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Head in my hands, I draw a deep breath as JL puts a new pot of tea on the table along with his second cappuccino.
I finish the new pot and we head over to the Maison de Victor Hugo to check it out.
* * *
Cress
Dinner at the Victor Hugo house museum is an intimate affair for eighty writers, their families, and friends. Luminaries of the literary world are here to celebrate historical fiction and its practitioners are at the perfect place for the Hugo-Dumas awards.
Goose bumps run up my arms.
Yavuz showed up not long after we arrived at the hotel, all smiles, effusive at seeing us all again so soon. I wonder who told him we were staying in the Place des Vosges. While Max went off to his meeting, Yavuz offered to accompany Micki and me on our exploration of the Marais, the old Jewish neighborhood so close to where we are standing now. He made an excellent guide, showing a surprising familiarity with the area. His youngest brother, Emre, was a student at the Sorbonne, so both Yavuz and Tanik spent a great deal of time visiting Paris.
We have extra room at our table, so I invited him to come along. His tux is sharp, his hair fashionably cut. Now, like an eager puppy, he’s waiting for us at the entrance to the museum. “London is casual,” he says, “but Paris calls for elegance.”
Max pointed out Inspector Poulliot, dressed in Hugo Boss, sitting under the arcade at a restaurant in the Place des Vosges with Allan Mason, his shabby Harris tweed jacket, standing out like a sore thumb. I feel marginally safer with them watching out.
Then, once we have given our names in the foyer, the first-floor apartment opens to view. We have no time to admire the carefully recreated rooms as we are herded toward the the Red and Chinese rooms for the event.
Seated at a table for eight, I wish we had a party of eight, but since we don’t, another finalist, Honor Ellenford, her husband, and her teenaged son sit with us. I met her a few years ago at a conference. She can’t give me the cut direct when we are sharing a table. Her narrowed eyes and thinned lips tell all.
“You know, of course, they renovated the ballroom last year?” Honor drawls.
“Did a bang-up job,” Max says.
“Hugh Ellenford.” The stocky red-haired man sitting next to Honor rises and holds out a hand. “This is our son, James.”
The sullen teenager barely looks up and mumbles, “Hi.” The game on his phone is more interesting.
Hugh frowns and sips the Kir Royale set at each place. Honor shrugs.
“You must be Cress Taylor,” Hugh says.
I nod. “Nice to meet you.”
Max introduces the rest of our crew. “Our friends, JL Martin, Michelle Press, and Yavuz Arslan.”
Much to my chagrin, I must spend the evening with Honor. I don’t read Honor’s books. And she’s made it clear in the past that she doesn’t think much of mine, even though I doubt she’s ever read one.
“Maybe I can leaf through her book and then ‘forget’ it when we leave,” I tell Max in a joking undertone.
“A bit obvious.” He rolls his eyes as he contemplates the six-hundred-page book I pulled out of the red leather Longchamps goodie bag.
“Are there personal Sherpas? Or a team of weightlifters?” Micki asks.
“Fortunately, we’re only a few steps to the hotel. Perfect planning.” Max preens a bit.
JL roots through his bag and pulls out my book. The pages rustle as he leafs through to the end. “Four hundred pages! Why so many words? These books are enormous.”
“I’m a lightweight compared to Honor.” I glance over to make sure she isn’t listening, but she has left the table and is talking to Henri, gesticulating toward me.
“Historical fiction is massive tomes for serious readers,” Max says. “Or people needing a doorstop.”
The society is giving out four “regular” categories of awards—Classical, Medieval/Renaissance, the Enlightenment through the Victorians, and Nineteenth Century. Then there are two extra categories—Regency and non-European.
My book takes place in the fifteenth century and Honor’s from the seventeenth, and they are competing in the same category. Why can’t we be sitting with an author who wrote about Ancient Rome?
She comes back for as the first course is served. After an interminable discourse on the mother of the future Louis XIV, rhapsodizing about furniture and the creation of Versailles, I mutter to Max, “Why doesn’t she dump Louis and Anne and go straight for the Sun King?”
