A Rather Charming Invitation (10 page)

“My children know better,” Auguste said. “David took them there one Christmas, but he made them sit on a bench and watch from morning till night, until they were so dusty and tired that they fell asleep.
They
know it’s not magic made by elves! You won’t see them asking to go back to the workshop. David himself can hardly bear to set foot inside the factory now.”

It didn’t take a genius to catch that whiff of snobbery from Auguste, and it was clear that both ladies looked upon the perfumery and flower fields as a grubby business, merely a means of financial security. They took pride only in David’s wheeling and dealing, although they didn’t go into the details. They also seemed to expect that I wholeheartedly agreed with them on the need for modernization, not preservation; but since they didn’t actually ask my opinion, I didn’t offer it.

“Times change, and the business must change with them,” Auguste said primly, in the attitude of a woman who was quoting her husband as if it were gospel. I got a slight stab of terror, envisioning myself as a wife who went about announcing, “
My
husband thinks this” as if it were a competitive sport.

But frankly, I was starting to miss Jeremy very much, and I was relieved when everyone rose from the table, and Auguste murmured about going to look in on the children. That left me alone with Leonora as we returned to the entrance hall. When she saw me glancing up again at the tapestry, she said encouragingly, “Go ahead, have another look.” She watched from below as I ascended to the balcony.

This time I noticed the other artwork that hung there. There were two good landscape paintings, one of old Mougins, one of turn-of-the-twentieth-century Cannes fishermen hauling a day’s catch in beautiful light. Also, there were two medieval portraits, done in those deep, rich, chocolate-y colors, one of a monk, another of a lady wearing a spiky crown and her hair in a long braid.

On closer inspection, I saw that the pictures seemed to be spaced apart in an odd way, as if to cover up for the fact that, originally, much more artwork had hung here, but was recently removed, leaving some telltale dark square “shadows” on the walls. Leonora, who’d come up the stairs and now appeared at my elbow, said, lightly, that over the years they had indeed sold off some of their art.

“Eventually, one tires of looking at the same old pictures,” she explained airily, but rather unconvincingly. “This house has had many visitors who speak of our collection, and the next thing you know, some museum makes you an offer, and they can be very persuasive.” She paused. “We recently had an offer for the tapestry, but I, myself, am convinced it was far beneath what the tapestry is worth. Perhaps you, my dear Penny, would like to look into it and render your professional opinion?”

I now realized that there were many reasons for this weekend invitation. But the intriguing tapestry was simply irresistible, and I had an automatic urge to photograph it with the camera I always travel with, out of habit from my research work. When I asked her permission, she agreed, so I went to my room to fetch it from my suitcase; then returned.

At first I just stood there gazing, wondering where to begin. It was too big to fit the whole thing into the frame of one photo, and still see any details. I began snapping sections of it here and there. Finally I paused to ask, “Can I get a shot of you near it?”

Leonora looked surprised, then flattered, and obligingly stood alongside it. Our voices must have carried up the hallway to the other wing where the family bedrooms were, because Philippe emerged and came wandering out. He was wearing a red and gold smoking jacket, and carrying a pipe. He posed naturally beside the tapestry when I asked him to, with that friendly ease that continental men often have, obliging and relaxed. Then he went right back into his room, silently, like a horse returning to its stable, and Leonora wished me
bonne nuit
and followed him.

 

 

A few hours later, the other men returned, and Jeremy bounded upstairs where I was waiting in our room. He grinned and kissed me, then headed straight for the shower. When he peeled off his shirt I saw a large, black-and-blue bruise on his chest and shoulder.

“Holy cow, what is
that
?” I cried.

Jeremy looked embarrassed. “Just a little knocking about,” he said.

“Did you get into fisticuffs with David?” I joked.

“Ho, ho. No, it’s from the ‘return’ of the shotgun. Been awhile since I’ve gone shooting.”

“It looks awful! Does it hurt?” I asked.

“What do you think?”

“Want me to ask for some ice?”

“Lord no, don’t rat me out,” he said. “I could kill for a cup of espresso, but they assumed that I, being English, preferred tea, so they went to a great deal of trouble to produce a fine afternoon tea, in a tent, no less, right after the shooting. Later, we went to the local pub for a beer and supper.”

I told him about my day with Oncle Philippe. “Look at what they gave us,” I said, and I showed him the beautiful antique perfume bottles and personalized scents. “Perfume for me, and aftershave for you. Did you know that perfume is made only for women? Men get cologne, or aftershave.”

“That’s nice,” he replied.

“
Nice
?” I said incredulously. “Is that all you can say for this incredibly rare gift they made especially for us? By hand, from local flowers and ancient methods? Do you know what this would cost if you had to pay for it? No other man in the world will have an aftershave like this, you dope.”

“Oh. Can I open mine?” Jeremy asked.

“Why not?” I said. Once he handled the bottle, I think he understood its value. He opened it reverently, as if fearing it might break. Then, he sniffed appreciatively.

“Hey, you’re right. This is pretty good stuff,” he said. “Subtle, yet potent. I’m going to douse myself in it after I shower,” he exaggerated.

“Listen,” I said, “I found out something about why they’re being so nice to us. Tante Leonora wants me to research the tapestry so she can sell it for a high price. I suppose it’s a harmless enough request, but maybe you were right about the family being a bit cash-strapped.”

“Yes, well, there’s a little more on the agenda than that,” Jeremy told me. “This whole hunting party took place at the lodge of Charles’ father. Afterwards, David hinted that we might want to invest in Philippe’s perfume company. Never said the words outright, no pressure, but I got the drift. So your little perfume tour and picnic out in the flower fields could have been a subtle part of the overall pitch.”

“Really?” I asked, intrigued. Going over the day’s events in this new light, I supposed it was possible that Oncle Philippe had been assigned to do his part to entice our interest; yet, there was something slightly subversive about him, or at least, ambivalent about the future course of his company.

“I can also shed some light on why they’re so keen for Honorine to marry Charles,” Jeremy added. “Her family’s perfume company is merging with Charles’ family’s business of pharmaceuticals.”

“Oh,” I said. I paused. “So, what kind of a guy is Charles?”

“He’s a nice enough kid,” Jeremy said. “Intelligent, but rather cautious and reticent.”

I recalled what Honorine had said about how Charles did whatever his parents told him to do. Something in her tone had convinced me that he just wasn’t the ideal match for the spirited Honorine.

“By resisting Charles,” Jeremy warned, “Honorine is gumming up the works.”

“Why . . . that’s positively medieval,” I spluttered indignantly.

“Nevertheless,” Jeremy said, “David really wants this deal. He’s been trying to drag his company into the twenty- first century, modernizing the equipment, the chemistry, et cetera. That takes capital. With such a labor-intensive company and expensive materials, the debts can be big. Very big. So,” Jeremy concluded, “I lovingly suggest that you butt out of this Honorine debacle.”

“But we promised her a job,” I objected.

“If she asks, and
only
if she asks, we can say the offer stands,” Jeremy said firmly, “but don’t be surprised when Leonora mows down the idea. If so, then leave it be.”

 

 

The next morning, I arose with some trepidation. As we packed our bags and prepared to depart, I just knew things would have to come to a head with Honorine; and, sure enough, right after breakfast, when Jeremy and I were at the foot of the staircase, thanking everybody, ready to skedaddle back to London, Honorine appeared, dressed to travel, and carrying two little suitcases. Just like that, as if it had all been agreed upon. All weekend she’d acted dutiful and obedient, but only, as it turned out, to lull her mother into a false sense of security. She’d waited until now to spring it on her
maman
that she intended to return to London as a personal assistant to me and Jeremy, because we needed her help.

“It’s all set,” she informed them grandly. All “orange-ed”.

Tante Leonora’s smile immediately vanished, but Oncle Philippe stepped into the breach and declared this an excellent idea. “Let her go with Penn-ee. Much better than backpacking around with her scruffy
artistes
and bohemian friends, sleeping God knows where,” he said, and, with typical French rationality, he declared that staying with Jeremy and me would surely be a more
profonde
influence.

“After all,” he said, “Penn-ee is a successful career woman, and she will be a beautiful bride and a gracious mentor for Honorine. I would hope our daughter will make herself indispensible, not only in their office, but for the wedding plans, too.” I saw that he’d been listening to me much more closely than I realized, when I had been singing Honorine’s praises about how useful she was to us in London.

To my surprise, this worked like a charm with Leonora, giving her pause, just as she was on the verge of throwing a fit of pique with her impossible daughter.

“Yes, it’s true,” Leonora murmured thoughtfully. “Think of all the wedding tasks to be done! The flowers, the menu, the music . . . Honorine can surely help.”

Despite the instant alarm I always feel whenever someone mentions my “wedding tasks”, I was deeply impressed with Philippe as a man who knew exactly how to get around his wife for her own good. Right before my eyes I’d seen Leonora do a complete
volteface
and visibly warm to the idea. It was the only time she lost some of her artful subtlety, for I could practically see her thoughts moving across her face in plain view, as she rapidly sized up the situation, weighing how she might come out ahead. I imagined her sly musings along the lines of:
Well, Penny has clearly made a good match and succeeded in life, she is a sensible woman. If Penny will immerse Honorine in bridal plans, she might lead Honorine to discover that being a bride isn’t such a terrible thing; meanwhile, Honorine can influence Penny to have her wedding in France. Parfait!

But all Leonora actually said was, “Ah! I can see it is a waste of time to argue. This decision has been made without me, but who am I? Just a weary mother, that’s all.”

And while continuing to pretend to throw up her hands, having been outnumbered and overruled, she then, quite casually, told me that she would send Honorine a list of family members we might wish to invite to the wedding. I could mentally see my guest list expanding by leaps and bounds, and I couldn’t wait to get home and telephone my mother to inform her that she was utterly wrong about the French side of the family. They were definitely planning on attending the wedding—in France!

W
hen Honorine, Jeremy and I arrived back in London, we found that an enormous amount of work had piled up in our absence. In particular, there was an environmental charity that I’d become involved with, called Women4Water, which supported studies to protect the world’s oceans, lakes, streams, and aquatic life. (Our motto was,
Let’s make waves
.) This year we were trying to raise money to provide good drinking water for children in poor countries.

Jodi, the director, informed me that they simply must come up with something special, some new way to lure more donors, but, as she told me, “Times are tough for charities, and the competition is fierce. Rich people have seen and heard everything. Celebrities help, but one must captivate them with something new.”

Meanwhile, I was now getting impatient phone calls and e-mail messages from my friends and relatives who all wanted to know where my bridal registry was, even though I’d plainly told them that I didn’t need fancy gifts, and would prefer instead that they make donations to this charity.

“But darling,” Erik patiently explained to me on the telephone, “of course we’ll make donations to help you save the world, but meanwhile, people want to do things that are
fun
when their little sweet friend is getting hitched. You’re only going to get married once in this lifetime—I
hope
—and this is a big deal for you, you funny little thing. So put your wedding day at the top of your to-do list, sweetheart, or it is just
not
going to happen the way you want, and you’re going to lose control of it to your mother or somebody.”

His affectionate words of advice rang true. Erik and I have worked together for years on more film sets than I care to count, and he knew me better than most. But I couldn’t even explain to him that the truth was, frankly, every time I sat down with my lists and my planner, I experienced a very strange mood, which I found profoundly baffling. It was as if my brain went into a dead zone, and I sat there at my desk utterly stymied, not knowing what to do first. I put this down to total overwhelm, like when you have to cram for an exam on a subject that you really don’t seem to have any affinity for. I couldn’t figure it out. Every girl I knew harbored a fantasy of how her wedding day would look, right down to the dress, the music, the flowers . . . and so had I.