Capturing Paris (6 page)

“Just a few old friends. I hope you can come. Céleste and Georges will be there.” Annie was annoyed that Wesley was listening to her every word. He was starting to cut more cheese for another sandwich.

“Sounds like fun,” Daphne replied. “I'd love it. If it's a late night, maybe I could stay with Céleste and Georges instead of going all the way back to the country.”

“Why don't you spend the night here? Our daughter's room is free. She won't be home in time for the party this year.” Annie surprised herself with this invitation. They rarely had guests for the night.

“Well, that would be lovely. Funny, I was thinking about you too this morning.”

“You were?” Annie colored slightly.

“Yes. I talked to the fellow I know in publishing. I'd like to take him some of your poems. He said he'd be willing to look at them.”

“My, that sounds extraordinary. He doesn't know anything about me.”

“Of course not. But I told him I had a feeling about you, also that you had published in New York.”

“I know, but that was a long time ago and—”

“You're not backing out, are you?” Annie detected a note of impatience. “He didn't say he'd publish them, just that he'd look at a few.”

“Of course I'd be willing to show him my work.”

“Good then. Let's meet for lunch and you can give me the poems then.”

They made arrangements to meet the next day. Annie put the phone back and turned her attention to the burned sandwich that Wesley had left in the sink.

“Well?” Wesley said.

“Well, what?” Something about Wesley's interest bothered her.

“Is she coming to the party?”

“She is. And I'm meeting her for lunch tomorrow.”

“Aren't you glad I thought of asking her?” Wesley said.

Annie tried to hide her impatience. “Mmm.” She was no longer thinking about the solstice party. She needed to decide on which poems to bring to lunch, but that would have to wait. Unfortunately, she had to get back to the office that afternoon. At least she had good
news to report to Mary, about the potential host family Hélène had found. She wanted to schedule the interviews as quickly as possible.

And Daphne had remembered her poems. Annie felt her spirits lift. She had a feeling that something good was going to happen, that something might even change for the better. She tossed Wesley's burned sandwich into the trash.

Le Café

“
Life is filled with all kinds of risks, some you don't know you're taking.
”

They sat facing the street. Annie had arrived first, securing the table, and Daphne had come twenty minutes later. The noon rush had abated, but the ever-fashionable Café de Flore was still filled with cell-phone-wielding business patrons, trendy Left Bank women, and a scattering of tourists seeking the literary ambience for which the café was once known. Their intense voices melded with the clatter of plates and glasses as busy waiters cleared tables and readied places for the next wave of diners.

Annie, feeling a draft on the back of her neck, pulled her scarf more closely. She had just explained to Daphne how taking on a big project after all these years seemed like quite a leap. “Even if this editor liked my work and wanted me to write the poems, I'm not certain I could do it.” She wanted to be honest.

The sidewalk tables were enclosed by glass walls, allowing one to sit and watch the bustling crowd in any season. A meager winter sun was trying to break through a smoky gray cloud cover, but supplemental heaters blew out a dry heat and kept the cold at bay. Daphne, with the signature blue cape draped over the back of her chair, thumbed through the folder of poems. Her hands could have been those of a young man, with long tapered fingers and short square nails, but the soft pale skin was delicate and feminine.

“It's mostly new work,” Annie said uncertainly. “I enjoyed doing that series on French churches. Right now I'm doing a group of poems inspired by Courbet.” Perhaps she should remain silent as Daphne
read. Annie felt suddenly exposed and fragile. She still couldn't quite believe that Daphne was truly interested in her.

The waiter, in a flapping long white apron, arrived with the carafe of red wine that Daphne had ordered. He poured the wine into their glasses, casting an appreciative glance toward Daphne. She wore her allure like an old sweater, easy to toss on and fend off a chill.

“I like this line, ‘Dust motes in the arc of light, sprinkling grace on ragged souls below.' ” She nodded approvingly. “Well, I'll take these to him and we'll just have to see.” Daphne raised her glass. “To your success!” she said. Annie rarely drank wine at lunch, certainly not during the week, but she didn't need to go back to the office that afternoon. For some reason, she didn't feel like being her usual careful self. Besides, the red wine would warm her on this cold winter day.

“Tell me more about your friend in publishing,” Annie said. She was still puzzled that a French publisher would be willing to read work of an unknown American poet.

“He's a client actually, named Paul Valmont, but we're getting to be friends. Good-looking man. You'll see.” Daphne took another sip of wine and looked at Annie across the top of her glass. “Anyway, he has a small publishing business, edits some books himself. His wife died recently, and he called me because he wants to sell some of her furniture. She collected antiques. I think that having her things around makes him sad.”

Daphne leaned her elbows on the table, drawing closer to Annie. “He's doing a book of François Naudin's photographs. Have you heard of him?” Annie shook her head. “He's old now, at one time quite well known for his scenes of Paris. Naudin is an old family friend. They want to do a book together with poems in English to go with a collection of pictures of Paris. You know, a kind of art book, but one English-speaking tourists could take home to remember their trip.”

“I love writing about Paris. So many of my poems are about the city.” Annie felt encouraged, almost ready to believe she was up to the task.

“It would mean writing specific poems for each photograph.”

“You mean all the poems for the book?” Annie leaned back in her chair. “I've never tried to do anything like that before.”

“Like I said, we're faced with risks every day.”

“Well, it's too soon to worry about that. It all depends on whether or not he likes my poems.”

“I have a feeling he will.” Daphne smiled.

Annie wanted to believe this. But Daphne was not a poet herself and she'd glanced at only a few of her poems. Annie wondered why Daphne would try to help someone she'd met only once. Until today, they'd had only the briefest conversations. Still, Annie had an uncanny feeling about Daphne. Something compelled her to pay attention to this woman, but also to be wary.

Today Daphne's eyes had a green tinge like her sweater, a loosely woven affair with a shawl collar, belted at the waist. Under this she wore a silk shirt, a paler shade of green. Her collar was turned up, but the top two buttons were left undone, revealing the creamy skin of her throat. Annie felt prim beside her. She'd worn her hair pulled back and tied with a velvet ribbon in the style that made her think of the French actress Catherine Deneuve. The beige skirt and matching wool turtleneck that had seemed understated and chic when she chose them that morning now felt colorless and dull. Everything about Daphne suggested nonchalance. Perhaps a calculated nonchalance.

The waiter appeared with their lunch. He placed a large golden omelet filled with wild mushrooms in front of Daphne. She'd ordered her omelet “
baveuse
,” and rivulets of warm, barely cooked egg oozed out toward the vivid green parsley garnish. Annie had ordered a bowl of onion soup. It came topped with pale yellow Gruyère cheese melting onto the crisp toasted slice of French bread floating in the center. The buttery, woodsy smell made Annie feel better. Daphne picked up her knife and fork and started eating lunch. Annie, suddenly ravenous, tried to sip the steaming soup without burning the roof of her mouth.

“So, when was the last time you took a risk?” Daphne asked. Their conversation was veering off into unfamiliar territory. Céleste talked only about family, food, or plans for the weekend. She and Georges often went to the country to see Georges's family and to escape the hurried pace of Paris. Céleste worried about “
le stress
.” Their most intimate talks went only as far as family health, or worries about their grown children. Over the years, most of Annie's American friends in Paris had
moved back to the States. Her closest friends had been the mothers of Sophie's classmates, wives of Wesley's colleagues, and a few poets she'd met at readings. She had never shared that same kind of intimacy with her French women friends—except for Hélène.

Risk
. Annie didn't even like the sound of the word. Her first serious boyfriend, Luke Walters, wanted her to leave college and move with him to New York. She was nineteen then and he only twenty-three. Perhaps that's the kind of risk Daphne had in mind. “I almost left school and ran off with a playwright,” she said. “Now and then I wonder what my life would have been like.” She hadn't thought about Luke for years.

“What was he like?”

“Very artistic, typical in a funny way. He had dark, thick hair, good-looking. Sort of brooding, painfully sensitive, but his voice was the amazing thing. I think I fell in love with his voice. It's funny, I can almost remember it now. It was soothing and very clear. I could hear him, the sound of him, years later, long after I forgot almost everything else.”

“So why didn't you go with him? Sounds dishy to me.”

Annie liked
dishy
, one of those charming Brit words but not in the least appropriate for Luke. “He was too sullen to be dishy.” The word sounded odd in her mouth. “I think he was talented, though I can't remember anything he wrote. He probably should have been an actor; he was intense, very dramatic. Passionate too. In any case, I didn't go with him.”

“Going off to New York with a handsome young man doesn't seem like a terrible risk to me.”

“Believe me, it was. My father was a professor. My finishing college and getting a degree from a good school was one of the few things he cared about. Also, I didn't like Luke's friends. I would spend the weekend with him and his theater friends and return to school utterly wrung out. It was Luke mostly. He was draining. I felt like I was constantly trying to be someone I wasn't. It's hard to explain.”

“So marrying Wesley wasn't a risk?”

“Oh no. I guess it was risky to get married so young, and I did turn to him on the rebound.” Annie smiled. She liked thinking about the
early years of their marriage. “Wesley was sunny, positive, like he had the whole world figured out. Being with him was a relief.”

“And that's a commendation?”

“I guess
relief
isn't the right word. It's just that with Luke it was like walking on a high wire, giddy and exhilarating when I was up there, but there was this incredible tension, you know, the possibility of falling off.”

“You'd rather get off gracefully while you could.”

“Exactly. But what about you? Tell me about the men in your life.” The wine was loosening Annie's tongue. She didn't want to be the only one dredging up old loves.

“Let's just say it's been a series of short high-wire acts.” A closed expression fell across Daphne's face. She reached for the carafe and divided the rest of the wine between them. Her lipstick had worn off her full lips, and her teeth appeared surprisingly small for such a generous mouth.

“Tell me more about God House.” It seemed strange to Annie that a younger single person would prefer living out in the country instead of in Paris. “Is it very remote?”

“Yes and no.” Daphne took a long final sip of wine. The town isn't even an hour outside the city, that's without traffic of course. Only fifty minutes on the train. The house is just a kilometer outside the town, but once you go down the drive”—Daphne gestured toward the traffic in front of the café—“it's like leaving the world behind. A large stand of chestnut trees blocks the house from the road, and the house itself sits up on a rise facing the river and the fields beyond.”

“It sounds lovely.” Annie tried to envision this place. “You don't get lonely?”

“Never. Have you ever lived in a place where you feel like of all places on earth that is where you are meant to be?”

“That's how I felt when we came to Paris.”

“I love Paris too, but when I go through the gates to God House, it's home, where I'm truly alive.” Daphne had finished eating. Her face had taken on a luminous expression, her eyes focused on a distant pleasure. “When I lived there with Mummy and Antoinette, it seemed like life was quite perfect, the happiest days of my life really. God House has
made me who I am. You'll see.” She looked at Annie. “Funny, neither of us wanting to live in our native land. Where were you born anyway?”

“New York City. But I don't remember it as a child. We left for Vermont when I was four. My mother had died. My father moved there so we could live with his sister, my aunt Kate. He'd been a professor at Columbia. He never recovered from my mother's death. It was aunt Kate who raised me, and Daddy took a job teaching history at a small local college.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

Annie shook her head.

“I see. So you were the poor, lonely, sensitive only child,” Daphne said in a slightly mocking tone.

Annie didn't know how to respond to this, but just then the waiter came to clear their dishes and deliver their salads. The earthy aroma of garlic rose from the wavy greens that glistened in an olive oil sheen. Daphne nodded with pleasure after taking a large bite and licked the corner of her mouth. “Marvelous salad here, maybe not as good as Céleste's, but close. What was your aunt Kate like?”