Forbidden French

Ishould already be in bed, but I’m out on my balcony. Again. I’m out here so often lately, sitting on a chair with my legs tucked up against my chest. It’s getting too chilly, but I can’t seem to make myself move no matter how many gusts of wind threaten to topple me.

In my right hand, I roll an unlit cigarette between my thumb and pointer finger, focusing hard as I do it. I don’t know why I have it. I don’t have a lighter on me. Short of smelling the nicotine, I can’t do anything with the damn thing.

I’ve never smoked before. Collette smokes. She’s perpetually stepping out back during her shifts at the gallery. The other day I bummed this one off her and tried to ignore the look of surprise she gave me as she passed it over. “Little miss goody two shoes likes to smoke?”

“Whatever,” I said with a shrug, trying to come off as nonchalant when it was obvious what I was doing: trying to be someone I’m not.

No, I don’t smoke. No, I likely won’t start. But I might.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day. I really should get some sleep, but I can’t seem to make myself move. Then, with a stroke of brilliance, I remember the matches I have stuffed in my bedside table from the boutique hotel we stayed at in Paris last year. I thought the lettering on the box was too cute not to keep for a souvenir. I dig around in my messy bedside drawer until I come up with the tiny pink and white box.

Back out on the balcony, I strike the match three times before it lights. Then a gust of wind kills the flame and I have to do it all over again.

I finally manage though. I light the tip and take the smallest inhale possible to avoid the stereotypical choking episode that usually follows someone’s first pull from a cigarette, but it happens anyway.

I’m hacking like it’s the 1800s and I’ve got typhoid fever when a knock sounds at my door.

“Lainey?”

It’s Margaret.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Without thinking, I toss the cigarette over the side of the balcony, and then, in a panic, I lean over and watch as it flutters through the air, the tip still glowing orange.

Even though it’s late, there are plenty of people out and about, which means I’m not at all surprised it manages to land on a woman’s shoulder. She jumps back, startled, then looks up.

I megaphone my hands.

“Sorry!” I whisper-hiss. “It was an accident!”

My bedroom door opens and I whirl around just as Margaret walks in with a tray of tea and a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. In her early 60s, Margaret wears her white-blonde hair in a French twist every single day. There are always reading glasses hanging from a lanyard around her neck, and she’s never worn pants as long as I’ve known her. Her uniform consists of crisp shirt-dresses that she neatly irons every morning before leaving her room. She has a taste for pomp and circumstance, and her strict adherence to social etiquettes could rival Emily Post. It’s why she’s been able to keep her position here at my grandmother’s house for as long as she has. Two peas in a pod, the pair of them. I think if they had it their way, they’d persuade all of Boston to adopt Regency-era style of dress and social customs. Corsets, calling cards, chaperones. The idea of “Netflix and chill” is utterly lost on them.

She spots me standing out on the balcony and furrows her brows in admonishment.

“Lainey, dear, please come inside and shut the door. There’s a noticeable chill in the air.”

I do as she says, apologizing as I lock the balcony door behind me.

She carries the tea tray over to the sitting area in my room. It’s styled neatly with a coffee table that sits between a reading chair and a loveseat. All the furniture is antique, all chosen by my grandmother. As Margaret places the tray on the table, she frowns and sniffs the air.

Oh no.

“I just blew out a candle a moment ago. Is that what you’re smelling?”

Still frowning, she shakes her head. “That must be it.”

“It won’t linger,” I assure her as I reach down to pour myself a cup of tea. It’s chamomile. Margaret started making it for me when I was young and first had trouble sleeping. When I was on breaks from St. John’s, she’d find me down in the living room, reading by lamplight, trying to chase away the bleak memories. The tea doesn’t always help, but I’ve come to appreciate the nightly ritual.

“Once you make your cup, come over to the vanity and I’ll brush your hair,” she tells me, already headed in that direction.

Margaret has been a fixture in my grandmother’s house since before I can remember. Officially, she’s my grandmother’s lady’s maid, though the title doesn’t come close to encompassing all of Margaret’s duties. In short, she’s indispensable.

When I was younger, I used to wonder what was in it for Margaret. Her arrangement with my grandmother seemed so odd to me. Margaret was so involved with our lives that she seemed to have nothing for herself, no family, no children.

Now, I realize there is more at play behind the scenes. Though neither of them would admit it, Margaret and my grandmother are each other’s best friends, and more than that, they’re lifelong companions. Margaret has a bedroom right beside my grandmother’s. They spend their days arm in arm. They’ve traveled the world together. It’s a relationship that works well for them both, and for that, I’m grateful.

After I sit at the vanity with my tea, Margaret unties my low bun and carefully runs the brush through the long strands. I sit patiently and drink, knowing she enjoys these quiet moments as much as I do.

“How was the art show?”

“A success. I sold quite a few paintings.”

She smiles proudly. “Morgan’s is lucky to have you.”

I release a caustic chuckle. “Tell my grandmother that. I know she wishes I wouldn’t waste my time there.”

Margaret doesn’t reply, and I’m not surprised. I know she’ll never bite the hand that feeds her. Her loyalty lies with my grandmother, though I like to think she cherishes our bond as well.

“Anyone interesting pop up at the gallery tonight?”

I freeze with my cup of tea midway to my mouth. My wide eyes meet hers in the mirror.

How does she know Emmett Mercier was there? I didn’t say a thing to anyone at the gallery. He and I didn’t speak again after I walked away from him. He stayed for a little while longer, and perhaps he would have wanted to continue where we left off, but I never gave him the chance. I kept myself busy, glued to Aaron’s side for a good portion of the evening, trying to convince myself I was merely trying to do my job when in fact I was taking the coward’s way out.

I don’t know why our paths crossed tonight. It’s not as if it’s a common occurrence. I haven’t seen Emmett since he left St. John’s—actually, that’s not really true. I have seen him online and in newspapers. Trying to shield myself from news of the Mercier Family and GHV is an impossible task. The Atlantic and The New York Times always seem to be running a story or posting a photo of them on social media.

He aged exactly as I thought he would, like a vintage wine kept in perfect conditions. I don’t know why that upsets me. I don’t want him to suffer, though I do hope he’s had at least one real heartache along the way, some girl who really put him in his place. I imagined being that girl once, when I was incredibly young and unbearably naive. I can’t believe I dreamed about him when we were at St. John’s. I was still a child then, but he was so handsome no one could blame me. I think of the picture I kept under my pillow, of the day everyone found out about it. What a fool.

Margaret runs the brush down the length of my hair again, being patient with me as I smile timidly and shrug. “Just the usual. Why do you ask?”

“I had hopes that perhaps Royce would have attended.”

I deflate with so much relief at the mention of Royce that my shoulders actually sag. I lose two inches of height. I’m glad that’s where her mind was heading. It’s no one’s business that I ran into Emmett today, and I have no plans to share it with my grandmother or Margaret. My grandmother would only use the opportunity to remind me of my future, or worse, she’d get it into her head to cut my hours at Morgan’s altogether to avoid a second encounter.

“He’ll be here tomorrow, won’t he?”

She smiles, though it seems half-hearted. “Yes, he did confirm, though it was your grandmother who arranged the meeting…”

“I don’t mind,” I assure her, trying to discern what she could be playing at.

“So then you’re okay with everything?”

I think of my cigarette down on the sidewalk, the lies I feed myself in the morning. You’re happy. You’re okay. No life is better than the life you’re living.

“More than okay,” I say with a big smile. “Why don’t you help me pick out something to wear for the luncheon tomorrow before I go to bed?”