Capturing Paris (3 page)

“Mais oui, mais oui,”
Georges said, taking Annie in his bearlike embrace and offering the ritual kisses. “Here, let me take your coats. Later, we'll warm you up with a good red. My brother brought us a lovely case from Burgundy.” Georges delighted in speaking English but never lost the guttural
r
that rolled out of the deeper regions of his throat.

“How
is
Antoine?” Annie asked.

“Never better. He and Monique are off to Morocco for the winter.”

“Lucky man,” Wesley said.

Annie thought longingly of hot sun, vivid blue skies, and soft, sandy beaches. Years ago, when Sophie was old enough to be left with a sitter, she and Wesley had taken a vacation there. During that blissful week Annie had rediscovered the passion for Wesley that had been buried under her round-the-clock preoccupations with motherhood. Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Come in, come in,” Georges said. “First some champagne.” Then, lifting his eyebrows, “We have a new
anglaise
we want you to meet.”

“Yes,” Céleste explained, “Georges's cousin, the painter from Provence, introduced us. We met Daphne last weekend at an art
vernissage
, how do you say it”—she paused and searched for the correct word— “Oh yes, art opening.” She looked pleased with herself. Her smooth, pale skin enhanced her elegant features, and her rather strong Gallic nose was softened by warm brown eyes and a ready smile, a face that could only be French.

“Our other guest is Bill Ingram,” Georges said. “You remember him, chap here on sabbatical from an American university, a young professor. I think you met him at our September lunch.”

Annie remembered the painful afternoon, all of them trying to keep from dozing off during the delicious meal accompanied by copious amounts of wine. Bill Ingram had monopolized the conversation with endless anecdotes of his research on an obscure eighteenth-century essayist. Now Annie shot Wesley a look, the pleading “do be nice” look understood by long-married couples. Wesley ignored it.

The two guests were seated on the satin-covered sofa opposite the fireplace. The French word
salon
suited this formal, brightly lit room filled with elegant period furniture, shining inlaid tables, and soft velvet draperies. Céleste had inherited much of it. The American professor, a small, neat man in a navy turtleneck sweater tucked tightly into his trousers, stood up and thrust out his hand. “Great to see you both again. I'm headed back to Boston at the end of the month. Isn't that where you met the Verniers?”The light reflected off his thick, dark-rimmed glasses.

“That's right,” Wesley answered. “Georges and I were both in graduate school. More than twenty-five years ago. Hard to believe. I was in my final year at Harvard Law and Georges was at the business school.” Wesley gave Bill's hand a brief shake and then looked down at the English guest still seated on the sofa. “You must be Daphne,” he said.

“Daphne Walker.” Heavy golden hair swung forward as she stood to shake Wesley's hand. Annie had always thought of herself as tall, but this woman had to be almost six feet. She turned toward Annie, exuding a comfortable elegance, the kind of woman at ease in any situation.

Annie drew in her breath, amazed. Daphne was the woman she had seen a few days before in the subway, the woman in the blue cape. Annie could hardly tell her that she'd watched her in the Métro station. It would be like admitting to eavesdropping.

Céleste and Georges completed all the necessary introductions, explaining to Daphne how Annie and Wesley had taken the Verniers under their wing when they lived in Cambridge during their graduate-school days. Céleste and Georges had been thrilled to reciprocate when the Reeds moved to Paris a few years later. Daphne nodded and turned to Wesley. “What brought you to Paris?”

“I was working at a law firm in New York,” he said. “They asked me to join the Paris office.” He smiled at the Verniers. “Knowing Céleste and Georges made it an easy choice. Now, I'm practicing here on my own.” Annie was pleased to see some of his old charm emerging. He joined Daphne on the sofa.

“Georges, let me help you with the champagne,” Bill said, having lost his seat next to Daphne. Georges carefully poured the champagne into sparkling clear flutes. Bill passed the glasses around and then offered a toast. “To our thoughtful hosts, to new friends, to Paris.”

His words were met with murmured cheers and thanks. Paris would not be an easy city to leave, and Annie felt a little sad for him. She sat in a single chair beside the fireplace, while Bill pulled another chair closer to Daphne. Wesley explained their monthly ritual of joining Céleste and Georges for lunch, directing his comments to Daphne as if he were under some sort of gravitational pull. “It all began when we first moved to Paris,” he said.

“Every single month?” Daphne asked.

“Yes. And when the children still lived at home, they joined us.”

“The children made it very lively,” Georges said. “Sometimes mutual friends from Cambridge stopped in when they were visiting Paris.”

“I think they planned their trips so as not to miss the Sunday lunches,” Wesley said. “Well worth it, as you'll soon see. Céleste's a wonderful cook.”

Céleste shook her head and murmured denial, though she was obviously pleased by the compliment. Annie, sitting apart from the group, had the impression of being set adrift. She wanted to participate in the conversation but for the moment couldn't think of anything to say. She was aware of Daphne's charismatic presence and tried to brush away a niggling sense of envy. She sipped the cool, jewel-like champagne, enjoying the way it tickled her throat.

“I've had some marvelous lunches here too,” Bill said. “Céleste and Georges love to collect English-speaking friends. They say they like to practice their English, but they hardly need to. They both speak beautifully. Anyway, you never know who you'll meet here; it's great fun.”

“We will miss you, Bill.” Céleste's pronunciation drew his name out to sound like “Beel.” “Your stories of Boston and Cambridge have brought back many good memories.”

“Those were good years,” Georges said, beaming at his guests.

“You will excuse me?” Céleste said. “I must see to the oven.” She touched Georges on the arm, and Annie noticed the loving glance that flickered between them.

“May I help you?” Annie asked.

“No, no,
ma chérie
, but maybe a little later.” Céleste pronounced
little
like “leetle.” Why is it, Annie wondered, that a French accent could sound so charming, while an American speaking French poorly hurt
her ears? Céleste left them for the kitchen. The smells of meat roasting in the oven hinted at the delicious meal ahead.

Daphne leaned back against the soft sofa cushions. Annie studied her gray knit dress, stark and simple but immensely feminine. Georges hovered close to his English guest, looking like a delighted schoolboy when she accepted more champagne. Daphne watched Bill through heavy-lidded eyes as he rambled on about Boston and his research at the Bibliothèque Nationale, while Wesley, uninterested in Bill's remarks, kept his eyes on Daphne.

Although Daphne said little, she remained the center of attention. What was it that made her so alluring? Annie wondered. It was probably her many curves, most obviously the curves of her figure, but also the waves in her hair, and the curve of her lips, which slipped periodically into a smile. Annie knew that she herself was considered an attractive woman, though she thought of her face as ordinary, with its regular blue eyes, slim, straight nose, and overly wide mouth. Wesley once said she looked like a long-legged Alice in Wonderland. She would have gladly traded her aging-ingénue demeanor for Daphne's indefinable appeal.

When Annie reflected on the luncheon later, she would picture moths fluttering around a porch light on a summer evening. The three men were clearly attracted to Daphne, but Céleste too appeared to make an extra effort that afternoon. Her laughter came more freely, her voice was pitched a little higher, and her generosity assumed a greater weight.

“I'm going to miss the French bubbly,” Bill said.

“Certainly there's champagne in Boston,” Daphne said.

Bill laughed with some uncertainty. Annie detected a snobbish vein in Daphne's cultured English accent. There was a lull in the conversation. Annie wished she were in her own cozy living room curled up in her chair in the corner working on her poems, but she knew she needed to say something and not fade away from the group entirely. “When you return to Boston, will you go right back to teaching?” she asked Bill.

“Yes, I'm afraid my book will have to be on hold until
les vacances
this summer.
Quel dommage
!” He shrugged and rolled his eyes in an unbecoming manner. Bill routinely peppered his sentences with French
words and expressions. Annie wondered what the students must think of this tiresome young man.

“Professors spend more time out of the classroom than in it, it seems to me,” Wesley said. Annie didn't like the tone in his voice, but Bill didn't seem to notice.

“Clearly, you've never been burdened with a full teaching load while trying to write books,” Bill said. “You can't imagine the time constraints.”

“I'm sure I can't,” Wesley said.

Daphne looked across at Annie. “Céleste tells me that you write poetry.” She drew her hand through her hair, lifting it away from her face.

Annie, to her annoyance, felt herself blushing. “Yes, I do. I'm trying to get back to it, actually.” She felt uncomfortable discussing this in front of everyone. She considered her writing a private part of herself. “I wrote a lot when we were first married and living in Cambridge.”

“Annie has published two books,” Georges said, nodding with approval. “The first was when she was in college.”

“Not books exactly,” Annie explained. “Chapbooks, small soft-bound collections. I wrote the second when we lived in New York. I was enrolled in an MFA program there, but it all got to be too much with a baby and then moving to Paris.” It continued to surprise Annie the way poetry had crept back into her life. She had never stopped writing, but in the last few years it had taken on a greater importance.

“So, do you write in French now?” Daphne asked.

“No. The poems are mostly about Paris, but I write only in English. It makes it hard to get published here.” Annie noticed red lipstick on the rim of Daphne's glass. She wondered if she should try wearing a darker shade too. “I send most of my work to the States, but I'm afraid no one remembers my few successes after so many years.”

“You know, I might just be able to help you,” Daphne said. “You see, I've come to know this French fellow. He's an editor or publisher, something like that.” She pushed her hair off her face again. “He's doing some kind of project that involves poetry. He mentioned needing someone who writes in English.”

“Well, I'd certainly be interested in talking to him.” Annie doubted this would go anywhere. It was too much of a coincidence. Why would a French publisher be interested in an unknown American?

“Annie's real job is working at the Liberal Arts Abroad program,” Wesley said.

“Yes, I work part-time. I'm an administrator.” Annie didn't want to talk about her job. The word
administrator
felt as cumbersome and boring as the job itself. She explained her work finding host families for American college students, working with the French university system to enroll them in classes, and then arranging for the transfer of credits to the American schools. She knew it must sound tedious.

“For students doing a gap year?” Daphne asked.

“It's really more of a junior-year-abroad program because the students are still working for their degree.” While Annie explained the popularity of studying abroad, she became aware of Daphne's eyes. They were the same color as her dress, chameleon-like, capable of soaking up the color of their surroundings. Annie was conscious of the sound of her own voice—she sounded like she was quoting directly from the Liberal Arts Abroad brochure. “But tell me, what keeps you busy here in France?” Annie asked.

“I'm in the antiques business. I also buy art for clients, now and then, which is how I met the Verniers.”

“Yes, Georges told us.” Wesley looked at his friend, who was pouring out the final drops from a second bottle of champagne. “My sister in Connecticut sells antiques. Mostly primitive and American of course.” Wesley seemed glad to have this connection with Daphne. “We've bought some patchwork quilts from her over the years.”

“I'd love to learn more about quilts. Would your sister ever consider selling in France?”

Wesley, recently so silent at home, talked easily about his older sister and her business. Besides Sophie, Madeleine was their only family back in the States. Following her divorce years ago, she threw herself into her thriving business at her country home. She sold simple pine furniture, sturdy crockery, and kitchen implements, the kind of antiques that once had been the everyday necessities of hardworking
farm families in New England. Annie imagined Daphne's antiques to be of a more sumptuous sort, objects whose only purpose was to be beautiful.

“A table, mes amis
!” Céleste called them to the table.

Céleste served a clear soup from an antique Limoges terrine. Steam rose before her face as she lowered the silver ladle into the fragrant broth and told Daphne about the woes of her daughter, who was having trouble finding work in London.

“I haven't lived in London for quite a while, so I'm afraid that any contacts I might have wouldn't do much good,” Daphne said. “My brother has moved out to Devon, so he's not much help either.” She turned to Georges. “Tell me about this wonderful red wine.”