“The pendant or the chandelier?” She raised a diamond to her left ear, examined her reflection, then picked up a larger, gold chandelier earring accented with diamonds. “Is this too much?”
If she wore a garbage bag with a plastic bag hat, Girard would still say she looked beautiful. Seeing Aunt Evelyn happy diminished some of my heartache. “Unless you’re changing your shoes, I’d go with the diamond pendant.”
“Then you wear the gold. It goes with your dress.” She placed the earrings in my hand.
I decided to wear a gathered crêpe de chine gown in a shade of lilac so light it was almost white. A high slit on my left side showed off the gold sandals. “Thank you for letting me borrow.”
“Tonight will be a wonderful meal. We’re going to have the chance to eat dessert this time.”
“You’ve foreseen it?” I asked. “No major disasters? Getting kicked out of a restaurant is an experience I don’t want to repeat.”
My aunt laughed. “Yes, this will be a beautiful night. Don’t worry, and enjoy yourself.”
“I never understood why you loved your gift, but now that I’m rid of it, I think I understand: it’s your means of helping people, isn’t it?”
“That’s exactly it. I have helped many people over the years.” She finished putting on the pendant earrings and moved toward the gown laid out on the bed. “That reminds me, do you remember the gentleman to whom you gave a prediction about his father?”
“How could I forget?” I had foreseen the father’s sickness and eventual death.
“He came back to the tea shop and asked me to pass along his gratitude. His father now has someone checking in on him, and spare keys were given to the neighbors as a precaution.” My aunt slid into her gown and presented her back to me to help with the zipper. “You saved him.”
I puffed out my cheeks and let out a sound of relief. It was a pleasant surprise that this incident worked out, but the burden of seeing the future was one I was glad to be rid of. My aunt was born to wield this kind of power. I admired her for it.
I pulled the slider to the top stops and smoothed out the tiny bump along the seams. “If you had to give up your gift for love, would you?”
“No, I want both. I’d like to think I’ve made enough sacrifices in my life to be spared this choice.” She adjusted the tail of her gown. “There isn’t a rule written down that we can’t make the most-selfish decisions for ourselves. I’m sad it took this long for me to realize that.”
When I got here, my only goal was to return to California in control. Instead, I gained a new ability and rid myself of my curse. I found love in Paris and lost it along with my sense of purpose. If I had my wish, I’d want to bring Marc home with me.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Aunt Evelyn asked.
“I am. I wish I could stop, but I can’t.”
“Love will find a way. If Girard and I can be together now, there’s hope.”
I checked my scarlet lipstick in the vanity mirror. “Did you ever see both of you getting together again?”
“No. If I had, I would have done this years ago. I’m content not seeing my own future. It would make life boring otherwise. It was, however, quite helpful seeing yours. Still, I don’t know how to explain what’s happened to you, why your clairvoyance vanished after your accident and why you gained this new ability. And why do I have a red thread?”
All of my aunt’s concerns were valid, yet I didn’t want answers. My problems were solved; the details weren’t important. I’d spent too much time, thought, and misery over how much my predictions affected me. I wanted to move on to the next phase in my life even if I didn’t know where it would take me.
“The red thread is a good thing,” I replied. “Why wonder where it came from or what caused it?”
Aunt Evelyn arched a brow and smiled. “That is the difference between you and me. I will consult the society. This is a set of mysteries that’s irresistible to any auntie. Curiosity is a powerful motivator, and you know we are a nosy bunch.”
“Does this mean you’ve forgiven them?”
“I have, but I haven’t told them that. Give me another day.” Aunt Evelyn shut her jewelry box and held the door open for me. “We don’t want to be late for dinner.”
“Because you have a hot date,” I teased.
“That I do.” She gave me a playful smack on the arm.
Fifty-One
Girard’s restaurant was like I remembered, and having him greet us as we walked in, a welcome surprise. He wore a sleek suit in charcoal with a peacock-blue silk dress shirt. Their red thread linked them together and matched the hue of Aunt Evelyn’s gown. Now that I could see the physical manifestations of two people bound together, wedding rings seemed a formality.
He lifted Aunt Evelyn’s fingers to his lips and kissed them and then whispered something in French in her ear. She giggled. A lone blue morpho danced over their heads.
“You both look beautiful,” he said, offering an arm to me while my aunt took the other.
I placed my arm in his. “Thank you.”
We stepped inside and were escorted to one of the private rooms. The opulence of the main dining room was a fraction of what I was led into. Girard explained that there were three private rooms styled after three of his favorite art nouveau artists: Alphonse Mucha, René Lalique, and Gustav Klimt.
After having seen Klimt’s exhibit, I imagined that room to be full of golds and bursts of jewel tones. René Lalique, the master of glass, was a familiar name because the aunties collected and coveted his pieces. His room must showcase Girard’s personal collection.
We entered the Alphonse Mucha–inspired room and were surrounded by murals of ethereal fairy women in flowing robes. Their soft, ageless faces contrasted with the heavy line work of flowers and vines. About a decade ago, I’d seen an exhibit featuring advertisement art and saw one of Mucha’s works.
“Oh, Girard.” My aunt placed a hand against her chest. “You remembered.”
He turned to me. “Evelyn and I took a train to Prague and saw his work there. She and I have fond memories of the city.”
The focal point was an exquisite bronze bust in the corner of the room, encased in a glass box. “This is a replica of Mucha’s bust of Nature. A version in white and gold is housed in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.” He smiled. “There are variations out there, but I’ve always been partial to this version, which was shown in Brussels.”
The sculpture was highlighted by two iridescent green earrings and an accented headpiece. He pointed to the gemstone. “The original is malachite. As you can see, I’ve asked them to use jade.”
“It’s an excellent choice,” I said.
He moved to pull out a gilded chair for me. I thanked him and took my seat. My aunt followed suit.
The table setting was exquisite. The plates, golden cutlery, and crystal all bore swirling, organic fluidity that was associated with the art movement. These differed from the less ornate silver set in the main dining room.
It was opulent for an intimate family dinner, yet for this momentous occasion, it was worth it. Girard and Aunt Evelyn never broke physical contact. Even now, their fingertips touched on the tabletop.
A server walked in and spoke with Girard and, moments later, reappeared with an enormous silver platter ladened with crushed ice and seventy-five oysters on the half shell and a small tray of accompanying mignonettes: traditional, sweet, and spicy. The silence between my aunt and me expressed our shared reverence for this particular mollusk.
Girard chuckled. “I see you’re like your aunt. I could give a tour of where they are from, but I think it’ll be more beneficial if you ask me questions after you’ve tasted them.”
My aunt and I shared a wink and toasted each other with shells.
If I could eat only one thing in the world every day, it would be oysters. The unusual texture polarized diners. The lucky ones, who weren’t repelled, became addicts. To enjoy this delicacy was to love the taste of the ocean; nothing else brought the intensity of the brine, or the power of those vast waves. They come in two shapes: cupped, from deep ocean waters, and flat, native to Europe.
The key to eating oysters was to savor the meat and drink the flavored water in the shell. Each had a subtle, distinct taste. My favorite—Kumamoto—was buttery and rich.
Before adding any extra condiments, I preferred to taste them naked and raw. I picked up a flat oyster. The moniker deceived: it was, in fact, rounder and smaller. The oyster slid through my lips, carrying a hint of citrus along with the signature saltiness.
I raised the rough, rounded shell toward Girard. “Which one is this?”
“Arcachon from the Brittany region. A lovely note of citrus, yes?” He pointed to a shell on the third tier. “Try that one.”
The oyster carried a slight greenish tinge. The flavor was bold and decadent with a memorable finish. I loved it so much that I grabbed two more.
“Those are Marennes-Oleron, and they are my favorites of the breeds found in France.” Girard smiled and plucked a few of them off the tray.