One Summer in Paris

Her fingers hovered over the keys.

Was she really going to do this?

Was she going to look?

All pretense at control seemed to have left her, and she took another sip of wine and typed in his name.

As she’d expected, he wasn’t hard to find. It took less than a minute for her to locate his photo and discover that he was now a celebrated pianist. There was a glossy website, complete with a list of concert dates, a biography, a list of recordings.

She clicked on his photograph, not one of those staged corporate poses with a fixed toothpaste smile, but snapped in midconcert with his hands on the piano keys and a look of concentration on his face.

Music was his main passion, but there were many others. Food. Wine. Literature. Philippe was a man who grabbed life with both hands and squeezed until there was nothing left he could drag from it.

She went to his Facebook page, searching for a more personal story. His page was private, so all she could access were the few photographs he’d posted on his profile.

Philippe, bare chested, hat pulled low over his eyes, standing on an endless curve of sand.

Philippe, playing at the Carnegie Hall in New York, and at the Wigmore Hall in London.

Was there a wife? Had he married?

She flipped back to her own profile, trying to see it through the eyes of someone who didn’t know her. The photograph was one Mimi had taken at a backyard barbecue that David held every year for the neighbors. Her hair was neat, her makeup securely in place. Her smile was fixed. Controlled. What had she been thinking when that photo was taken?

She didn’t look like a woman who had once drunk too much red wine and kissed a Frenchman on a riverbank.

She returned to Philippe’s page. It would be simple to send him a friend request. What would his response be?

Better late than never.

Or maybe he’d ignore her.

Her finger hovered and then she flipped her laptop closed and picked up her book instead, closing her hands over it to make it harder to do the one thing she knew she probably shouldn’t do.

Beyond the windows, the sky was darkening, streaks of red giving way to midnight blue.

She wondered what Audrey was doing.

She checked her phone, but there were no messages, just an email from Sophie with few photos uploaded from Rome. The Colosseum. The Trevi Fountain.

Having a brilliant time, Mom. How is Paris?

She emailed back, Paris is great.

For once it didn’t feel like a lie. Since moving into the apartment, she was beginning to enjoy herself. It was as if she’d left a part of her life behind at the hotel.

Yawning, she stood up and took her plate and empty glass into the kitchen.

She’d call Mimi and then have an early night.

She brewed coffee on top of the stove, the way Philippe had taught her and carried it back to the table. The scent of it was enough to make her contemplate moving to Paris permanently. This was coffee the way it was supposed to taste.

Normally when she rang, Mimi answered immediately, but tonight there was a delay and when her grandmother finally answered she looked flustered.

“Grace! How are you?”

“How are you?” Grace adjusted the tilt of the screen. “Are you out of breath? Don’t tell me—you were having wild sex with a former Russian spy you met when you were a dancer.” She heard a noise in the background. “Is someone there with you?”

“John, the gardener, came over with fresh peaches, but he was just leaving. Tell me about you. Are you lazing around in pampered luxury?”