One Summer in Paris(56)

Audrey gave a smug smile. “We’ll see about that.”





Grace


Grace put the bunch of flowers she’d bought into a vase and set them on the table by the open window. As promised, she’d already watered the pots on the little balcony. It was an oasis of greenery, suspended above the Paris street below. Herbs grew in scented profusion, nestled in sunbaked terra-cotta pots, next to the vermillion splash of geranium and the tumble of lobelia.

It was late evening and she left the French doors open, appreciating the whisper of cool air that flowed through the apartment. Across the street she could hear the sounds of someone practicing the clarinet, the tap and thump of pointe shoes from the ballet school next door and, more distantly, the hum and buzz of Paris.

Even though it had only been a few days, already the apartment felt like home. With its high ceilings and calm decor, there was a peace to it that Grace found infinitely more soothing than the opulence of the hotel. Best, of course, was the fact that no one inquired about David. It had been like trying to walk on a broken limb, impossible to forget the injury.

Here, in this new private world where she was the only inhabitant, her old life receded.

She’d spent the afternoon exploring a new gallery, then returned, hot and sticky, her feet protesting, to the sanctuary of the apartment. She’d taken a cool shower using some of the luxurious toiletries she’d brought from her hotel room, and changed into a dress. She’d pinned her still-damp hair away from her neck.

Because she had no intention of leaving the apartment, she didn’t bother with makeup.

From above her she could hear the sound of footsteps and the creak of floorboards. Audrey was getting ready to go out.

Tonight was her date with Etienne.

Anxiety flashed through her. Not because Audrey reminded her of Sophie, but because Audrey reminded her of herself.

She’d been exactly Audrey’s age when she’d first arrived in Paris. Granted, she hadn’t had Audrey’s street smarts, but she’d had the same almost giddy excitement at finally being away from home. It had felt like an escape. Freedom, finally.

And that feeling of freedom could lead to problems. It was like letting a puppy off the leash for the first time. Why was it that she had more concern for Audrey than she had for Sophie?

Probably because Sophie had inherited almost all David’s traits. She was sensible, practical and reliable.

On the surface Grace was all those things, too. She was the only one who knew that underneath she was someone quite different. She’d buried that part of herself but somehow being with Audrey had uncovered it.

She walked to the little kitchen and unwrapped the cheese she’d bought earlier.

With no one to feed but herself, she hadn’t seen the point in spending hours fussing in the kitchen so she’d bought a selection of good French cheese, a baguette with a perfect golden crust, some grapes, a ripe pear and a bottle of good red wine.

Wine.

She didn’t drink, but tonight she was drinking.

Something else she wouldn’t have done had she been with David.

It was the ultimate departure from her old life.

She added cheese to her plate and broke a chunk off the baguette. Then she poured half a glass of wine and took it back to the little bistro table that lay in a pool of lazy, hazy sunshine.

There was a clatter from upstairs, followed by the muted sound of swearing.

Grace glanced up toward the open window and wondered if she should check on her.

No, Audrey wasn’t her responsibility. She didn’t want to be overbearing.

She sliced into the cheese and spread a little on the bread. It tasted like heaven.

The moment she took her first sip of wine, she remembered.

They’d taken a picnic to the river. Philippe had spread out a blanket and unloaded a feast from a bag. Local sausage, fresh figs, bread still warm from the bakery. He was the one who had pressed a glass of wine into her hand, even though she told him she didn’t drink. Up until that point she hadn’t touched a drop.

“This isn’t drinking,” he’d said, lifting his glass to hers. “It’s living. You need to live, Grace. Not just a little, but a lot.”

She hadn’t disagreed.

Food, she’d discovered, tasted different in France, and Philippe was the one who had introduced her to all the different flavors. The first time he kissed her, she wasn’t sure if the turmoil inside her was from the wine or his kiss.

He’d invited her to live a life that was far from the one she was used to.

For a short time, she’d lost herself in the world he’d created.

With Philippe she’d discovered the secret Paris. Not the sites that attracted the crowds, like the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, but those hidden gems that the locals talked about in whispers and rarely mentioned in guidebooks. They’d strolled hand in hand along the riverbank, enjoyed long leisurely breakfasts in arty cafés, lain together in dappled sunshine on lawns that sloped down to the river. They’d explored crooked streets and little-known art galleries.

It was as if a curtain had been lifted, revealing an alternate life. She’d seen possibilities, and a world she wanted so badly it was like the most painful type of hunger.

Now, years later and with one swallow of red wine, that feeling was back.

She took another sip of wine, and finished the cheese. If Paris had a taste, it was this. The fruity tang of red wine and the smooth creamy texture of good goat’s cheese eaten at room temperature while the last of the sunlight spilled through the open doors.