Letter from Paris (29 page)

Happy Holidays

Bonnes Fêtes

India

Adam picked up the phone and dialed India. It went straight to voice mail.

“I think a few more and we’re done,” India said, admiring her handiwork.

She was sitting on the cozy couch in Sarah’s sitting room tying red satin ribbon into festive bows. The baby was asleep by a silver tree decorated with tiny white lights. Damien was noticeably absent these days, but Sarah seemed happy and content.

“Alana has me, her granddad, and her fairy godmother. Who else could she possibly need right now?” she’d said. “Have you seen much of Luella since you got back from Paris?”

“I’ve seen her a few times,” India answered. “I think her husband’s moved out. She said he’s gone to Provence for the holidays, but she told me deep down they both know he’s not coming back.”

“Maybe we should invite her around for drinks or something over the holidays. I’d like to meet her.”

“Good idea,” India said. “I’ll do that. Okay. Where do you want the snow globe and this monstrosity to go?” She laughed, pulling a box toward her and holding up a pottery Santa Claus. “These photographs will be for posterity, remember.”

“Mantelpiece, please,” Sarah said firmly. “’Tis the season for bad taste.”

“I’ve ordered the turkey, and I’ll make the stuffing and get the veg ready at home next week. This is going to be a wonderful Christmas,” India said, standing back to assess the arrangement. “I plan on arriving in my glad rags and I expect the same from you. I’m thinking red of course for our photo shoot.”

“Of course.” Sarah smiled. “So how’re you feeling, Indie? You seem great.”

“How do you mean?” India said, looking away from her and fiddling with a fir cone.

“You know what I mean. About Adam of course.”

“A little fragile I suppose, but I feel good about it too. I’ve done the right thing;
we’ve
done the right thing.”

India stretched out a string of tinsel along the mantel and placed another white cone on top. “He might have been telling the truth about that girl in Vegas, but ever since he had that fling after that summer I left Los Angeles, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I’ve wondered for a while how long you could take the strain of it,” Sarah said. “It was really starting to show.”

“I know. You read about Hollywood couples breaking up every five minutes, don’t you? I’m simply not cut out for it, Sarah. I hated the goodbyes, the waiting, being on my own so much.”

“But the good news is you ended it properly, without anyone getting hurt.”

“True. It’s still a bit raw. I’m feeling okay though. I know it’s the right thing. I think writing the letter really helped. Sometimes it’s the only way to say exactly what you mean.”

“I can see that,” Sarah said through a mouthful of chocolate. ”Want one?”

“Thanks,” India said, taking the box. “Sometimes I think I was more in love with the idea of Adam Brooks than the reality. I’m not sure we had that much in common when it comes down to it.”

“Well, you’ve plenty in common with Henry, that’s for sure.” Sarah smiled, lifting the baby into her arms. “She has, hasn’t she, Alana?” she said, jigging the baby over her shoulder in front of the log fire.

“Enough on that Sarah, thank you very much,” India said in tones of mock outrage. “Stop fishing; we work together. We’re just friends, honestly. I’m enjoying this job far too much to jeopardize it.”

“I can see that. I’ve never heard you talk about anything the way you do about the shows and all the trips. You’re obviously in your element.”

“I am. I really am. I never imagined there was a job in the world that I could love this much, and it turns out I’m really good at it too.”

She paused. “I shall be taking it very slowly with Henry,” she said. “There’s too much at stake for me.”

“Such wisdom from one so young.” Sarah laughed.

“Okay,” India said, lifting her purse. “I was going to wait until next week to give you this, but I just couldn’t. Let me show you the cutest dress I bought for Alana. You’re going to flip over it.”

She handed her friend a delicately wrapped package. “It’s from Bon Point,” she said. “From Paris of course.”

“Here. Hold the baby,” Sarah said. “I still can’t get the hang of doing everything with one hand.” She gasped as she pulled out a powder-pink dress with a delicate hand-embroidered collar.

“She’ll grow out of it in five minutes it’s so tiny,” India said, “but then I thought she could use it to dress up her dolls.”

“Thank you. It’s exquisite,” Sarah said folding it carefully and giving India a hug. “Thank you.”

“So I’d better get off. I think we’ve done a wonderful job here, don’t you?” she said, glancing around the room twinkling in the firelight.

“Night-night Alana.” She kissed the baby on the forehead and handed her back to Sarah.

“See you two soon,” she shouted, closing the door behind her. “Merry Christmas.”

It seemed to India as she walked the short distance from the subway to her street, that change happened when you stopped drifting and took control. That’s what Sarah had done wasn’t it? She had wanted a baby badly enough to rewrite the script. No matter what the future might hold for her, she had listened to her heart and taken a leap of faith in herself. India put the light on in the hallway, took off her coat, and went through to the bathroom to shower.

Of course, I took control too, she thought later that evening as she set the kitchen table for one and arranged tall candles with fresh holly and ivy as a centerpiece.

She pulled the quiche from the oven and tossed the salad. Opening a bottle of merlot, she left the cork to the side of it the way they always did in French restaurants.

The End

Acknowledgements

My thanks first and foremost go to Lou Aronica, who cajoled and nagged me (in the nicest possible way of course) to write this book. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to be published again and for encouraging me every step of the way.

Jodi Rose, where do I begin? Thank you for your insights and humor and for picking up on all my English dialogue and translating it into American. You helped bring the characters to life, mercilessly editing my tendency toward flowery language, banning all “amber liquids” and limiting the number of chicken casseroles eaten as well as the number of times people were allowed to “drain” their glasses.  Working with you never feels like work.

Rand Rusher, for your insights, warmth and humor.

Claudia Barwell, for getting me into a writing cycle and suggestions on character development

Mark Shelmerdine, for encouragement and the generous offer of hosting the book party. Yes, please.

Matt Goldman and Renee Rolleri for awarding me the 2012 New York Literary Torch Award. It was a great honor.

Love and thanks to all the “Derry Girls.” Especially to Jenni Doherty and Ursula McHugh for the warmth of your welcome for me and my work. You have no idea how grateful I am to you all.

Merci Beaucoup to all the wonderful staff at the Hotel de l’Abbaye in Saint Germain and especially for letting me have the room with the conservatory each visit.

Thank you to the vegans in my family who inspire me with their commitment to an issue they believe in passionately – Neil Robinson, John Robinson, Allison Robinson, Cat Robinson.

This time around I simply didn’t have time to share the drafts with friends who offered to read them, but I am so grateful to you for all the cheerleading and support you gave me by keeping India alive and well – Jane Arnell, Patti Diane Baker, Tony Barton, Ann Dickson, Roma Downey, Bryn Freedman, Bronya Galef, Lena Gannon, Lani Hall, Sheran James, Carol King, Diane McCarter, Avril More, Bernie McMahon, Mel McMahon, Mimi Peak, Sharon Harroun-Peirce, Bob Peirce, Lynn Pompeii, Ron Pompeii, Chris Ranck, Amy Rappaport, Diana Revson, Beryl Roberts, Dorothy Storer, Paul Wright.

Thank you Barbara Aronica-Buck for another exquisite cover.

Endless thanks to Brenda Cullerton for your sharp insights and encouragement.

Finally a huge thank-you to Ken, James, and Kate Robinson. This book is for you with all my love.

Also by Thérèse:

We hope you’ve enjoyed
Letter from Paris
. If you haven’t yet read Thérèse’s magical first novel,
India’s Summer
, you might enjoy the following excerpt:

PROFOUND THOUGHTS NOTE – California Casual?

Late next morning they packed up overnight bags and drove out to Malibu. Looking forward to a relaxed afternoon with Annie’s friends and her nieces, India planned to swim at the beach, too.

“It’s almost like being in the country,” Annie had told her.

They drove down Sunset Boulevard past the suburban estates of Pacific Palisades and onto the Pacific Coast Highway. After a few miles, Annie turned the SUV expertly up the incline of a steep hill that led them a few miles into the canyon. Then she slowed down on a tiny dirt road, avoiding the lines of precariously parked cars. The sprawling ranch property was set way back in acres of land. While they waited for the electronic gates to open, India noticed a large sign underneath the surveillance cameras. “Private Party: No Tweets or Video, Please.”

“That’s funny, Annie.” She laughed. “Do we get a full body search? Hope so, it’s been a while.”

“We try to keep this place a secret,” Annie said, laughing. “Well, we’re a bit late. Let’s freshen up quickly.” She climbed down from the car and led India up a back stairway.

India splashed her face and straightened her hair in a bath- room. She had opted for a white linen shirt, black capri pants, and flat leather moccasins. This was working beautifully, or so she thought, until Annie reappeared in a heavily jeweled Tory Burch smock, meticulously ripped blue jeans, and high, gold, strappy Jimmy Choo sandals.

“Come on, darling. Joss and the girls are bursting to see you,” Annie said, grabbing her hand and leading India down the stairs and into the garden.

A woman passed by in a long sequined evening dress, also wearing emerald earrings and a choker of enormous black pearls. Obviously this “California Casual” look doesn’t come cheap, India thought, and began speculating on the total cost, starting with the woman’s highlighted hair, her makeup, manicure, pedicure, shoes, handbag, and jewelry. She’d reached a rough estimate of $5,500 and was about to start on Annie, when she was interrupted by a shout from Joss. He raced across the garden and lifted her up off the ground for a hug as she threw her arms around him.

“My favorite, favorite sister-in-law,” he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Your only sister-in law,” India replied. “Now unhand me or people will start tweeting about us.”

“Ah. Yes. The sign. Last time we had a party it was all over TMZ as it was happening! You can’t be too careful in this town, believe me.”

“Ha!” India replied. A woman in a low-cut, skintight mini- dress and eight-inch platform heels teetered by. India whispered: “That’s some outfit for a barbecue! Annie said this was going to be really casual for just a few friends.”

“Yes. This would be Annie’s idea of a few friends, all right.” He laughed, eyeing the crowds near the pool. “And you’re a breath of fresh air, India. Now come on; let me get you a drink.”

Shortly after, she was standing alone, sipping a mimosa, and feeling that weird sense of disconnection she’d had in the session with Pete just before the firewalk. What did she want? What had she ever wanted? She watched Joss hoisting one of the kids onto his wide shoulders and admired the strength in his back as he went toward the haze of charcoal smoke. Incredible to think his band is outselling Zeppelin, she mused. It’s different for guys. He just gets better looking every time I see him.

“India! Give us a hug, you gorgeous thing!” shouted a total stranger, a man in tan shorts and an open-collared plaid shirt.

She took a step back as he tried to put his arms around her. “I’m Ben. And I just know you must be Annie’s sister.”

“You do?” she replied, smiling tentatively. “Have we met?”

“No,” he said, gently leading her toward a trestle table that was set up in the shade beneath a wooden trellis covered in wisteria. “But don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

“Me either,” she said.

“I’m relieved. Now please take a seat and say hello to Max. Oh, and the ugly one is Adam.”

India nearly dropped her glass when she saw “the ugly one.” Sarah would die, she thought. And she’d also know the name of every movie he’s been in. Oh. My. God. The arms! They were the sexiest arms she’d ever set eyes on. And Max? She’d heard about him, too. He had been one of Hollywood’s funniest, most successful comedians, until the drugs killed his career.

“Hey,” Adam said, standing up, slowly, to shake her hand and holding eye contact for what seemed an exquisitely torturous amount of time. “How are you?”

“Fine. I … I’m doing fine, a little bit tired today, but doing okay. I woke up earlier than usual though… I’m good…” she said. Shut up now, she thought, it’s a form of greeting, not the Spanish Inquisition.