, reading more of Gina’s manuscript and making notes in the margins. Margot lowered the pages. “Who was that?”
“Hal,” said Gina. She was scrabbling around on the floor. “Have you seen my cashmere sweater? The cream one?”
“It was neatly folded in your drawer last time I checked,” said Margot.
“Well, how am I supposed to find it there?” quipped Gina, opening the drawer and pulling it out.
Climbing out of bed, Margot found a pair of camel-colored trousers in their shared closet and threw them over a chair. “Wear these. And this scarf.” She snatched a small square of patterned silk from the floor where Gina had just flung it while searching for her sweater and handed it to her.
Gina knew better than to argue with Margot over fashion. By the time they were done, Gina looked casual but chic, as if she wasn’t really trying too hard—exactly the impression she wanted to give Hal.
When she’d dressed and patted on some makeup and Margot had fixed her hair, Gina looked at the clock. More than fifteen minutes had passed since she’d spoken with Hal. “I’d better go.”
Down at the brasserie, she found her former fiancé sitting at a table on the sidewalk, two glasses of red wine in front of him. It was a little too chilly to sit outside but perhaps he’d chosen that spot so they could be alone. Gina took a seat to his three o’clock, but the table was so small and his legs were so long, her knees brushed his when she sat down.
Before she could say anything, he reached inside his jacket and brought out a tooled leather case, then laid it on the table.
“My pen!” She grabbed the case and opened it. The gleam of gold, the loving inscription, met her eye. “You found it! How did you . . .”
She trailed off, understanding what had happened. On the evening she’d run into Hal outside Chez Julien, he’d gone to Jay and made him explain why Gina was so upset. Then he’d gone to the pawnbroker himself and somehow managed to get the pen back for her.
“I’m sorry for calling so late,” he said. “I thought you’d want it back as soon as possible.” He toyed with his wineglass. “The broker had already sold it, so I had to go and, uh, persuade the man who’d bought it to give it back.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” She couldn’t believe it. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. Tears of relief and joy. She had this vital piece of her mother back. She’d treasure it even more now.
Hal caught her gaze and held it, his expression solemn. “I’d do anything for you, Gina. You know that.”
She knew it was true and she couldn’t help herself. A little awkwardly, since they were both seated, Gina threw her arms around Hal and hugged him. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I’ll pay you back. I—”
Her words were cut off by his kiss. The second their lips touched, she knew she was a goner. Her whole body was set alight. They’d always had this natural rhythm and fit, and they kissed greedily but with no awkwardness or hesitation at all, as if they’d never been apart. It was bliss to feel him, his solid chest against hers, his thick ash blond hair between her fingers as she plunged them through, drawing him closer.
After some time, Hal drew back and looked deep into her eyes. “Please, Gina. Please say you’ll marry me. I can’t live without you. I’ve tried.” His voice broke. “I’ll do anything. Please.”
Guilt flickered at the desperation in his voice. She’d hurt him terribly, even if she’d meant it for his own good. How stupid would she be to pass up a man like this? “But your political career—”
“Don’t you see?” Tenderly he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “None of that means anything without you.”
He meant it. She knew that. And maybe she ought to trust that he was right, that everything would work out, if only they could be together.
“All right,” she whispered, throwing away every caution and objection she’d ever thought of. “I will marry you, Hal Sanders.”
On her final day off before her work at Thibault’s new restaurant began, Claire slept in. She opened her eyes to bright sunshine peeping through the cracks in her curtains and kissing her cheeks. Smiling, she stretched, luxuriating in the crisp linen sheets and heavenly soft pillows, and the acres of space on Madame’s four-poster bed.
What was Madame Vaughn doing now in that spa town in Switzerland? Claire had written to her, telling her how grateful she was to be living with her two best friends in Madame’s beautiful apartment, assuring her they were taking excellent care of the place.
Now she had more news to share. When she thought back over the evening of Thibault’s dinner, she could hardly believe all of her dreams had come true at once. And there was still so much she wanted to do. Now she would achieve all of it with Hervé by her side. She had her friends, her career was back on track, and she had a man who would support her every step of the way. What more could anyone want? She would go to Mass today for the first time in weeks and offer up thanks to God.
There was a faint scratching at her door. “Come in!” she called, knowing it would be Margot seeing if she was awake, impatient to start the day.
But it was Gina who opened the door. Over her shoulder, she called to Margot, “She’s awake! Come on.” Grinning widely, Gina took a running jump and landed on the bed next to Claire. “Scoot over.” Obediently Claire wriggled sideways to allow Gina some space.
Margot came in, wiping her hands on an apron and shaking her head. “Gina’s been like a child on Christmas morning, waiting for you to wake up.”
Gina flung out an arm and beckoned to Margot. “Come here. I have something to tell you both.”
Claire watched as Margot untied her apron, folded it, and put it on a chair, then boosted herself up to sit at the foot of the bed. “What is it? You are positively giddy today.”
Gina’s eyes gleamed. “Hal and I are back together.”
“What?” Claire cried, hugging her. “Oh, Gina, that’s wonderful!”
“How did it happen?” said Margot. “Does that mean your father is back on his feet now?”
“Well, he’s getting there, apparently,” said Gina. “But it’s not that. I just realized all of that baloney about reputation and being the perfect political wife doesn’t matter anymore. Hal cares about me more than anything else. I guess I thought I knew what was best for him but he showed me that wasn’t the case.” Gina beamed. “He said he’s been miserable without me.”
Margot laughed. “And that makes you happy?”
“I know. I’m awful.” Gina sighed. “But he made me realize last night that he needs me as much as I need him. I never truly understood that before.”
She told them about her mother’s gold pen and about how Hal had got it back for her. “I know the fallout from my father’s business failure won’t magically disappear. But Hal has told his father, his campaign manager, everyone, that if he can’t have me, he won’t run for office at all. So they’ve agreed they’ll make it work.”
“That is a man who knows how to get what he wants,” said Claire.
“But, Gina, is it what you want?” Margot looked troubled.
Gina’s eyebrows drew together. “Of course it is, silly!”
Margot seemed unconvinced, but before she could open her mouth to argue, Claire jumped up and clapped her hands together. “I know! Let’s celebrate!” She grabbed Margot’s hand and dragged her into the kitchen, telling her to open a bottle of champagne while Claire whipped up some special scrambled eggs with shavings of precious black truffle.
Later, Margot insisted on washing the dishes instead of Gina so that Gina could get ready for a drive in the countryside with Hal. When the two of them were alone in the kitchen, Claire said, “What’s wrong, Margot?”
“I’m happy for her. I am.” Margot frowned down at the sink filled with sudsy water.
“But?” Claire prompted.
“Hal always gets what he wants,” said Margot. “But what about Gina’s career?”
“What do you mean?” asked Claire. “She’ll still be able to write.”
“Will she?” Margot regarded her gravely. “Not every man is like Hervé, Claire.”
“Yes, but this is Gina we’re talking about. She has a pretty strong will of her own. And you heard it yourself. Hal adores her. He’d do anything for her.”
“He will now,” said Margot. “But what about when things get hard?”
Privately Claire thought Margot’s view of Gina’s relationship was heavily colored by her own horrible marriage. She wasn’t going to say it, though. “Try to be happy for her, Margot. At the end of the day, it’s Gina’s decision to make.”
Margot looked unconvinced, but she said, “Of course I’m happy for her. He loves her and she loves him.” Slowly, she added, “Only sometimes I think love means different things to men than it does to women. At least, it does to men like Hal.”