One Summer in Paris(57)

She’d been determined not to think about Philippe, but now she could think of nothing else. The past swirled into her mind, cascading past all the barriers she’d built.

She stared at her laptop.

The tap of a few keys and she’d have the answer. She’d told Audrey that he probably wouldn’t be on social media, but she knew he would. The platform had been invented for people like him. His life had been crowded with people. Friends from school, friends from college. Friends of his parents, of his sister. Friends he’d met through his love of music. He was a talented pianist and had played for Grace a few times. He moved easily through life, meeting each day with a confidence and expectation that Grace envied.

No wonder she’d fallen for him. She’d been lost and a little desperate. He’d been the equivalent of a bright light in a tunnel.

Had he ever wondered about her?

Was she simply the girl he’d waited for that night on the bridge?

A knock on the door shattered her thoughts, and she stood up quickly. She locked it all away—the past, her thoughts, Philippe—and walked across the living room.

Audrey tumbled through the door, a blur of color, perfume and exuberant youth. She wore green, a short dress that fell in a careless sweep from spindle-thin straps to midthigh. It was a dress you wore when you were young, brave and in perfect shape. “What do you think? I found it in the market on my way home from work, and I asked for it in French. Are you impressed?” She spun and the dress lifted and twirled with her.

“I am impressed.” It was easy to imagine Audrey sum moning up those words, eyes fierce, determination lighting up her features. “Your hair looks fantastic.”

“They were quiet in the salon this afternoon, so they did it for me.” Her hair was always pretty, but tonight it drifted over her shoulders in twirling spirals, a sunset blaze, flame red against the pale bare skin of her shoulders. She smiled, lips glossed, drunk on anticipation and possibilities. Eyeliner and mascara made her eyes look huge. She looked gorgeous, and Grace felt a flash of anxiety.

No. She wasn’t going to tell her to be careful. She wasn’t Audrey’s mother.

And she knew her reaction came from her own need to control everything around her rather than any real need for caution. She’d met Etienne. He seemed like a good guy. Young, of course, but young didn’t have to mean careless or reckless. Watching them together reminded her of how it felt to be eighteen and in love for the first time.

Of course, she hadn’t been streetwise. Audrey was definitely streetwise.

Grace tried not to think about the glimpses of vulnerability.

“Is he picking you up here? Do you have everything you need? Money? Your phone? Is it charged?” Shut up, Grace.

“I have everything. And he isn’t picking me up. I’m meeting him in a bar.”

Which bar? What time? What will you do if he doesn’t arrive? Do you have money? Don’t drink too much.

She buried the worries under a smile. “Have fun. If you need anything, call.”

Audrey glanced around Grace’s apartment. “What are you doing this evening?”

“I’m going to read my book, water my plants, message Sophie and call my grandmother.”

“You really do live life on the edge, Grace. Be careful you don’t break your ankle or fall off the balcony while you’re watering.” Audrey punched her lightly on the arm. “If you get into trouble, call me.”

“Very funny.”

“You should look up that guy.”

Grace hoped her flush didn’t give her away. “Do you ever give up?”

“Nope. Do it. Just a peep. A tiny, sneaky little look. He’ll never know.”

Grace rolled her eyes. Whatever Audrey might lack in reading skills, she made up for in dogged determination.

She glanced at the clock, surprised by how late it was. She’d intended to call Mimi earlier but she’d lost an hour at least, sitting in a pool of sunshine sipping wine and thinking about the past.

Years had blurred the edges of her memory, softened the pictures, created questions and alternate scenarios.

What if, what if—

Audrey departed, leaving the scent of lemon and verbena hovering in Grace’s apartment. There was the sound of heels clattering on stairs, the squeak of door hinges that no one remembered to oil and then a firm slam.

Grace sat down again and opened the laptop. In a moment she would Skype Mimi, but first—

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.