Blaise debated at length what to wear for them. In the end, she wore a plain white cashmere sweater, a short black leather skirt that showed off her legs, high heels, and a string of pearls. It seemed the right combination of respectful and a little kicky, since Simon said they were odd and he didn’t think they’d dress up. He said his mother was partial to hand-woven things she bought in Mexico, made by the Indians in bright colors, or ponchos, or vintage clothes she found at auctions or garage sales. He had no idea what they’d wear to meet Blaise, but probably nothing normal. That would be too simple, and too unlike them.
But they surprised him, when he opened the door to them promptly at four o’clock. They had never been on time in their life, and Simon was shocked. His father was wearing a tie, although it was slightly askew and one point of his collar was bent and pointing up, and the shirtsleeves peeking out of his jacket were too long, which gave him a slightly goofy look. He had hair like Einstein, and a warm smile that reached his eyes as he shook hands with Blaise and Salima, and Blaise fell in love with him immediately. He looked like someone you wanted to hug. He was as tall as Simon, but stooped over, and despite the slightly cockeyed tie and collar, he looked like a very distinguished man. Simon looked a lot like him, but he had his mother’s eyes, which were dark. His father’s eyes were blue, and he had white hair, and looked a little like Pinocchio’s father in the fairy tale. And his mother was still beautiful with dark eyes and a wild mane of salt-and-pepper hair that had once been jet black like her son’s. She had worn a plain dark blue dress and flat shoes and was carrying a dark blue Hermès Kelly bag. Simon had never seen her look so respectable in her entire life. No poncho, no cowboy hat, no sparkling red shoes like in The Wizard of Oz, all of which she was capable of. And she was wearing an armload of bangle bracelets that she never took off. She had slept with them for thirty years and collected them one by one. It made Blaise think of the Cartier bracelet she’d been given in Dubai. She never took that off now either. It was beautiful and simple and had been a fabulous gift.
“You have a very pretty apartment,” Isabelle Ward said primly as she sat down, with slightly pursed lips. She had a beautiful full mouth and perfect teeth. It was easy to see why Simon’s father had fallen in love with her when she was an eighteen-year-old girl and his student. She must have been a knockout. And Blaise said as much to Simon as they brought the tea tray in together while Salima entertained them and told them all the things that she and Simon had done recently, on their many adventures.
“Can’t you take her someplace more fun than a hardware store?” his mother scolded him with a disapproving look. “And the post office?” She looked around the room again then, as his father’s head bobbed and he smiled benignly at all of them. He looked like he was enjoying himself as Simon handed him a cup of tea. It was his favorite kind, and then his mother spotted an object in a far corner that caught her eye. It was a silver-plated skull that Blaise had brought back from one of her trips, in this case from Nepal. “Doesn’t it upset you having something like that here? Think of what they did to the person they took it from. It’s such a violent object to show off.” She looked disgusted as she said it and examined Blaise more closely. She was trying to decide if her hair was its natural color or she dyed it. She couldn’t figure it out, so she asked.
“No, it’s my natural color,” Blaise said with a warm smile, and Salima laughed, as Simon tried not to groan and gave his mother a quelling look, which she ignored.
“You must have gray in it at your age. Mine went gray at twenty-five. Do you use a rinse for that?” It was the kind of conversation women normally had at the hairdresser, or with close friends. But his mother was never afraid to barge right in. Boundaries had never existed for her. And she came across them like hurdles at a track meet.
“Yes, actually, I use a rinse. But I’m lucky. I don’t have a lot of gray.”
“Have you had your eyes done? They look very good.”
“No, I haven’t,” Blaise said, and laughed. “Maybe I’m not as old as you think.”
“I read somewhere that you’re fifty-two.”
“I’m forty-seven. That’s bad enough,” Blaise said without artifice, as his mother sat admiring the drapes.
“Beautiful fabric,” she said, as Simon prayed she would have nothing more to say about Blaise’s looks or her age. She was his employer, after all. “Strange color, though. I imagine if people sit too close to them, they look sick.” They were a slightly odd shade of yellow that Blaise had fallen in love with and still liked and thought was very chic. Simon’s mother did not agree. And Blaise laughed as she listened to her. She had no filter and said whatever went through her head. She stared at Blaise’s skirt after that, and Blaise felt suddenly self-conscious, more so than about her drapes. “Your skirt is very short, but you have fabulous legs. By the way, I loved your interview with the French president last year. Is he as handsome as he looks on TV?” It was a topic that interested her since she was French.