The Ring - Chapter 10

 

 

BETHANY STEINER

SO WHAT HAPPENED next, Mutti?” Bethany texted. She was curled up on her bed in her Tübingen apartment with her laptop open to Facebook Messenger.

“The waiter brought our lobsters and they were delicious. Camille wants my lap. This dog seems to feel if my laptop is in my lap it has stolen her rightful place.”

Bethany sighed. Sighs don’t show up in texts. Her mother and aunt were always bickering. Maybe she was prejudiced, but she felt that Heather was more often at fault. Sometimes when she and her cousin Grace met for whatever, coffee, Coke, wine they would discuss it and agreed their mothers were impossible with each other.

Bethany switched from text to voice. “Better we stay out of it.”

“You’re right. I hate when my kid can be smarter than me.

“So, are you ready for your exhibition next month? I’m not sure I can get to Paris for it. I’ll try.”

“Tell you what. If you can’t, I’ll come over to Tübingen. Do I get the bed or floor?”

“Bed, I respect you’re aging.” 

MARGO LOUD STEINER

MARGO SAT OUTSIDE the café sipping espresso and watching Parisians of all ages stroll by. She needed to be back to the art gallery in an hour, but she wanted to have a quiet time before the vernissage began.

Chantal Dubois had said that she already expected at least fifty people including a half dozen interior designers. Hopefully, Margo would pick up some commissions to keep her busy through the summer.

She twisted her mother’s ring on her middle finger. It was beautiful. Funny she had never seen it nor heard the story about it going to the youngest daughter, but she believed Henry.

Maybe she should let Heather have it, or at least borrow it, but her sister had not spoken to her since the Valentine Day’s battle at the restaurant. She could make the first move, but she’d done that too many times. Let Heather grovel for a change.

Grayson had stopped by her tiny house before she’d left for Paris and tried to patch the disagreement up, but she had said to him, “Just once I want her to make the first move.”

“But she feels terrible about it.”

Margo wanted to say, “I don’t care.” Instead, she gave it her best shrug.

The waiter walked by with her second espresso. Drinking too much coffee or tea before the vernissage was probably stupid because it would make her pee too often when she should be talking to potential buyers.

She dropped Euros into his tiny white dish. Okay, she knew tips were not expected in France, but tipping was a habit she found hard to break, and not one waiter had ever refused her money.

When she was a student, Margo loved visiting the Latin Quarter with waiters trying to entice diners verbally. Granted she’d spent more time in Germany, but Paris was her second favorite spot with Boston her third. Now it was time to get to the gallery

The first person she saw was Bethany talking to Chantal, the gallery owner.

“You made it.” She called to Bethany and started to her daughter to hug her but caught her ankle on a chair leg and fell. She heard a snap and felt a shooting pain.

Chantal and Bethany helped her to her feet.

“Don’t put any weight on it.” Chantal put Margo’s right arm around hers, and placed Margo’s left arm around her own waist. Margo hopped to where Chantal lowered her to a chair. “We’ll call a cab to take you to the hospital.”

“Not until after the vernissage.”

“Mutti!”

“I didn’t come all this way not to attend: Chantal hasn’t invested in this event to give up on it. Look, it’s not a compound fracture.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Chantal said.

“Get ice for my ankle. Help me hobble to the toilet. I have to pee.” Margo knew the moment she had put weight on the foot, this was a stupid idea just as having that second espresso was a stupid idea.

Within half an hour guests started walking into the gallery, giving Chantal the traditional two-cheek kisses.

There were whispers to Chantal asking what happened to the artist sitting in a chair, her foot resting between a pillow and ice pack that Bethany had grabbed from the bar next door.

Some who spoke English asked Chantal directly.

“I turned my foot. It’s nothing.”

“Let me look.” This was spoken by a man with gray curly hair, a roman nose and sharp cheek bones.

Margo’s yip when he touched her ankle caused everyone in the gallery to look around including the waitresses carrying the trays of champagne.

Olives and other hors d’oeuvres were placed on the tables around Margo’s ceramics. All the dishes used were older Margo work.

A woman, her hair in a chignon, a sleek black dress with a multi-colored scarf around her neck in a series of ties that Margo never thought she could duplicate put a chair next to Margo’s chair.

“I’m sorry about your ankle.” Her English had the sexy type of French accent Margo had always admired. “Could we design a set of dishes together. I have no talent, but I know what I want.” I would invite you to my château but . . .” She pointed to Margo’s ankle.

The gray-haired man walked over.

He now spoke in English with the sexy French accent that so many French men have and that actors like Yves Montand and Louis Jourdan made famous when Margo was a child. “I’m taking you to the hospital for X-Rays after this.”

“Listen to him, Mutti.”