Fleur De Lies(122)

            “Hold it right there, mister!” Lucille huffed as she plucked one of the nuts off the carpet. “Do you live under a rock? These things are dangerous! You ever heard of peanut allergies? Just being in the same room with one of these little buggers can be enough to kill some folks.”

            “I wish he’d throw some maraschino cherries,” said Nana.

            “Ask him,” I prodded. “Maybe he’ll take requests.”

            Dick Stolee started rapid firing a volley of missiles that sent Patrice scrambling for cover. Grapefruit. Apple. Pear. Naval orange. Peach, or maybe a nectarine. I couldn’t tell which. Muskmelon. BOOM! Bam. CRASH. Splat!

            “Écoutez et répétez,” recited Margi in a singsong voice “Bonjour, Jean.”

            “Ready or not, here I come,” Bernice yelled above the mayhem.

            I peeked around my chair to the entrance side of the lounge to find Bernice dressed in a short tie-belt bathrobe … and nothing else. Holy crap! Where were her clothes?

            On a brighter note, her makeup looked quite spectacular.

            “What the devil’s going on?” she crabbed as she studied the devastation. “Is this lesson about Monet … or Picasso?”

            She shrieked as Patrice catapulted over the bar and went airborne, accidentally clipping his foot on the counter and landing on top of her with a rib-rattling OOOFF, flattening her beneath him. “Oh, my God!” I cried. “Bernice!”

            “Don’t let him get away!” whooped Dick Stolee.

            Patrice shot his head up and boosted himself onto his hands as if preparing to flee.

            “Not sho fasht,” Irv slurred as he lifted his cane and thwacked Patrice across the back of his head. “I’ll forgive your other transgresshions, but I’ll never forgive you for deshtroying perfectly good Crown Royal. It jusht happens to be my favorite.”





                     twenty

            Two days later we found ourselves moored alongside an embankment in Paris, in a nondescript section of the city bounded by roads, bridges, and an empty parking lot. Upon arrival, we’d cruised far enough up the Seine to shoot photos not only of the Eiffel Tower, but of the small-scale replica of the Statue of Liberty that occupied a tiny island in the middle of the river. Yesterday evening we’d enjoyed a night cruise of the city, where we oohed and ahhed at the sight of Gustave Eiffel’s tower, illuminated with a million lights, and twinkling like a giant Independence Day sparkler. Today, it was still fairly early, so we were sitting on the top deck, dithering about which optional tours we should sign up for.

            “I’m leanin’ toward the Louvre,” said Nana as she consulted her travel brochure. “I wanna check out the competition, just in case I ever paint somethin’ that makes a big splash in them fancy art circles.” The water color instructor had been so complimentary of Nana’s work that Nana was actually talking about continuing to paint when she got back home, and exhibiting her work in either the Senior Center lunch room or a contemporary art gallery. Since Windsor City didn’t have an art gallery, she figured she might have to resort to building one herself on the north end of Main Street. Property values were cheaper on the north end, so she imagined she could do it for a song. Maybe less than ten million.

            “I don’t feel like battling the museum crowds.” Jackie snapped her makeup mirror shut and recapped her lipstick wand. She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. “I’m hopping on the Metro and heading into the city. You’ll never guess where I’m going.”

            Nana regarded her with a long, unblinking stare. “The eye doctor?”

            “Guerlain,” I said. “Or Chanel. Or Lancome. Or—” I ran out of names.