My mom was a tall shaft of a woman, broad in the shoulders, though less so than when she was young, and narrow in the hips, a perfect clothes hanger. The dress was a slender float of silk hand-painted in bright shades of blues and soft greens, with slashes of pink and yellow; perfect for her. It cost the earth, but we bought it, along with flat shoes. Blue shoes: What would Comrade Dad have said?
She slipped her feet into the new shoes and smiled, admiring how nice they looked on her narrow feet.
“Ready?” I took the dress off the hanger. She stood and raised her arms so I could slip the dress over her head. As she smoothed it down over her hips I said, “Beautiful, Mom.”
She looked at herself in the mirror and seemed pleased.
“Now I’m ready to meet the new beau, dear.”
“Jean-Paul is not my beau.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” I said, knowing that I was blushing. “I’ve only seen him a few times.”
She patted my arm. “It’s all right, Margot. Mike would tell you so himself.”
As incorrigible as Kate and Roger, I thought, picking up the shawl she was taking as a wrap. Incorrigible, but lovable.
The weeklong storm had blown out to sea overnight and the sun was shining again, a perfect morning for a drive over the mountains to the ocean. After the recent rains, the Santa Monica Mountains were lush and green, dotted everywhere with random bouquets of bright orange poppies and deep lavender lupine and yellow mustard.
“Do you know what the pianist’s program will be?” Mom asked after remarking on the early wildflowers.
“Sorry, I don’t,” I said. “I should have asked Jean-Paul.”
“We’ll know soon enough.” With a gleam in her eye she patted my arm, but did not utter the word “beau” again.
Jean-Paul Bernard was the French consul general assigned to Los Angeles. When Isabelle, my biological mother, died the previous fall, he had been a wonderful help getting her remains, and me, back to her family in Normandy.
We had seen each other exactly three times since I returned. Once at a Fête Noël-a Christmas party-he hosted for some French expats marooned in Los Angeles over the holidays. Next for the premiere of a documentary film produced by a friend of mine. And then at a French trade association banquet three weeks ago, the night before he left on a trip to France. I was the skirt to his sleeve on those occasions. We spoke on the telephone rather frequently, but this reception would be the first time I had seen him since his return. He was charming, he was gorgeous, and like me, a recent widower with one nearly grown child and a reluctance to venture into a new relationship.
Knowing that my mother was in town for a while, and that she had once been a concert pianist, Jean-Paul had graciously invited her, and me, her sleeve for the occasion, to a recital and reception the consulate was hosting for a well-known French pianist who was in town to perform with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. The reception would be held in Malibu at the Broad Beach mansion owned by a French impresario.
The mansion was on the ocean side of Pacific Coast Highway. As we waited to turn into the forecourt, we saw valets taking cars to park offsite, and guests walking down the long drive to the house. I measured the length of the walk with my eyes as I thought about Mom’s sore knee. I wished I’d brought a wheelchair, or at least a cane. But when I gave my name to the head valet, he instructed us to drive through and park directly in front of the house.
“Well,” Mom said, as the big gate swung open, “I had no idea my daughter had such clout.”
“I don’t,” I said. “It’s Jean-Paul being gracious. He knows about your knee surgery.”
“Now I am anxious to meet your young man.”
“He’s pushing fifty, Mom. And he isn’t my anything, except friend.”
She patted my hand. “Whatever you say, dear.”
As we cleared the privacy hedgerow that shielded the house from the highway, we immediately saw a house that could have been a medium-sized hotel and an extravagant ocean vista beyond it. Four yards from the door, I parked my three-year-old Honda among a Maserati, a vintage Bugatti, and a brace of Mercedes.
The valet at the gate must have called Jean-Paul because he came out the front door as soon as we were handed out of the car.
Jean-Paul and I exchanged light kisses on each cheek, les bises, and a third because we are friends, before I introduced Mom.
“Mother, Jean-Paul Bernard. Jean-Paul, this is my mother, Elizabeth Duchamps.”
“Enchanté,” he said, bending over her hand.
Mom answered in lovely French; she had lived for a while in France with my father. “The pleasure is all mine.”
She nudged my foot with the toe of her new blue shoe in a gesture I interpreted as, roughly, Oh-la-la.
No denying, Jean-Paul was handsome. Straight-backed, trim, perfectly coiffed and tailored, he could look intimidating. But I had discovered that under the exquisite, polished exterior, there was a surprisingly modest, funny, and down-to-earth man. A lonely one.
Jean-Paul escorted us through a marbled foyer and into a grand salon, a room too stark and formal to be called a living room. The entire front opened onto an oceanfront terrace that ran the width of the mansion. Altogether, the scene looked like something staged for a big-budget movie, the ocean backdrop, exotic flowers, striking works of art, beautiful people, and liveried servers. A small orchestra at a corner of the terrace played a passage from Debussy, La Mer of course.
“Something to drink, perhaps?” Jean-Paul led the way to one of several bars. “We’ve flown in a very special Côtes du Rhône for the occasion; Maggie told me you are fond of Côtes du Rhône, Madame Duchamps. Shall we see how well it survived the flight?”
The luscious red wine had, we agreed, survived very well indeed. We carried our glasses to a seating arrangement in front of an outdoor fireplace ablaze with fragrant driftwood, Mom and Jean-Paul making polite conversation as we walked, gingerly offering each other the sorts of personal tidbits and observations new acquaintances do. Servers came immediately, offering hors d’oeuvres arranged on exquisite little hand-painted Limoges plates resting on tiny, starched linen napkins in case we soiled our fingers.
Though the afternoon was chilly, we were shielded from the ocean breeze by a tall glass screen and warmed by the fire. I suggested, once, to Mom that she might want her shawl, but she said she was just fine, thank you very much. Meaning, why cover up the best dress she had ever owned with a shawl she’d picked up at a flea market in Berkeley?
When we were settled in, Jean-Paul excused himself to tend to some of his duties as host, promising to be right back.
As he walked away, Mom, smiling, said to me, “To think, I always thought sherry-and-cheese evenings at the Faculty Club were the ultimate in refined elegance. But this…” She popped a bite-sized canapé into her mouth, savored it, and sighed.
“Genuine pâté de foie gras. How rare, how completely decadent. Don’t tell my PETA friends, but I’m going to have as many as I may, and I will suffer no guilt for it.”
“No pity for the geese?” I said, offering her the pâté on my plate. She took it and said only, “Mmmm,” with her eyes half-closed.
Goldie Hawn and Danny DeVito, apparently neighbors, barefoot and dressed in sweats, walked by on the beach and waved to the party guests.
I saw Mom raise her eyebrows.
“What would Comrade Dad say?” I said.
“First he would say that Goldie Hawn has a very nice tuchis.” A server picked up our empty plates and set down new ones. “And, considering the number of valets and servers, he would also say this party is a wonderful jobs program for young people.”
I laughed. “That’s exactly what Dad would say.”