“Meet us at Dior at five thirty sharp. Don’t even think about not coming.”
Gina read the note and shut her eyes. This was the second morning she’d woken with a sick feeling akin to dread. First that awful fight, then her painful parting from Hal.
The message, written in Claire’s messy handwriting and left on Gina’s bedside table, was Claire’s way of forcing a resolution. Gina ought to be relieved. She longed for her friends more than ever, now that she had broken it off with Hal. But she’d been the one in the wrong when the three friends had argued that night and admitting it would not be easy.
She had hours to fill before their meeting and her mind raced with phrases of apology—all of which seemed grossly inadequate. When she wasn’t trying to think of what to say, she was tormented with imagined scenarios where Margot refused ever to forgive her. She would have to leave the apartment, begin again, alone and friendless in Paris.
The writing went badly all day with the forthcoming confrontation hanging over her head. She was tempted to beg Monsieur Florie for her old job back, if only to help pass the time, but she didn’t think she had it in her to grovel twice in one day.
Doggedly, she plugged away at the typewriter, but for hour after hour, it was like wading through cement. Still she kept at it until finally, against all odds, inspiration struck and the story took flight. The next time she looked up, hours had passed. She’d have to hurry or she’d be late.
Gina made it to Dior in record time, breathless and windblown, a dire contrast to Margot, who didn’t have a hair out of place. Margot wasn’t wearing black this time. Either Dior had decreed a new dress code or she hadn’t been at work that day.
Glad it was just the two of them—at least for now—Gina sped the last few steps and pulled Margot into a tight hug, overcome with a rush of gratitude and remorse. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean those horrible things I said.”
Margot gave a small shudder that might have been relief, then let out a long, shaky sigh. “I know that. I know, my dear, darling friend. Although in some ways you were right.” She squeaked as Gina hugged her harder. “Stop! You’re crushing me!”
Gina let go, her laughter edged with tears. “Oh, Margot. It’s been such an awful couple of days. You can’t imagine.”
Margot held up one finger in warning. “And we will talk about that, but not here. You know that Dior is only for the good news.” Her eyes sparkled. “And I have some excellent news for you.”
Gina’s mind went blank. Then a glimmer of hope shone in the darkness. “Not the book?”
“Yes!” Margot gripped her hands. “I should wait for Claire but if I don’t tell you this now, I might explode. Andrew Mountbatten read your manuscript—he canceled all of his appointments and tore through it in less than a day. He’s excited, Gina. He agreed with me that Liberty is brilliant. He wants to offer you a book deal.”
“What?” Gina couldn’t believe it. Despite every miserable thing that had happened, she couldn’t help the excitement that raced through her. All of that work, the writing and rewriting, and now . . . “Really? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure!” Margot rolled her eyes. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking: Maybe he was humoring me, right? But he got straight on the phone to his colleagues in the United States. He’s going to come back to us with a preemptive offer, because he knows that when they read it, the other editors will agree.” She grinned and that old light of mischief was back in her eyes. “But do you know what? I think we should show it to other publishers, too. The Frankfurt Book Fair is coming up. We might even go to auction with it if there’s enough interest.”
“That sounds very grand,” said Gina, marveling at how quickly Margot had become familiar with the publishing world and its jargon. “Won’t Mountbatten be mad?”
Margot shook her head. “He knows my first duty is to my client.” She winked. “That’s you, by the way. And I’d be neglecting my duty if I didn’t advise you that after the response he had to your book today, we ought to push this to the absolute limit.”
Suddenly the news hit Gina with full force. Her story was going to become a real, solid book, with cardboard covers and marbled endpapers and printed pages in between! To see a novel, written by her, on the bookstore shelves . . . A surge of remorse made Gina blink hard to fight back tears. “I can’t believe you did all of this for me when I was such a . . . so awful to you.”
Margot frowned. “But, Gina, don’t you know? You’re my family. We might have our differences but we’ll always, always have each other. Besides, now that I have a commission to earn, you’re not going to get rid of me that—” She broke off. “Ah, there’s Claire.”
Gina’s elation vanished like air from a popped balloon as she turned to see their friend striding toward them. She exchanged a look with Margot.
“We’re sorry, Claire,” Margot said, taking the lead this time. “You needed to be there for Hervé. We understand.”
Claire’s mouth twisted. “Well, I don’t say you were wrong. And anyway, Hervé kicked me out of his kitchen after a couple of days, so . . .” She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked on her toes. “I’m back at Thibault’s, feet to the fire. Hervé’s managing just fine.”
Gina was glad. “I don’t know what got into me that night. I wish we hadn’t fought like that.”
“We all said some things we regret,” said Margot. “But I think perhaps we needed to hear some home truths, didn’t we?”
Claire looked at Gina. “What about Hal?”
Sadness welled up inside her. “That’s not something I can talk about here.” She drew a deep breath. “But I have received a positive response to my book, thanks to Margot.”
“Vraiment?” Claire’s face lit up. “That’s marvelous!” She threw her arms around Gina and rocked her from side to side. Margot put a hand on each of their backs, smiling upon them as benevolently as if she were the minister at a wedding.
“Now that,” she said with satisfaction, “is what I like to see.”
“But what about you, Margot?” said Claire, finally letting Gina go. “Are you with Andrew Mountbatten now?”
With the glint of mischief back in her eye, Margot nodded. “He has asked me to go back to New York with him when his sabbatical’s finished.”
“You’re leaving Paris?” Gina exclaimed.
“I don’t know,” Margot answered. “I said I wanted to take it slowly this time.”
Claire’s eyes were wide. “But . . . you would not live with him in sin?” Clearly her Roman Catholic upbringing had not prepared her for such a shocking turn of events.
Margot winced and Gina sent Claire a warning glance. “If that’s the way it has to be, we support you,” said Gina. “He struck me as the real deal, and you can’t wait five whole years to be free.”
“Besides, there’s the small matter of his not being allowed to marry a divorcée.” Margot’s mouth twisted. “He doesn’t care about that, but I certainly do. And besides, I’ve been put off marriage as an institution, quite frankly.” She laughed. “But we’re all getting ahead of ourselves. I’m not committing to anything just yet.”
“I liked him,” said Claire. “Oh, but very much. And I have excellent taste in men.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Margot dug her in the ribs with her finger, making Claire giggle. “Are you and Hervé getting married, then?”
Claire nodded, grinning from ear to ear. She held out her left hand, letting the small diamond on her third finger sparkle and glint in the light of the setting sun. “But the wedding won’t be for a couple of years yet. Not until I’ve gained more experience with Thibault.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” cried Margot, catching Claire’s hand to admire the diamond solitaire close up. “You must let me plan the reception for you, my dear, darling Claire.”
Gina kissed Claire on both cheeks. “Congratulations, ma chère. I’m so glad we are to have a wedding, after all.” She winked. “And I know exactly what you should wear.”