The Last Time I Saw Paris (16 page)

It was just the way Yogi Berra said it, she thought, suddenly worried. It was déjà vu all over again.

 

Lara awoke to the sound of Dan singing in the shower. Eyes still closed, she smiled. Bill had never sung in the shower, he had always been too preoccupied. Turning, she felt something on the pillow. She opened her eyes and stared at the pretty beribboned box. Relieved, she realized it wasn't déjà vu after all, Dan had just wanted to surprise her.

She untied the ribbons and opened the box, lifting away the layers of white tissue paper. Inside was the exquisite little teddy she had admired in Sabbia Rosa, the one that must weigh less than half an ounce, the one made of the very palest peach silk and lace. It was beautiful and she knew it must have cost a small fortune.

She heard Dan whistling softly, the way he had when he was working on her deck. Slipping out of bed, she put on the teddy, letting the smooth silk slide
over her breasts. She had never owned a teddy before and this one was so soft and so light, she barely knew she was wearing it. Rummaging in the bottom of the closet, she found her new shoes with the four-inch heels and put them on.

She leaned against the bathroom door in a sexy pose. “I thought I'd model your gift for you.”

Dan's laughing eyes took in the fact that she was naked under the silk and that the heels made her legs look extra long and slender. And that she was very, very desirable. “Well, now, thank you very kindly, ma'am. I surely appreciate that.”

“I love it, it's a wonderful gift,” she said.

“One we both can share.”

He smelled of soap and shampoo and of himself as he picked her up in his arms and carried her back to bed.

“It's getting late,” Lara protested halfheartedly. “I have to shower and dress.”

“I'll help you.” He was already nibbling on her earlobes, his hands were under the silk … and they forgot the time, and that they were in Paris.

Lara made love instinctively, with no plans of seduction because she had never learned such an art. She just did what she felt like doing, touching, tasting, loving him. She whispered that she loved his strong body, that she needed him now. And then at that ultimate over-the-edge-moment, she laughed, stretching her warm, moist length against him, like a contented alley cat.

 

A few hours later, they were showered and dressed for the evening. Tonight, Dan had taken charge and had made a reservation at Bofinger, the oldest brasserie
in Paris, popular with Parisians and tourists alike.

They held hands, gazing enchanted out of the cab windows at Paris by night, speeding across the stone bridge lit by pretty old-fashioned globes, then circling the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine had been set up during the Revolution and where Marie Antoinette's head had been cut off, as had Louis XIV's and Robespierre's.

Cursing the traffic, the driver raced down side streets and alleys, honking his horn and bellowing curses at anyone mad enough to get in his way, and they felt thankful to arrive still in one piece.

Bofinger was famous for its magnificent turn-of-the-century stained-glass ceiling, as well as for its tall mirrors and tulip-shaped sconces, marquetry paneling and etched glass. The place was elegant, yet easy and informal.

Lara sat with her back against the wall enjoying her favorite Parisian pastime of people watching, while Dan sat opposite, studying the wine list.

“The Brouilly,” he told the waiter. “Chilled. And a bottle of Evian.”

Surprised, Lara said admiringly, “You're a quick learner, Mr. Holland.”

“I asked the dragon lady at the hotel what to order,” he confessed.

She laughed. “Oh? And what else did she say?”

“The seafood platter, for sure. It's one of the best. And so is the
choucroute garnie,
and the roasted lobster.”

“I want it all,” she decided shamelessly.

She sipped the chilled light red wine while Dan studied the menu and Lara studied the faces. Immediately opposite sat an elegant older woman. She was
alone. A bottle of champagne cooled in a silver bucket on a stand next to her table.

She was certainly French, Lara thought, envying her effortless chic. And she was also, as the French say, of a certain age. Her gold-blond hair, streaked with platinum, was cut smooth to her skull, and looked exactly right. Her cheekbones soared like a movie star's and her eyes were as blue as Dan's. She was tall and slender in a yellow designer jacket and a short black skirt with very high heels and very good legs. A wispy black and yellow chiffon scarf was twisted gracefully around her neck along with a triple-strand pearl choker.

Lara guessed that with the scarf and the pearls the older woman was hiding the evidence of age that begins at the neck, that downward pull of time.

The chic Frenchwoman glanced restlessly around. She caught the waiter's eye, said something to him, then anxiously checked her watch.

“He's late.” Dan was also watching the woman in the mirror.

“What makes you so sure it's a man she's waiting for?” Lara said indignantly. “It could be her daughter. Or even a friend.” Dan lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Just because she's all dressed up? That's just Paris,” Lara insisted.

She didn't quite know why she was defending the woman, except somehow it didn't seem right that she should let her anxiety, her
fear
that her man might ^not show, be so publicly on display.

I could never do that, she thought. And then she remembered now, on the rue Jacob when Dan had snatched her up in his arms, the naked joy she had felt, and how the passing couple had applauded them. She recalled the woman's complicit smile, acknowledging
how fortunate she was to be with such a handsome young man. And she thought, Oh, yes, I could.
This
Lara Lewis could.

The woman got to her feet. She paced nervously to the door, peered out, paced back, sat down again. She caught Lara's eye and sighed, lifting her shoulders in a tiny shrug of defeat.

Then, suddenly, he was there. Loping toward her, jacket slung French-style around his shoulders, his dark hair ruffled by the wind. Vital, attractive. And, Lara saw with a little catch at her heart, so
very
young.

The woman's face lit up. In a second, she was on her feet, her arms were around him. He was here, her lover had come for her.
“Mon amour …”
she cried, forgiving him everything.

Lara's blood turned as cold as the wine she was drinking. Oh, God, she wondered, do I look like that? The foolish older woman with the younger man?

“See how sweet they are?” Dan was smiling.

“Sweet?”
she repeated, amazed. Then she realized that Dan saw the little scene quite differently. He didn't see the age difference; all he saw was that the woman was happy now that her lover was here. And that was all that mattered.

Lara reached for his hand across the table and those tiny electric signals transmitted from him to her, from her to him. And she too felt happy for the other woman. Happy that her lover had shown up. Happy just for the moment. Because she knew only too well how fleeting happiness could be.

“Seize the day,” she said as they raised their glasses in a toast to the woman and her lover. Or even just seize the
moment,
she added to herself, feeling suddenly thankful for any extra minute she could have.

“Did you know that oysters are an aphrodisiac?” Lara let a briny Belon oyster slide smoothly down her throat.

“Think you need one?”

She grinned and took another. “No, but I like them.”

“Me too. What do you suppose these are?” Dan inspected a round shell filled with greenish objects.

“Sea urchins?” she guessed.

“Want to try them?”

She shook her head. “They look very fishy. I'm leaving them for you.”

“Well, thanks.” Dan scooped one out and put it in his mouth. “Good,” he said, rolling his eyes, “if you like squishy stuff.”

She was laughing as she said, “Enough about food. It's time for a little culture.”

“Culture? Didn't we do the Louvre, and the Rodin, and the Jeau de Paume?”

“And Berthillon, and Sonia Rykiel, and Tarlazzi, and La Maison du Chocolat, and Sabbia Rosa.” She sighed happily, smoothing her hands over her breasts, thinking of the delicious and expensive peach silk teddy under her black sweater. “That's what Paris is all about,” she said dreamily.

Paris was their Eden. Paris was perfect. How could it get better than this?

I
t couldn't, she thought gloomily the next morning. First, it was raining. Not just any old shower but an honest-to-God downpour of the biblical kind. Dan was behind the wheel of the tiny rented Renault 106, a two-door hatchback in baby blue with a five-speed stick shift, cramped bucket seats, and no air-conditioning. It wasn't the vehicle Lara had requested but the unobliging man at the rental company had told them it was all he had and since they were here on the wrong date—again—they were lucky to get it.

Map in hand, Lara stared through the sloshing windshield, unable to see anything except red tail-lights immediately in front of them.

“Tell me when to turn.” Dan's eyes were glued to the road. He was stunned by the wildness of the Parisian drivers as they crisscrossed in front of him. He shifted down and felt the car jump. This was their third trip around this roundabout and Lara still did not have a fix on which street to take and he still did not have a fix on the gearshift.

“Oh, what the hell,” Lara said, defeated, “let's just get out of here, any way you can.”

Dan edged the tiny Renault into the right lane, cursing as yet another vehicle swerved in front of him, sending a wave of water over his windshield. He made a swinging right turn into a narrow street. From behind him, he heard a horn blasting.

“The bastard is leaning on it,” Dan said, unnerved. “What the hell's wrong with him? Why is he driving up my tail anyhow?”

Lara turned to look. The driver of an ancient Citroen truck waved his fist at her, mouthing what she knew must be obscene curses. She peered anxiously over the mound of baggage piled behind them to see what was wrong.

“Oh . . . my . . . God . . . Dan,” she said slowly. “I think you'd better stop.”

“What, and give that idiot the satisfaction?” Dan was bristling with anger now. “He's been honking me out of his way for five minutes now and I'm damned if I'll move over.”

“Dan. . .” Lara placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Dan, you have to stop.”

He glared at her out of the corner of his eye, negotiating his way uneasily down the narrow street with cars tightly parked on either side, but then something about the look on her face made him take notice. As he braked he heard the rending sound of his back bumper crumpling. “Oh,
shit,”
he groaned, “now look what you've made me do.”

Lara glared back at him. “Before you decide what
I
have done, Mr. Holland, I suggest you get out and take a look at what
you
have done.”

Rattled, Dan got out, slamming the door behind him.

Lara took in the scene. The metal front bumper of the ancient Citroen was firmly attached to the back bumper of their little Renault. And, as far as she could make out from the driver, it had been ever since Dan had turned off the roundabout. The fact was, they had been driving with the Citroen and its irate driver attached to them for almost five minutes.

She peered out of the rain-streaked window. The driver was shouting at Dan in rapid, angry French. He even went so far as to shake a fist. Arms folded, Dan glared angrily back at him. Rain dripped down his nose and he wiped it impatiently away with the back of his hand.

“Obviously, you rear-ended me,” he was saying, reasonably enough, because he figured how, otherwise, could the Citroën be stuck to their rear bumper?

“Non, non, non.”
The Frenchman was huge. He put up his fists, looking for a fight. “No rear-end.”

A traffic jam of epic proportions was piling up on the narrow street behind them. The blare of horns and angry voices mingled with the splashing of the rain. And then the high
uhuh uhuh uhuh
of a police car.

“The idiot says it's my fault,” Dan said indignantly.

“Well, was it?” Lara asked in what she considered to be a reasonable tone, though secretly she thought it might be his fault.

Dan glared at her as though she had committed treason. “Of course it wasn't. They were all driving like madmen, you saw that. He rear-ended me!”

A pair of gendarmes approached,
képis
tilted sinisterly over their eyes, black raincapes swirling importantly.

“M'sieur, madame, it is necessary to pull to one side,” the first gendarme commanded.

“Sure.” Dan was tight-lipped. “Just show me which side.” Cars were parked nose-to-tail the length of the narrow street and obviously there was nowhere for him to get out of the way. Meanwhile, the Citroën driver, with much snorting and waving of hands, was regaling the other gendarme with his account of the story and the infamy of the
tourists américains.
And,
Lara noticed, with a sinking feeling,
the flic
was writing it all down in his little notebook.

Dan showed the first gendarme the back of the Renault with the Citroen firmly attached to its bumper. The gendarme took out the notebook again.
“Votre nom, votre permis, carte d'assurance, et votre passport, s'il vous plaît, monsieur.”

Lara took the documents from the glove box and handed them to Dan. “Is it going to be okay?”

He shrugged. “How do I know? I'm having enough trouble trying to understand what he's saying.”

With a rending of metal, the Citroën was lifted off their bumper. Ten minutes later, Dan climbed back in the car.

“The bastard tried to claim it was my fault,” he said, still fuming.