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Veronique de Turenne

The grand-mère coat

the grandmere coat

Just 44 degrees this morning here in Malibu, which means the group of us who wake and walk at dawn dwindles. It also means that, even though it's fur, which I normally never wear, my grandmother's coat comes out of storage.

It's a puzzler, this coat, a mid-century mink, sedate save for the zig-zag zoom-zoom lining. My grandmother's coat, which sometimes still smells of her perfume. She was classy, beautiful and tall, one of those Parisiennes who knew how to knot a scarf just so, who, though she lived nearby for decades, never visited the Eiffel Tower.

I wonder what she'd think of her coat now, worn with jeans and rain boots to walk the dogs, a tennis ball in the pockets that once held theater tickets or opera glasses or a monogrammed hankie. I'd like to think it would be "très bien," but "sacre bleu!" is closer to the truth. She'd smile while saying it, though, pull you in for a quick kiss, for a breath of that sweet perfume.

Next entry: Channel change

More by Veronique de Turenne:
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