Moonlight Over Paris(56)

Most of the conversation over lunch revolved around Agnes’s memories of grand Christmases past with Dimitri, for he had insisted on celebrating twice—once at the end of December, and again in early January, when the Orthodox feast was held. It all seemed terribly grand, a parade of caviar and royalty and Fabergé jewels, and Helena was still trying to wrap her head around the notion of Christmas breakfast in full court dress when her aunt turned to Sam.

“How did your family celebrate Christmas?” she asked. “Are there any odd American customs I need to know about?”

“Apart from eating turkey instead of goose? Not really. Most years we stayed in the city. It was just the four of us for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, but the entire family would always come for dinner. Aunts and uncles and cousins, and any waifs and strays my mother had invited. Friends without family of their own, or people who were traveling and had nowhere else to go.”

“Rather like our little group today,” Agnes agreed. “Is it hard to be so far from home for Christmas?”

He swallowed, his gaze fixed on the table, and nodded slowly. “It is, I guess. But it’s easier to stay away. My brother . . . he was killed in the war. My parents try, but it isn’t the same.”

“I quite understand, and I do beg your pardon if I’ve upset you at all.”

“No,” he said, and the smile he directed at Agnes was genuine. “This is the nicest Christmas I’ve had in years.”

They repaired to the petit salon after lunch, and as Helena and Agnes had exchanged gifts the night before it remained only for her to give étienne and Sam the presents she’d chosen so carefully. étienne was very pleased with his brushes, and came over to embrace her heartily right away; Sam, however, reacted in an altogether different fashion, and simply stared at his book, his brow furrowed.

“Is anything the matter? I pulled it off the shelf, and one of the poems in it was so strange and lovely, and I had hoped . . .”

Sam cleared his throat, and then he looked up, his eyes bright. “I met Williams last January. He was at the shop, visiting Miss Beach, and we talked for a few minutes. He must have signed the book then.” He held up the book, open to the title page, where a scrawling signature had been inscribed.

“I didn’t know—I mean, I bought the book from Miss Beach, but I didn’t look at the title page. You like it, then?”

“I do. I like it very much. Thank you.”

She couldn’t have said, afterward, what they talked of that afternoon. étienne and Agnes worked their way through most of the vodka, and Helena and Sam polished off the rest of the champagne, and by the time her friends got up to leave her head was spinning.

She said good-bye to both men with a chaste kiss on the cheek, for she knew better than to expect a passionate farewell from Sam while étienne stood nearby. As soon as the door closed behind them she returned to the petit salon to thank her aunt, and to ask if she might return to her room for a nap.

“Of course, but first come and sit with me awhile,” said Agnes, who had the look of a cat sated with cream.

“Is anything the matter?”

“Not at all. You realize, of course, that he’s halfway to falling in love with you.”

For a moment Helena thought she might be ill. She pressed her fingers to her temples and took several deep, steadying breaths. “What? No, he can’t be. I mean . . . we’re only friends. I’m sure that’s all we are.”

“The man is smitten with you. It’s as plain as the freckles on his nose.”

“No, no . . . you’re wrong. He can’t be. It’s impossible.”

Sam was fond of her, and he certainly was attracted to her, but she felt certain that was all. If anything, he was feeling just as she did: confused about the path their friendship should take but reluctant to do anything that might threaten the bond between them.

No matter how he felt, he certainly wasn’t smitten with her. That sort of thing happened in romantic novels, but not in real life.

Agnes patted Helena’s hand, her shrewd gaze missing nothing. “Surely he’s given you some notion of how he feels. Has he kissed you?”

Helena’s hands flew up to cover her face. She wasn’t having this conversation with Agnes. She wasn’t. She’d had too much champagne and rich food; that was all. She would go upstairs and rest and the world would make sense again very soon.

“I’m not your mother, my dear. I won’t have the vapors if you’ve shared a kiss with a man who cares for you.”

“The night . . . the morning he took me to Les Halles,” Helena mumbled, still hiding behind her hands. “He kissed me then. And then, the night of my birthday, I thought he might. But he didn’t. Which was probably for the best, I suppose.”

“Why would you say that? He’s a terribly attractive man, and you’re evidently fond of him.”

“I am, and there have been, well, a few moments when I’ve wondered if there might be something between us, but I can’t let myself hope for anything more. That life . . . it isn’t for me.”

“You mean marriage and babies and all of that?”

“Yes. Once I wanted it, or at least I told myself I did, but now . . . I’m not so sure.”

“And what’s to stop you from becoming his lover?”