Cendrine, the nonmaid maid, picked up on the second ring. They spoke in rapid French. “You might as well stay on the line, Cendrine, to save Letitia the trouble of having to tell you everything all over again. Go wake her up and tell her I need a shoulder to cry on or to be told to quit crying, as the case may be.” Cendrine carried the cordless phone and walked back into Letitia’s bedroom. Sarah smiled as she heard the two old biddies begin another day of friendly skirmishes. After barging in on her employer, Cendrine spoke in sharp, clipped French, without ceremony. “Pick up the phone, Letitia. Your granddaughter needs to impose upon you for maternal succor… I know, I told her that sentimental rubbish was not your area of expertise, but she seems to think you might have some sort of advice to offer.” The other line picked up with a crackle, and Sarah grinned as she envisioned her grandmother in some pink chiffon dressing gown over some highly age-inappropriate negligee and perfectly manicured, arthritic, bejeweled fingers holding the antique white handle of a telephone right out of a Zsa Zsa Gabor movie.
