"That one is ve
ry good looking," Leslie whispered. Randall ignored her.
"The White Tower is the major building. It was home to a long line of medieval kings who lived on the top floor, but everyone is interested in the Bloody Tower?'
"Why?" Catherine asked.
"It's where the ghoulish fifteenth-century royal murders occurred, the murder of the young princes, Edward V and the Duke of York."
"I want to see the jewels," Leslie cried. "Who wants to look at some dirty old prison house?"
"We can see it all," Randall said firmly.
The sisters smiled at each other, enjoying it when Randall took control. I started to laugh with them. Maybe they were right; maybe I was too serious about life. It was more fun to be carefree.
After our tour, the sisters wanted lunch so we bought bread and cheese and to my surprise, two bottles of wine. When I questioned it, they looked at me as if I had been locked away with the poor dead princes.
"How do you eat without wine?" Leslie wanted to know.
I explained that where I came from, wine was not something adults wanted younger people to drink.
"There are too many winos on our streets, guzzling some cheap wine out of paper bags."
They finally looked serious as I described some of the scenes I had witnessed where men were sprawled on sidewalks, homeless, living in cartons or in alleys, getting a cheap high from wine that would probably take paint off a car.
Like Randall, the sisters came from a privileged life. They lived in a chateau outside of Paris with land that bordered on the Seine. They, too, had gone only to private schools, and my stories and illustrations were as fascinating to them as some television drama.
"We have heard about such things in America, but you are the first one we know who lives in such a place," Catherine said.
Then, as if unpleasantness was nothing more than a bubble to be burst, they both clapped their hands and declared we should never talk about sad things.
"You will be a great actress and never go back to such a world anyway," Leslie declared.
Even Randall had to laugh.
"That's why we're all here, to become stars," he said.
I actually enjoyed our little picnic and the wine, too. I was surprised at how much Catherine and Leslie knew about good wine, how important it was to know from what area in France the grapes were grown, and how it all had an important effect on the taste. They taught me how to taste wine, how to hold it for a moment in your mouth and suck air over it to feel the burn. How they laughed at my confusion and surprise.
We really were having a fun day, but Randall wanted us to go back early so he and I had time to prepare for the theater. The sisters wanted to know where I had gotten the tickets and I told them about my great-uncle, referring to him as Mr. Endfield. They exchanged subtle smiles.
"What?" I asked while Randall went to throw away our bags and paper from lunch.
"An older man, cherie?"
"What? You don't think ..."
"Why not? Leslie almost had an affair with a married man last year," Catherine said as if it was something about which to brag.
"You did?"
"He was really just married, but still, he was desperate to have me as his mistress. He swore he might even kill himself if I refused."
"What did you do?"
"Refused. Imagine, to have a man kill himself over you, eh, cherie?"
"You'd like that?" I looked at both of them and smiled. "You're making fun of me, telling me fantastic stories to see what believe."