Moonlight Over Paris(29)
She was poring over the menu, trying to decide between the baked endive with ham or a mushroom omelet, when a group of Americans entered the restaurant. She looked up—even in Montparnasse, where there were so many foreigners, she always noticed when she heard people speaking English—and there he was. Sam Howard.
She blinked, and he was still there, as appealingly tall and handsome as she remembered.
“Sam!” she called out unthinkingly.
He turned, his expression softening into a smile, and came over to her table. “Ellie Parr. I’d given you up for dead.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy since I arrived. I hadn’t forgotten my promise, though.”
“Sure you did. But I don’t mind.”
“Hélène, why don’t you introduce us to your friend?” étienne interjected.
“Of course. Sam Howard, these are my friends from school: étienne Moreau, Mathilde Renault, and Daisy Fields.” Sam’s eyes widened a fraction when he heard Daisy’s name, but to Helena’s relief he only shook their hands and returned their greeting.
“Sam and I met in Antibes last summer. He works at the Paris office of the Chicago Tribune.”
“We’re old friends,” Sam added, and gave her a pointed look. “Listen, Ellie, I’m here with some colleagues. I should probably go—”
“Why don’t you join us?” étienne asked. “This table here is empty.”
“Please do,” Helena added.
“Well, then. I’ll ask—they could stand to lap up a bit of culture.” He returned to his friends, said something that set them to laughing, and in a moment they had pushed the tables together and Mr. Howard was seated next to her on the banquette, so close that his shoulders brushed hers as he unwound his scarf.
“Geoff Fraser and Larry Blochman, let me introduce you to Helena and her friends from school—étienne, Mathilde, and Daisy. Fraser and Blochman are deskmen at the paper with me,” he explained.
“Deskmen?” asked Mathilde.
“We work the rewrite desk at the paper. Wires come in from New York, but they’re short. A few words per story. We fill in the blanks, I guess you could say.”
“Is today your day off?” Helena asked.
“No. Only day off is Saturday. We start in an hour and work till one in the morning.”
“Tell her where they sent you today,” said Mr. Fraser, or perhaps it was Mr. Blochman.
Sam aimed a sharp look at his colleague, but complied. “Gloria Swanson landed in town. I went to a press conference at her hotel, me and a couple of dozen other hacks, to ask her the usual bunkum. How she likes Paris, what her new film is about, are the rumors about her and Valentino true—that sort of thing.”
“What was she like?” asked Daisy excitedly.
“I’ve no idea. I was at the back of the scrum. Couldn’t hear a word she said.”
“How are you going to write your story?” Helena asked.
“I’ll use my imagination, I guess. How’s this sound?
“‘Miss Gloria Swanson, fresh from her recent triumph in Manhandled, was a vision in white at the H?tel Crillon today. She has come to Paris to begin work on her new film, a romantic romp set at the court of Napoleon Bonaparte. When asked what she thinks of the City of Light, Miss Swanson said that she’s in love with Paris already and can’t wait to see the sights. Judging from the crowds that greeted her earlier in the day at the Gare St.-Lazare, Paris is equally smitten with Hollywood’s most dazzling star.’
“That about right, Fraser?”
“Spot-on, Howard.”
“Earns me a few extra francs, and a byline for my troubles. Not bad for an hour’s work.”
Their waiter had arrived, and Helena was unaccountably pleased when Sam ordered cassoulet for himself and his friends in fluent French. She would have to ask Mathilde or étienne if his accent was acceptable to their ears, but to hers it seemed just fine. It was silly to care about such a thing, but so few foreigners made the effort to learn French—even she and Daisy had got into the habit of speaking English with their French friends.
Mr. Fraser and Mr. Blochman had begun to talk about horse racing, a topic that Sam apparently found uninteresting, for he turned to her, ignoring his friends entirely, and bent his head so his words rumbled against her ear.
“I lied just now. I did mind.”
“Mind what?”
“That you didn’t look me up.”
“I didn’t forget,” she said, and looked him in the eye. “I was going to send you a petit bleu. Once I was settled.”
“Are you happy? With your classes?”
She almost told him the truth. That she was afraid she’d made a mistake, that she was failing, that she would never get the ma?tre’s attention. That she would not be chosen for the oil painting class. Le D?me wasn’t a confessional, however, and she didn’t wish her friends to know of her fears, so she couched her answer in the same platitudes she used to calm her aunt.
“I’m enjoying it very much,” she said, loudly enough that étienne, sitting to her left, would be able to hear. “Last month we were only allowed to draw, but we have classes in pastels and watercolors now. In November a dozen of us will be chosen to work in oils with the ma?tre himself.”