She squeezed my arm as we stood at one end of her living room, looking back toward the grand windows and her husband, Jean-Michel, mixing cocktails. Here in the 16th arrondissement, Polly was among her people—the well-heeled, tennis-loving, and Baccarat-collecting upper crust of Paris. She looked right at home in her home.
After an inquisition about the impressive black sedan that dropped me off at her place, I was forced to explain that it was not a museum perk, but the ride of my seatmate Nate. Naturally, Polly jumped to the conclusion that Nate’s gesture was romantic in nature, not a safety precaution. “You are glowing! I expected sad sack Joan, but you look great. Good for you!” After a few details on our meeting and subsequent interactions, Polly was impressed by my take-charge action, being in the “good sex is the best revenge” camp of getting over a bad breakup. “So, you actually met someone on a plane? I thought that was one of those women’s magazine myths, like limiting yourself to four ounces of wine or doing your own at-home facials. I think I contributed to that mythology in the early aughts writing for Glamour.” Polly was putting the flowers I had brought into a vase, arranging the blooms with ease.
“All I can say is that I put nothing out there but anger and disgruntlement, and the universe rewarded me with a business class upgrade and Nate.” My eyes danced around the room, a design-magazine photo spread in real life. I had always admired the ability to mix antiques with abstract art, prints, and stripes, Danish side tables with medallion rugs—but this apartment was really in a class by itself, another level. Polly had it going on. I could see why her readers hung on to her every accessory. True to her Pasadena-meets-Paris brand, there was a pink-and-green needlepoint pillow on a side chair that read “Nouveau Riche is better than no riche at all.”
I’m sure her French in-laws loved that.
I had real estate envy for sure. It struck me that I’d never really had my own place. My childhood home became my adult landing spot, thanks to tragedy and circumstance. When Casey moved in after the wedding, he dropped all of his student furniture off at Goodwill, happy to trade up. I had inherited my style; Polly had created hers all on her own. Truthfully, her own with a few behind-the-scenes designers who traded service for blog mentions and ad placement, but still, the place said “Polly.” Suddenly I wanted to start fresh, somewhere new. “This apartment in amazing.”
“Merci. JM lets me do anything I want, as long as I don’t get rid of that reading chair in the corner.” Polly nodded toward a well-worn chocolate-brown leather chair, acceptable by any standards but Polly’s. “I added the orange pillows as a distraction. Does it work?” I nodded. “But, pretty soon, we’re going to have to do a little redecorating.”
I looked around and didn’t see a single nook or cranny that could be improved. “What’s left to do? Paint the ceiling?” I looked up. Never mind. There was trompe l’oeil on the twelve-foot ceilings.
Polly leaned in and whispered, “I’m pregnant! You’re the first non–medical professional I’ve told.”
I surprised myself by being genuinely happy for her, not a hint of jealousy. I was even curious in a way I hadn’t been with other friends. My news about everything that had happened in twenty-four hours could wait. A bit. “Congratulations! When is the baby due?”
Another round of Bellinis had materialized thanks to JM, and the magical kitchen produced brunch of a bacon and onion tart, an herb salad with vinaigrette, and a tomato confit. Toast and various marmalades accompanied the main course, with Polly claiming to have made the fig-and-orange one. I had my doubts because I knew her area of expertise was shopping, not canning, but I didn’t get into it with her because I was trying to be a good guest. Plus, my personal countdown clock was ticking. I only had a few more hours to decipher the next meet-up spot, so I couldn’t really linger on marmalade or have another Bellini.
The clue ran through my head. If the gilded light should fade . . . Here’s golden hair that falls below . . . Like steel and glass comes from within. I had spent some time researching buildings of steel and glass, and of course, the Louvre’s pyramid was the first on the list. It came from within, sort of, bursting through the courtyard of the Cour Napoléon. What did it have to do with “golden locks”?
I checked my phone. Two more hours before the scheduled rendezvous. Polly was setting down a cheese course when I changed the subject from politics to stolen art. “So, I need your help.”
Polly froze. “Is it about the Marie Claire piece?”
“What Marie Claire piece?” JM gave the barest head shake, and Polly bit her lip. I imagined the worst—a hatchet job on my mother’s career, a brutal think piece on my father’s work, maybe even something scandalous about the museum that mentioned me. “I’m beyond shocking. Seriously. Nothing penetrates my hard shell now except these Bellinis.”
“Oh, some slideshow with captions about Casey and his family, air quotes, and the show he has opening in Belize at some eco-resort. I’m mean, really, who goes to the jungle to see art? Personne. Nobody. And a collection of photos about water? Yawn. Plus, the online edition only, so clearly someone owed him a favor. Or her.” Polly refused to say Marissa’s name in solidarity.
Of course he was in Marie Claire. Publicity-seeking Casey cashing in on the multicultural family to further his own career, heading off to some trendy thatched-roof lodge. I thought they were stealing my dream vacation, but no, it was all about Casey. “Believe it or not, I saw them at the airport checking in for their flight. He looked like every cranky forty-year-old dad on a forced vacation. It was shocking to see him with his family, no air quotes. They are a family. He looked like a dad with his kids. He texted me right before I took off, something about how he could tell I was on a mission because of my leather jacket. And how he thought I looked really good. Then he emailed and used the phrase ‘heal together.’ I didn’t even respond.”
“That must have been hard. To not want to get one good zinger in there.”
I nodded. “Yes and no. I don’t really miss him, but I wanted him to miss me.”
“Since when does he do art photography? I thought he was in it for the money?”
“He dabbled. I never saw much of it. He always wanted a gallery show to prove himself to his art school friends. Now he’s got it.” A decade of tedious conversations about his work not being taken seriously came to mind. The bitterness that popped up whenever a good friend enjoyed a successful show and a sale or two. He was a working photographer, and he begrudged his starving artist friends their one glimmer of limelight. Casey seemed to get everything he wanted, including an opening night and an online slideshow of his fabulous family. “Were there pictures of her, too?”
“Unfortunately,” Polly said. “The write-up and photos were totally contrived. She was referred to as his ‘manager.’ Clearly, the post was sponsored by Cost Plus because there was a cheesy picnic set up with melamine wineglasses and bamboo coasters. In the shot. It was atrocious.”
That was the laugh I needed. “Paris has healed me. I don’t wish them well, but I don’t wish them ill.”
“Really? Not even a little ill will?”
“Okay, a touch of ill will. But only to Casey. Not the kids. I’m not a monster.”
“Très bien.” Polly waved her hand around, and the woman from the kitchen began clearing our plates. “That seatmate of yours must really be something.”
“He is. But I do have a situation here in Paris, and I need your help.”