24. Gage
Gage
L ily’s fingers close around the pendant of the necklace she’s wearing.
“You’re a jewelry designer?”
“A closeted one.”
So, it’s not a guy or her douchebag ex who gave it to her. “Can I see?”
She lowers her hand.
I reach for it, turning the pendant around, examining it from different angles. I let it drop against her chest and trail a finger along the chain.
“This is well made,” I say.
“Thank you.” Shy Lily is back.
“Is it silver or white gold?”
“Neither, it’s stainless steel.”
“Why stainless steel?”
“Unlike silver, it doesn’t tarnish, and unlike gold, it’s affordable.”
“You had it made? I assume it’s not handmade.”
“I outsourced the production. Italy and Spain are both top exporters of stainless steel. However, manpower in Spain is much cheaper, and the Spaniards rival the Italians when it comes to master jewelers. Since I was living in Paris, traveling back and forth between the two countries was easy.”
“Smart.”
“I had two prototypes produced—one for me and one for my best friend for her twentieth birthday. We’re the same age, but she was born four months before me.
Nadine loved it. She insisted there was a successful business waiting to emerge from my creative concept.
That gave me wings. The first design was plain.
But I graduated to something with a little more bling—cubic zirconia surrounding the pendant.
I was thrilled with the end result, but I wanted something that had more presence.
I upped the ante by opting for Swarovski crystals. ”
“You’re talented. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“Is Nadine your business partner?”
“No, she isn’t. This is a solo venture.”
This woman has more layers than I expected. She’s interesting, gorgeous, smart, and far more daring than she gives herself credit for. There’s also a sweet vulnerability to her that’s so darn attractive.
“How did you and Nadine meet?”
“We met in boarding school in Switzerland. We shared a room with four other girls, but we fast became friends. She’s a brunette to my jet-black hair. She stands three inches taller than me. I hate her for that.” She laughs.
“So, your best friend’s dad is France’s former President Laurent Rocard de Villepin. That’s wild.”
She nods.
“Since she’s half American, will she come and join you in the States? ”
“No. Nads is too Parisian to ever leave Paris. Not to mention, she earned her right to stay in Paris the hard way.”
“What do you mean?”
“For years the French referred to her mom, Marciana, as a modern-day Monica Lewinsky. The French don’t tend to bat an eyelash when a husband or wife stray.
Nads’s father not only lied about having sexual relationships with an intern from the French PR company that oversaw the publicity for the charitable campaign his wife chaired, but said intern was an American.
Three months after the scandal broke, a whistleblower leaked she was pregnant to the French press, and then, outed him to a US newspaper for a big pay day.
Le President claimed he didn’t have any sexual relations with that woman .
In fact, they never crossed paths. But his penis crossed paths with Nads’s mom’s vagina. ”
“Good one.”
“Marciana’s parting gift from that internship wasn’t only a stained dress soiled with le President ’s semen, it was also a bun in the oven.
She never left France, dead-set in her determination to force le President to acknowledge her and her baby.
She found a job with an American company with an office in Paris who was willing to sponsor her work visa.
That opportunity allowed her to give birth in France.
Five years later, she got her French residency.
It took twenty years for the former President Laurent Rocard de Villepin to acknowledge his illegitimate daughter. ”
“Nadine’s mom weathered that scandal like a champ,” I say.
“She did. It took courage.”
“What does Nadine do for a living?”
“She owns a flower shop in Paris called Blue Belle—it’s a tiny shop with a pretty blue facade.
It used to be called La Bo?te Fleurit , but she changed the name when she inherited it.
She’d been working there since she was sixteen.
The owner didn’t have children, and none of her nieces or nephews were interested in the business.
Or the hours. Nads gets up at the crack of dawn Monday to Saturday to make it to the flower markets.
Between her shop’s colorful exterior, the evocative name, and the old school jazz music playing nonstop in the background, she’s managed to create a timeless atmosphere in her shop that keeps her clients coming back.
In the last year or so, since her father has recognized her as his daughter, he’s used his connections to further her business.
Blue Belle is now the go-to florist for many high-ranking French politicians. ”
“Good for her for making her mark instead of trying to shine in her father’s shadow.”
“I agree.”
“Does your father know?” I point to her necklace.
Her hands fly to her neck to cover it. “No, he doesn’t know I’m a jewelry designer.”
“How do you manage to keep that a secret?”
“I pay cash,” she says. “I never use up my monthly food allowance, so I squirrel away what I don’t spend. That way, I don’t leave any traces. He would disapprove of my project and belittle it.” She wrinkles her nose. “The list of cons he has for me is long enough.”
It pisses me off to hear her say that. Her idiot father should support her dreams instead of squashing them. Or worse, forcing her into a sentence of misery.
“Who’s on the pendant?”
“This is an old French coin—the one Franc. The figure is Marianne. She’s been the national personification of the French Republic since the French Revolution. She stands for liberty, equality, fraternity, and reason. She’s also the portrayal of the Goddess of Liberty?— ”
“The one Statue of Liberty was modeled after Libertas—the Roman goddess of freedom.”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Again, the freedom theme—same as the song.”
“Indeed,” she says.
“How did you come up with the idea? French francs were replaced with Euros a long time ago, I can’t imagine it’s easy to find coins.”
“I found an artist in Paris who does replicas of old franc coins. I was able to strike a deal with him because I would be buying them in multiples. I figured I had plenty of time to source something on a grander scale for when the project took off.”
“Smart,” I say. “What prompted the idea?”
“Mama’s memory pushed me forward with this project.”
“In what sense?”
“She struggled to make ends meet. She never sugarcoated our reality. We could only afford the basics. Sometimes, we’d have hotdogs for dinner for weeks on end.
And I’m not talking about name brands. I’m talking about a generic brand of sausage sliced in half and wedged between one slice of white bread—whatever was on sale.
The mustard and ketchup were packets from McDonald’s.
Mom would stuff her pockets with condiments and sugar when she stopped by for her weekly cup of coffee—one of the only luxuries she allowed herself.
Watching QVC was her escape. She could shop to her heart’s content, without spending a dime.
She always commented on everything that flashed on the screen.
Jewelry was her favorite. Especially the lines from celebrities who would create affordable versions of the pricey counterparts they wore in real life?—”
“Or what they want the public to believe they wear in real life.”
She works her lower lip. “I’m sure you’re right. ”
“It’s a great tribute to your mom.”
“That was my goal,” she says. “Although, I no longer live in a tiny, crappy, bordering on dilapidated apartment with rickety furniture in Escambia County, Alabama, and I get a colossal monthly allowance, none of it is mine. It’s my father’s.
And he never misses a chance to remind me he holds the purse strings.
As long as I toe the line and don’t cause waves, my account is replenished on the first of each month, like clockwork. ” She averts her gaze.
I don’t rush her.
“I guess in many ways, I’m still that little girl, sitting on a beat-up couch, next to Mama, watching QVC, and listening to her shopping advice.
” She returns her attention to me. “This”––she touches the pendant––“is the type of jewelry Mama would go crazy for. Especially because of the French connection––a country she would never have been able to afford to visit. We were too poor to afford a motel in a nearby state, let alone get on an airplane. I can hear her now, ‘Lily, darlin’, that fine piece of jewelry right there would be worth the monthly payments’.
” She laughs, but it’s devoid of lightness.
The weight of her revelation stretches between us like the English toffee sauce Mom used to make at Christmas, pulling and clinging.
“Can I ask a personal question?”
She takes in a deep breath, and exhales on the word, “Sure.”
“If Fisher never acknowledged you, how did you come to live with him?”
“I’ve never lived with my father. I still don’t.”
I level her with a quizzical stare.
“We’ve never lived under the same roof,” she says.
I frown my confusion. “How is that even possible? ”
“After Mama’s passing, I lived in my father’s Connecticut house.”
“Alone?”
She shakes her head. “The house was fully staffed with a cook, a house cleaner, and a butler. Since it was too late for him to register me in a new school, my father hired a full-time governess of a sort to look over me and tutor me.”
I incline my head, as if trying to discern if my ears are playing tricks on me.
She nods, answering my silent question. “You can’t make that shit up.”
“I suppose not.” Wow. “How did you communicate?”
“Phone. Emails. Texts. Video chats.”
“Who came for you after your mom’s death?”
“Henry, the butler with the Australian accent.”
“Fisher doesn’t have siblings?” I’ve never cared to find out.