Chapter 16 September 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
Dear Odile,
You’re right—there’s a lot I haven’t told you.
First, I’ve put aside my novel French Kisses.
In rereading, I realize that I put the “man” in “manuscript”—it’s chapter upon chapter of lousy boyfriends.
My friend Wendy suggested that I should find a more meaningful topic.
You mean so much to me. I’d love to write about your experience as a war bride.
I know your story by heart and feel readers would love it as much as I do.
Mary Louise accused me of living in Lily-land. She’s not wrong, and I want to change.
Speaking of Mary Louise, she moved out several months ago and isn’t talking to me.
I can’t say I blame her. Here in Paris, I expected her to follow my lead like we were still in junior high.
I didn’t realize how overbearing I’d become.
She never told me. Well, she probably tried, but I didn’t listen.
I didn’t confide in you because I was embarrassed and thought I could fix things on my own, but now I’m not so sure.
I miss her, but I don’t think she misses me.
Most important of all, I’ve been sitting on some information, partly unsure you would want it, partly not wanting to hurt you.
In the ALP manuscript collection, I found Margaret’s war memoir.
She doesn’t describe events the same way you do.
I hesitate about sending it, and hope that I’m doing the right thing in sharing it with you now.
I *might* have a lead on where to find her, and am not sure if I should press on. I’ll do as you ask.
Love,
Lily
Dearest Lily,
Thank you for sending me Margaret’s pages.
They were the best gift I could have ever received.
I know now that I judged her wrongly. Sometimes I want to see her more than anything, other times I’m so ashamed of how I treated her that I’m afraid to face her.
And anyway, why would she want to see me?
She went on to become an artist, and what was I?
A part-time secretary in a dying town. I wish I could encourage you to follow the lead that you mentioned, but honestly, the past is better in the past.
You’re a wonderful, true friend, and have a gift for bringing people together.
I got used to keeping my back to everyone in Froid, but you turned me around.
You have a good heart. That’s why I am certain Mary Louise will understand.
Take the first step. Go to her and ask forgiveness.
Friendships, like romantic relationships, go through trials and tribulations.
The important thing is not to run. The biggest mistake I ever made was leaving Paris and abandoning my friend.
If I could go back in time and talk things through, I would. It’s too late for me, but not for you.
Nowadays, psychologists call this point of stress “fight or flight.” I always chose “flight.” It’s daunting to stay and fight. Don’t be like me. Give everything you’ve got to Mary Louise, just like she has always given her all to you.
Love,
Odile
At my desk, I read the letter over and over. She was right about giving my all to Mary Louise. But how to take the first step when Mary Louise accused me of suffocating her?
And then, as if I’d conjured her, she peeked into the back office.
Mary Louise? I rose from my desk as though my veins were infused with happiness and helium.
How I’d dreamed of this moment, of showing her around—in the foyer, this ink splotch on the carpet is where I stand while waiting for speakers to arrive; in the reading room, this seat at the oak table is where I first spied Chris; and in the stacks, here’s my favorite nonfiction section, 808 (writing and getting published).
I’d dreamed of Mary Louise attending my events and being struck by the wisdom of each speaker.
Now that she was here, I felt awkward and tongue-tied, as if we were on a blind date.
She looked like her old self. She’d dyed the washed-out blond back to her original red. I wished our friendship could be put to rights as easily.
“Hi,” I said. The word came out a question.
“The jerk at the front desk charged me twenty-five francs just to enter,” she started.
“Sorry about that. It’s a day fee for folks who aren’t members.”
“I told him I was here to see you, and he wouldn’t believe me.”
“Lorenzo isn’t so bad, once you get to know him. Dealing with the public isn’t easy.”
“The front-desk Doberman is a great way to scare people off.”
“Doberman?” Had she come here just to judge us? “Did you forget what working with the public is like? It’s hard!”
“Sorry, he got my back up.”
Arms akimbo, I demanded, “Are you seriously complaining about donating five bucks to a good cause? Also: please don’t insult my co-workers.” Man, my voice had gotten loud. I wanted so badly to repair our relationship, but I couldn’t help it: I had to defend the library. “Why are you even here?”
“Today’s the fourteenth.”
Suddenly our French-iversary mattered to her?
“And…” she continued, “I didn’t like the way we left things the other night.”
“The other night?” I snarled. It had been two months.
Across from me, Marius cleared his throat, his way of saying Pipe down, girl! Holy crap, I’d taken him and Meg hostage and made them witnesses to our fight. Worse, patrons had likely heard.
“Sorry, guys,” I said softly. “That was unprofessional of me.” Turning back to Mary Louise, I continued: “I’m sorry I yelled at you. Maybe we should talk another time.”
“Can’t we go outside?”
To my surprise, fighting had felt good. In the past, when we were mad at each other, we retreated to separate corners—friendship time-outs—never discussing why we were upset.
Then, when we were over it, we resumed as if no harm had been done, no pain inflicted, and there was no acknowledgment that those wounds added up over time.
I opened the door and gestured for her to step into the courtyard. Maybe having it out would help.
“I came to say I was sorry. And that I miss you.” She reached into her Louis Vuitton purse and pulled out an oblong present.
I unwrapped the paper and found a bookmark and stationery set in the shape of the Eiffel Tower.
She understood how much I adored these pieces of Paris.
Back in Montana, la tour Eiffel had been my beacon, the promise of an exciting writerly life.
I hugged her gifts to my chest. “I’m sorry, too. I’ve missed you.”
“I know.”
“You withdrew,” I said, still hurt. “Why couldn’t you tell me how you felt?”
“Why couldn’t you listen? My whole life, I’ve been stuck in your shadow. God forbid I make other friends or follow my own path. You don’t need to know everything about me.”
“I don’t want us to grow apart.”
“It’s not growing apart. It’s growing up. We each need to do our own thing. I know you have my best interests at heart, and that you love my paintings, probably even more than I do.”
“I can’t believe you threw them away.” It was years of hard work.
Of imagination and dedication. Of honing her craft.
I had to tell her I’d scooped up her paintings.
Now that time had passed, she’d thank me for protecting them.
But just as I was about to admit the truth, Jennifer de Narp pulled up in her Mercedes and exited into a fog of black exhaust.
“Why aren’t you at your desk?” She poked her Virginia Slim in my direction.
My mouth went dry. It was funny—I could defend Lorenzo, but couldn’t defend myself.
It turned out I didn’t have to. Scowling at her, Mary Louise let out a low whistle. It sounded a lot like How dare you, lady?
“Don’t dally,” Ms. de Narp told me. Nodding approvingly at Mary Louise, she said, “Nice handbag,” before swishing into the back office.
“Who was that?” Mary Louise asked. “Or what was that?”
“The reason I deserve hazard pay.”
“Rich Parisians are weird,” she said.
“Tell me about it.”
It felt like we were us again.
“Thanks for defending me,” I said.
“She’s a real piece of work.”
“No, I’m the piece of work.”
“What do you mean?”
I recounted that I’d accidentally kicked Ms. de Narp in the shin before my job interview.
Mary Louise snorted a laugh. “ ‘Accidentally,’ ” she repeated in a knowing tone, clearly unconvinced. “Lucky for you, Ms. Mercedes wasn’t on the hiring panel. But why would you do that? Not that she didn’t deserve it.”
Because I was mad at you, mad at the world, I thought. “In my mind, it was because she littered.”
“Good ol’ Lil, fighting for what she thinks is right.”
I shrugged. “It was impetuous and dumb. More than anyone, you know I don’t always think before I act. I’m working on that, I really am.”
“I can see that. Thanks for listening that evening, and for walking away. I know leaving my paintings behind was hard for you, but it made me feel like there was hope that we could be friends again. I finally got through to you.”
“I’m glad,” I said weakly.
“Maybe I could swing by for dinner sometime? I miss the old place.”
If she did that, she would see her paintings, see what I’d done. I began to sweat.
“Or you could come to one of our evening events here.”
She said she’d think about it and left through the courtyard.
I returned to my desk. Mortified about having made a scene, I avoided eye contact with Marius or Meg.
Even though Mary Louise and I had finished on good terms, the unexpected argument left me on edge.
My body had become a pressure cooker, the vapor of fear and anger stuck inside me.
Writing eased that pressure. Putting a pen to paper released the steam of thought.
At my desk, I reached out to the one person who always understood.
Dear Odile,
I wish you were here, I wish I were there.
Mary Louise and I came to Paris to become artistes, and now she wants to give up.
How can she quit being a painter when that is who she is?
Even though my writing career isn’t going anywhere, I’ll never stop trying—I’ve vowed to write a paragraph a day.
I did what you said—I apologized. Shouldn’t that be enough?
Love,
Lily
Actually, I hadn’t followed Odile’s advice, which was to take the first step. Mary Louise had come to me. And I’d yelled at her. I tossed the letter in the bin and started over.
Dear Odile,
Please come. I need you.
“Tough day?” Meg set a mug of Earl Grey on my coaster.
“I heard you fighting. We all did. And I wanted to say that I lost my best friend and would hate for you to lose yours. Try to be gentler with yourself and with her. I became angry with mine when she… betrayed my trust. She said she was sorry, but I refused to accept her apology. I told her to go, and she disappeared. I did everything I could to find her, but Odile left Paris without a trace. I’ve regretted my stubbornness for five decades. ”
This was the opening I’d been waiting for. “Your friend’s name is Odile?”
I dug in my purse and proffered Odile’s latest letter.
Meg skimmed the missive, her gaze flittering between me and the page. “You know her? She writes to you?”
I heard a universe of hurt in that last question. Why you and not me?
I explained that Odile was a war bride and had ended up in my small Montana town.
“Finally, after all these years, there are answers.” Meg sank onto the corner of my desk, as if her legs could no longer hold her.
“You have no idea of the horror when a person you love goes missing. We—her parents and her friends—didn’t know what happened to her.
When she didn’t return, we feared she’d perished in the war.
We never knew if she was dead or alive.” Meg gulped down some air.
“Each one of us—her father, mother, and I—was convinced we were to blame.”
I was startled by the intensity of her words, of her guilt.
“She’s really all right?” Meg’s voice was shaky, incredulous.
I nodded, feeling protective of Odile. I knew she had her reasons for leaving, so I measured my words. “She was my neighbor. It’s thanks to her that I fell in love with French, that I’m here. So you’re her Margaret?”
“She told you about me? About… what happened?”
“Yes.” I now found myself feeling for Margaret and had to hug her. She held me tight, and I felt hot tears melt into the collar of my blouse. Hers or mine, I could not say.
“Tell me what you can.”
I explained that from what Odile had confided, leaving Paris had been painful.
It took years to adapt to life in Froid, Montana.
Folks hadn’t always been kind. Though she’d been withdrawn, she was now active in the church and had friends.
She’d kept up with Paris news through the Herald, and knew that Margaret had become an artist. I showed her a photo of me and Odile, with her hennaed hair and bright red belt.
Meg traced Odile’s belt with her finger. “My last gift to her.”
“She wore it every single day.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “For high school graduation, she bought me a plane ticket to Paris. I found your atelier, but it had closed.”
“Why didn’t she come herself?”
“Odile said that Paris held dark memories. But I’d been trying to find you. The man at your atelier said you’d moved to South Africa.”
“I’d intended to, but came back after two months. I thought I could leave everything that happened behind me, but learned it’s better to make peace with the past.” Meg pointed to my letter begging Odile to return. “If you send it, will she come?”
“I think so. Do you want to write a note to her?”
“If I started writing, I might never stop,” Meg said shakily. “She won’t want to hear from me. Send the letter yourself.”