One Summer in Paris(71)

She’d been staying with his family and the plan had been for her to spend time with his sister, but she’d broken her leg and so the job of entertaining their American guest had fallen to Philippe. She’d heard raised voices one evening, as he’d protested.

She’s my sister’s friend. What am I supposed to do with her?

In the end they’d found plenty to do. The connection had surprised both of them.

And here they were, face-to-face again. Something she’d never thought would happen.

It felt like a first date.

He cupped her face in his hands, kept his eyes on hers in a way that made her insides squirm. “I spent months planning what I would say to you if I ever saw you again.”

Grace swallowed. Guilt swamped her. “Are you going to yell at me?”

“I’m not the yelling type, particularly over something that happened almost thirty years ago.” He smiled and ran his thumb along her jaw. “It’s good to see you, Grace.”

He spoke in French. He’d always insisted on it. You’re here to learn. How will you learn if we speak English?

“Thirty years is a long time.”

“You haven’t changed at all. You’re still beautiful.” He used charm like a blowtorch, melting resistance.

It made her smile, but there was also a feeling of relief that he didn’t seem to hold any grudges for the way she’d ended things.

“You’re still a charmer.”

“And much good that did me.” He pulled out the chair for her. “I hope you’re hungry because the food here is the best in Paris.”

“Your opinion?”

“Perhaps.” He flashed her a smile. “But when it comes to food, my opinion is the only one that counts.”

Grace picked up the menu but he reached out and touched her arm.

“Can I order? I’m not being sexist and controlling. It’s more that I want you to taste the best things on the menu. This place is an experience you shouldn’t miss.”

The fact that she nodded was a sign of how far she’d come. She put her menu down. “Go ahead.”

He turned to the waiter who was hovering and ordered multiple dishes, with detailed instructions of how they should be served.

She listened, fascinated. “Did you ever think of being a chef?”

“No, but I do love to cook.” When their wine arrived, he tapped his glass lightly against hers. “To old friends.”

“Old friends.”

“So—” He put his glass down. “I will start the conversation with a question.”

“Go on.”

“Why wait almost thirty years to get in touch? I can’t figure it out. When you left, I waited to hear from you. I waited six months, then a year, and after eighteen months I forced myself to accept I was never going to hear from you again.”

How could she explain that she’d known the only way to move on was to make a clean break? “Things were difficult when I went home. My parents were killed.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice softened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was a mess. It was—complicated.” She didn’t want to talk about the details. She didn’t want to taint the evening with that part of her life.

Instead, she told him how her life had changed, about Mimi and also about David.

Philippe was a good listener, paying attention to not just what she said but what she didn’t say.

“He was there for you. Your rock. I can see why you would have forgotten me.”

She hadn’t forgotten him. Instead, she’d managed to lock him securely in a compartment in her brain that she never opened.

“I’d known him forever, but we didn’t start a relationship until that summer I returned from Paris.”

“You’d lost your parents. You needed someone familiar to lean on.”

He was implying that she’d been vulnerable and it was true, she’d been vulnerable, but that wasn’t why she’d fallen in love with David.

“We got married. We have a daughter. Sophie.”

“And is Sophie here in Paris with you?”

“No. She’s eighteen years old. Traveling with a friend.”

“And David?” He asked the question casually but she sensed an undercurrent that she couldn’t quite interpret.

“We’re separated. He left me a few months ago.”

“Then he’s a fool.” His gaze met hers. “And that answers my question about why you chose this moment to get in touch.”

“You make it sound terrible! I was in Paris anyway, and this is my first visit since I was here at eighteen, and—”

“Stop.” He reached out and took her hand. “I’m glad you got in touch, Grace. Tell me what you’ve been doing since you arrived in Paris.”

She told him the whole story, and if he thought it strange that she’d checked out of a five-star hotel in favor of a small apartment, he didn’t comment.

“I know the bookshop. It’s charming.”

Talking about the bookshop made Grace think of Audrey. She wondered how the party was going.

Their food arrived at their table, along with the scent of herbs and garlic. Char-grilled chicken, a salad tossed in walnut oil, a delicate potato dish.