Fleur De Lies(12)
“No!”
“Please?”
I stared at her, stonefaced. “Where’s Nana?”
“In the public restroom.”
“Who was yelling?”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Bernice’s hand is stuck in the donation box, so you better get over there fast because the attendant has the place in lockdown until they free her, and the line is backed up around the building.”
three
“Why are you looking at me like I’m a new species of mold?” demanded Bernice.
“Because you nearly started a restroom riot in Arromanches.” I spoke to her firmly, but kept my voice low to avoid humiliating her in public. “Do you know the anxiety you created? Seniors with plumbing issues cannot afford to waste precious minutes standing in a line that’s been shut down because of something you’ve done.”
She bobbed her head nonchalantly. “They’ve got medications to take care of that now, you know.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That moron attendant started it. I told her that I accidentally dropped the wrong coin in the box, but she wouldn’t give me change.”
“Did she understand English?”
“How should I know? Why is that important anyway? Hey, I’m not taking the blame for this. It was all her fault.”
Of course it was the attendant’s fault. In Bernice’s world, it was always someone else’s fault.
We were seated in the parlor of a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse that had survived the French Revolution, the Napoleonic wars, the German invasion of World War I, and the Allied bombings of World War II. The decor was an eclectic blend of antique and shabby chic with memorabilia-filled china cabinets, gilt-framed oils of grazing cattle, a sideboard glutted with photos, and sofas and chairs modern enough to have been purchased at IKEA. The windows were tall and narrow and afforded us excellent views of the apple orchard at the back, the impenetrable stone wall at the front, and the jungle of pink and purple hydrangea that grew in unruly banks across the lawn. Our hostess had introduced herself as Madeleine Saint-Sauveur, and before she’d disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve refreshments, she’d invited us to tour the ground floor to acquaint ourselves with the layout of the house.
Osmond ambled into the parlor, seated himself in the chair beside me, pulled out his iPhone, and cued up a site. “You wanna see the video Margi shot in the little girls’ room? You know the subject matter has gotta be something special when Margi decides to shoot video instead of hand out sanitizer. She’s calling it the Princess and the Potty.”
“Uhhh—”
“It’s nothing racy. Just Bernice trying to pull her hand out of the donation box before your grandmother destroys it with a jumping reverse hook kick.”
“There’s footage of Nana?”
“Yup. And a real good closeup of her sneaker.”
“Can you send the video to my phone so I can show Etienne when I get home?” I knew I’d be able to figure out the pool of data relating to cell phones if the technology would remain the same for more than a minute, but until then, I continued to need expert advice from either a random teenager or an old person.
“Don’t need to send you anything, Emily. Margi posted it on YouTube, so it’s there for the whole world to see.”
“I’m on YouTube?” Bernice leaned across me and snatched his phone from Osmond’s hand. “Have I gone viral yet?” She started the video, her eyes suddenly spitting fire. “Idiot. She didn’t shoot me from my good side.”