Legacy of Lies Read Free

glanced down at the black-and-white pencil sketch, surprised by its rigid shape. Debord had always favored geometric lines, but this evening gown was more severe than most.
    â€œIs there a problem?” Marie Hélène asked frostily.
    â€œNot at all.” Alex flashed her a self-assured smile, took off her cape, tossed it casually onto the table, pulled off her red kid gloves and began to work. Less than five minutes later, she stood back and folded her arms over her plaid tunic.
    â€œDone,” she announced as calmly as she could.
    Marie Hélène’s response was to pull a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from the pocket of her black skirt, put them on and begin going over the draped mannequin inch by inch.
    Time slowed. The silence was deafening. Alex could hear the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall.
    â€œWell?” she asked when she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “Do I get the job?”
    The directress didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and submitted Alex to a long judicious study that was even more nerve-racking than her examination of Alex’s draping skills.
    â€œWhere did you get that outré outfit?” Marie Hélène’s nose was pinched, as if she’d gotten a whiff of Brie that had turned.
    Imbued with a steely self-assurance that was partly in-born and partly a legacy from her mother and twin brother, who’d thought the sun rose and set on her, Alex refused to flinch under the unwavering stare. “I designed it myself.”
    â€œI thought that might be the case.” The woman’s tone was not at all flattering. “My brother prefers his employees to wear black. He finds bright colors distracting to the muse.”
    â€œI’ve read Armani feels the same way about maintaining a sensory-still environment,” Alex said cheerfully.
    The directress visibly recoiled. “Are you comparing the genius of Debord to that Italian son of a transport manager?”
    Realizing that insulting the designer—even unintentionally—was no way to gain employment, Alex quickly backtracked.
    â€œNever,” she insisted with fervor. “The genius of Debord has no equal.”
    Marie Hélène studied her over the silver rim of her glasses for another long silent time. Finally the directress made her decision. “I will expect you here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If you do not have appropriate attire, you may purchase one of the dresses we keep for just such an occasion. As for your salary…”
    The figure was less than what she’d been making at the nightclub. “That’s very generous, madame,” she murmured, lying through her teeth.
    â€œYou will earn every franc.”
    Undeterred by the veiled threat, Alex thanked the directress for the opportunity, promised to be on time, pickedup her portfolio and wound her way back through the maze of hallways.
    As she retraced her steps down the Avenue Montaigne, Alex’s cowboy boots barely touched the snowy pavement. Having finally breached the directress’s seemingly insurmountable parapets, Alexandra Lyons was walking on air.
    â€œIf you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” she sang as she clattered down the steps to the metro station. Her robust contralto drew smiles from passing commuters. “I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles…. Or snows,” she improvised. “Boy, oh boy, do I love Paris!”
    She was still smiling thirty minutes later as she climbed the stairs to her apartment.
    The first thing she did when she walked in the door was to go over to a table draped in a ruffled, red satin skirt that could have belonged to a cancan dancer at the Folies Bergère, and pick up a photo in an antique silver frame.
    â€œWell, guys,” she murmured, running her finger over the smiling features of her mother and brother, whose life had been tragically cut short when his car hit a patch of