Capturing Paris (4 page)

“It's a Burgundy,” he said. “My brother brought me a case. One of his better finds in my opinion.” Georges, like most Frenchmen, took charge of the wine at all of their parties. Wesley had assumed the same role when they moved to Paris. Annie had never minded.

“It's lovely,” Daphne said, taking another sip.

Bill complimented Céleste on the soup. Annie knew how time-consuming it was to prepare such an intensely flavored broth. She'd learned everything she knew about cooking from Céleste. They'd spent many afternoons talking about recipes when they were young brides in America. Annie knew that Céleste relished her life as wife and homemaker now as much as she did then. Even though their children were grown, nothing ever seemed to change in Céleste and Georges's life. Shopping in the open-air markets, finding the best purveyors of cheese, visiting relatives in the country most weekends—their lives seemed to hum along in a predictable pattern.

“How's Jean-Marc?” Bill inquired after the Verniers' son, who was studying at the University of Toulouse. “I wondered if he's ever met Professor Thibault. He's been on the faculty at Toulouse for several years, I believe.”

Annie was soon drawn into a discussion with Bill and Céleste on the University of Toulouse and the relative merits of studying outside of Paris. She wished she were talking to Daphne and not stuck with Bill. Wesley was leaning forward over his soup bowl, as if he didn't want to miss anything that Daphne said. Georges too was sitting up
very straight, and seemed engrossed in the conversation. Annie could only catch a few words. They seemed to be talking again about antiques or art. It wasn't that Daphne didn't speak loudly enough, but the low timber of her voice required the listener to give her full attention. Annie knew it was not just what Daphne was saying that held her listeners. Beyond her attractiveness and her sex appeal, she seemed complex, as if she was holding something back.

The meal proceeded slowly, as it should on a leisurely Sunday afternoon. Céleste brought the platters of food into the dining room on a brass-wheeled tea trolley and passed them around the table—sliced pork with a tangy mustard sauce; roasted potatoes; and steamed carrots and parsnips, small and sweet with a bit of the green stems still attached, making them look like they came right out of the garden. Annie wondered if her own heightened state of awareness was due to Daphne's presence. It was as if she were dining at the Verniers' for the first time. A dazzling white linen cloth covered the table, and the fine old silverware felt heavy in her hands. The tinkling of plates and glassware added to the elegant party atmosphere. She heard herself taking part in conversations, laughing at anecdotes, complimenting her friend on the delicious meal, all with a strange sensitivity, as if she were outside of the room and looking in through tinted glass.

After the salad course, Céleste brought out a platter of cheeses that she'd arranged artfully on a layer of overlapping green leaves. Annie recognized a chèvre, a creamy blue, and a generous wedge of Saint André. Céleste always remembered to include Wesley's favorite. Next to it, a ripe, runny Camembert gave off an earthy, barnlike scent. Daphne chose that one.

“Tell me about your house in the country,” Wesley said.

Georges had gotten up to refill the wineglasses. Enjoying the role of host, he carried a large white linen napkin over his arm like a proper sommelier. Annie felt a little warm, but she nodded when Georges reached for her glass. Thankfully, everyone now turned to Daphne.

“It's called God House.”

“What an auspicious name,” Bill said. “Did it used to be a convent or monastery?”

“Not at all. It's just a beautiful old house on the Seine, in a small town called Villandry. I inherited it from my French godmother. As a little girl, I called it God House, the house of my godmother. It was a silly childhood name, but we've called it that ever since.”

“It's a wonderful name,” Annie said. “How did you come to have a French godmother?”

“Antoinette worked in London when she was young. She went there to learn the antiques trade and stayed for nearly ten years.” Daphne's face had taken on a dreamy expression, as if she was trying to visualize her godmother at that time in her life. “That's where she met my mother. She came often to our house in Devon, and she and my mother became very dear friends.” Daphne lifted her hair again, a gesture that Annie would eventually associate with her.

“Was God House her family home?” Georges asked. Like many traditional Frenchmen, he liked to know about one's roots. He often spoke of his own boyhood in Burgundy, the family rituals, and of his brother, who still lived there and worked as a wine exporter. He'd never understood Wesley's willingness to sell his parents' home in Connecticut after their death or Annie's reluctance to return to her small town in Vermont.

“No. Antoinette grew up in Paris, but when she moved back to France she bought the house in Villandry. She started her antiques business at God House with money she'd inherited.”

Annie, always an avid reader, had loved the magic of certain houses in books—like Miss Haversham's, in Dickens; Margaret Mitchell's Tara; or Manderley, which had prompted her to read everything that Daphne du Maurier had ever written. “Did they stay close friends when Antoinette came back to France?”

“Oh yes. My mother adored Antoinette and came to God House frequently. In fact, after I was born, my mother spent months at a time at Villandry. God House was a kind of refuge for both of us.” Daphne's expression grew somber. Annie noticed just the hint of violet circles under her eyes. “After Mummy's death, I pretty much moved in with Antoinette,” she said. “I was either there or in boarding school in England. My father was never around, but I don't want to bore you with all of that.”

Annie wanted to know more, but as Céleste's longtime guest, she needed to be useful. It was time to clear away the cheese and bring out fresh plates for dessert. Annie and Céleste worked together with the easy rhythm of two old friends. Annie cleared the table while Céleste scraped the delicate white plates and lowered them into a dishpan of hot, soapy water. Annie got the dessert plates down from a high shelf, and Céleste divided the plum-and-almond tart into six slices.

Céleste lowered her voice to a whisper. “What do you think of her? Georges was practically drooling over her when we met at the art gallery. It was his idea to invite her.”

“I gather she's not married,” Annie said.

“Well, she's not wearing a ring. When I invited her to lunch I asked her if there was someone she wanted to bring. She said, ‘No thanks.' ”

“There's something different about her. Wesley is certainly paying attention.” Annie hesitated a moment before confiding in her friend. “Wesley's been so down lately. I hope he gets more work soon.” Annie had told Céleste about Wesley's work problems, but she couldn't imagine telling her how their marriage seemed to be deteriorating as well. She worried that she was failing Wesley at some deeper level.

“I'm sure things will improve. Georges says the current government is ruining the business climate, but you know how conservative he is!”

Back at the table, Annie hoped to hear more about God House, but Georges was telling Daphne about his brother's place in Burgundy.

After eating Céleste's homemade tart, they moved back to the living room. Céleste carried in a tray with coffee and demitasse cups.

“I'm afraid I can't stay for coffee,” Daphne said. “I'm meeting a client in Passy. She has some chairs for me to appraise. I promised I would stop by before driving back to the country.”

“Of course, we understand.” Céleste smiled. “We're so pleased that you could come to lunch.” Céleste looked to Georges, whose face registered disappointment, and asked him to get Daphne's coat.

“Thanks, Céleste, it was a heavenly lunch,” Daphne said. “I so enjoyed it.” She kissed Bill on both cheeks and wished him well on his
return to the States. “Good luck with all your projects,” she said to Wesley, offering him her hand. Then she turned to Annie. “We need to talk more about your poems.”

“That would be great.” Annie was surprised she remembered.

“Check your diary and give me a ring. I'm in and out of the city all the time.” She pulled a card out of her black leather bag and handed it to Annie.

“Céleste, I want you and Georges to come out to God House. Perhaps this spring when the weather warms up.”

Georges returned carrying Daphne's coat, the deep blue cape with the black velvet collar. He shook it open and placed it over her shoulders. Daphne brushed past Annie, leaving behind the faintest scent of lilac. Annie felt staid and predictable as she stood in her wake. She loved English expressions like “diary” for calendar and “ringing” people on the phone. She knew it was unlikely that Daphne's connection in publishing would come to anything, but she was pleased that Daphne had taken an interest in her poems.

“Let's walk along the river,” Wesley said. “I think the sun's coming out.” The strong coffee after lunch had revived them. Annie reached for Wesley's arm. After the good food and lively conversation, his handsome features had regained their definition. They turned down rue Séguier, a narrow side street that led to the Seine. Tourists would be unlikely to stroll this street without any shops or cafés in view. Indeed, like many quiet Paris streets, it looked like a tired old gentleman whose worn but well-tailored elegant clothes were now faded and smelled of closed rooms and tinned soup.

“You seem to have cheered up,” Annie said.

“It was a good party. Daphne was different from most of Céleste and Georges's guests.”

“You and Georges seemed to like her,” she said, smiling up at him.

“What's that supposed to mean, Annie?”

“I'm just teasing.” She looked up at the sky. The afternoon light was on the wane. “What did you talk about at your end of the table?”

“Mostly about Daphne's antiques business. Madeleine should get in touch with her.” Turning away Wesley breathed in the wet air coming off the Seine. “Georges sure is generous with the red wine.”

Annie said nothing. The Seine surged along below them, a dark turbulent gray but a tough blue sky began to push through the clouds.

“So, are you going to call her?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She started to tell him that she'd seen Daphne a few days ago in the Métro, but she decided against it.

“Let me see her card,” he said.

Annie pulled it out of her pocket and held it up. The words
God House
stood out in raised black ink against the heavy cream paper. A phone number was printed below. Wesley made a motion to reach for it, and Annie, laughing, leaned into him and kissed him on the lips. His mouth felt warm and soft despite the cold air. He didn't allow his lips to linger but withdrew his arm from hers to turn his collar up against the wind. She thrust the card back into the depths of her coat pocket. Masses of steel-gray clouds had quickly swallowed up the patch of blue sky.

L'Invitation

“I don't mind the cold, but I'm sick of the dark.”Wesley picked up the kettle
, stopping the shrill whistle. “It doesn't get light until nearly eight-thirty now.” He poured the boiling water over the coffee filter, releasing a nutty warmth as the brown stream trickled into the glass carafe. He preferred his coffee black, unlike Annie, who'd adopted the French custom of drinking café au lait in the morning, half strong coffee and half hot milk. His face had already lost the relaxed, peaceful expression he'd worn in sleep. He looked somewhat disheveled in a faded checked flannel shirt loosely tucked into the corduroy pants he'd worn all week. When he'd worked at Wilson & James, he wore neat dark suits with a crisp white shirt and silk tie, the clothes of a successful attorney in a sophisticated city.

“Speaking of the dark,” Annie said, “it's almost the winter solstice.” She hoped talking about the party might lift his spirits. “I've asked everyone for the nineteenth this year.” The Reeds hosted an annual dinner party to celebrate the winter solstice. Annie had started this tradition when they first moved to Paris. She liked the idea of giving a party just before Christmas and lighting the apartment entirely with candles during this darkest time of the year.

Though she looked forward to more light-filled days, Annie preferred writing poems in winter. Oddly, the fragile winter light fed her spirit more than the brilliant, overblown beauty of summer. She'd gotten up early to work in the alcove off the living room, the small space she'd appropriated for her writing once Sophie had started school. From her favorite chair in the corner she could just make out the tops of the trees as they emerged slowly out of the darkness.

She'd found it hard to write that morning. She still felt the sting of the recent rejection letter. She worried that her poems were too narrative, too direct. Some of the younger poets she'd been reading recently had an edgy quality. The last time she'd attended a reading of American and English poets, held at the American Church in Paris, she'd had a difficult time understanding the work. The words were clear, but the mood was often cruel and angry, quite lacking in heart.

Wesley carried his coffee over to the table while Annie sliced the previous night's baguette for toast. The bread was unusually hard, and crumbs scattered across the counter under the pressure of the knife. She put the slices under the broiler and carried the butter and jam to the table.

“Who's coming?” he asked.

“Céleste and Georges, of course, and Mary and Tom. Just the six of us.” Two of Wesley's partners from his old law firm used to come with their wives every year, but they had chosen to go back to New York when the firm closed.