A Friend in Paris Page 8

  “He’s awake,” he said.

  “Yes, I just fed him before coming here. He’ll probably fall asleep in a bit.”

  “Do you want some orange juice?” Victor asked. “Or a pastis or something?” Her family liked the anise-flavored drink.

  “No alcohol while I’m breast-feeding. A glass of water will be fine.”

  They sat on his spindle-legged embroidered couches, which were not all that comfortable, he realized. He’d gotten them to match the apartment, but never used them. In fact, he rarely had company.

  Victor felt like he had to say something. “How is he sleeping?”

  “He still wakes up every three hours,” Margaux said. “But at least in France, my mom can watch him during the day while I take a nap. It was hard in Monaco.”

  “Did you stay with your cousin the whole year you were there?”

  “Not all of it.” She got up suddenly to get the baby out of the stroller. “Here, do you want to hold him?”

  “Ah, okay. Sure. I don’t really know how to…”

  “Just make sure you support his neck. Like this.” Margaux showed him where his hand needed to be placed, and as soon as he had the baby properly secured, she moved back to her seat, her signature scent of Hermès perfume trailing in her wake.

  Victor looked more closely at Matthias. “I don’t really see the resemblance. Not to you or to me.”

  “Well, babies change all the time, you know.” When Victor continued to study Matthias, Margaux took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about your proposal.”

  “My proposal?” His heartbeat went up a notch. Surely she couldn’t be thinking of his wedding proposal that she’d turned down, not once, but twice.

  “Yes. I know I told you I needed to think about it, and it’s true that my dad is putting a lot of pressure on me to marry you, with you being the father and all. He also said the devil he knows is better than the devil he doesn’t. The thing is…” Margaux toyed with her skirt as her last words hung in the air. “I think it would be a good idea after all. I think it’s better for Matthias to have two parents and, you know, I can’t exactly live with my parents again like this. You can’t go back to your parents’ house once you’ve left it. It’s suffocating.”

  Margaux looked up at him now, meeting his gaze. He hoped his panic didn’t show. “So yes, Victor, I’ll accept your proposal. We can start planning a wedding.”

  Victor didn’t think a sense of dread was a very promising start to a marriage, but he had offered, which was like giving his word. He swallowed down his panic and managed a smile. “Well that’s great, Margaux. I think it will be for the best.” He wasn’t able to say anything more, however, so he studied Matthias while she swung the leg crossed over her other knee and stared at the paintings. It was unlike her to make random movements—to be anything but poised.

  The silence was loud as each was lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Margaux turned to Victor with an artificially bright smile. “Well, that’s settled then. I’ll tell my parents so they can make the announcement.”

  Chapter 10

  It was a beautiful day. The lilacs in the courtyard gave off a rich perfume, and as soon as April stepped onto the sidewalk, a soft breeze carried the smell of budding leaves that swept away the motorcycle fumes that so often filled the street. The sun glinted on the beige stones and lit up the gleaming black grates in front of each window. April walked with a spring in her step, contemplating her luck to live in such a beautiful place, even if it were just for a few months.

  Her painting was rudimentary and contained only a sketch of the storefronts and trees, and she’d left it at home. Today, she just wanted to soak in the atmosphere of this colorful, quaint little street. She watched people come and go, deciding which personage would appear in her scene. There would be the little woman in a red beret and beige trench coat, walking a fluffy white dog. There would also be the young couple: the man in the navy and white striped Breton shirt and his girlfriend with long, sleek black hair. Goodness, this place was a gold mine with its myriad characters that could represent Paris. She would also include the gypsy girl begging at the entrance to the passage, putting her at the base of the first storefront. This, too, was Paris.

  Once she’d sketched some of the possibilities, April decided to head to the art school, though there was no class. Perhaps there were students there, and she could see what they were working on, or invite them to go for coffee. She could call Ben but was reluctant to do so. Despite all his protests to the contrary, she had the feeling he was looking for something more from her than she was ready to give. She was even unsure about the wisdom of accepting his offer to show her around Shanghai when she came. Then again, who says no to introductions and a personal tour given by a local?

  There was no one in the school. At least that’s what April thought until she heard sniffling coming from behind one of the canvases in the corner. With a small frown, April went and peered over the canvas. “Penelope, is that you? What’s going on? Do you need help?”

  Penelope looked up quickly. She appeared startled, as if she hadn’t heard anyone come in, and swiped at her face with her hand. Her smile looked more like a scowl. “I’m fine. Really. I didn’t think anyone was here.”

  “So you let yourself have a cry. I understand that.” April pulled out a tissue from her purse and handed it to her. “Don’t worry. I won’t be a bother. But can I help you with something?”

  Penelope stood abruptly and started putting her unused art supplies into her bag. “No, really. I’m okay.” She forced a more natural smile this time. “What are you doing here?”

  April shrugged. “Actually, I didn’t have anything to do, so I thought I’d come here and see if anyone was working. I don’t suppose you want to go have a coffee with me?”

  Penelope hesitated. “No, I’d better get going.” She took her canvas and brought it to the racks where people left their paintings to dry and, calling over her shoulder, said, “You’re from America, right?”

  “Yes.” April drummed her fingers on the table at the edge of the room, wondering if she should work on something or go somewhere else. She didn’t like having all these hours to kill, and for once, she wasn’t in the mood to be alone and paint. She considered again calling Ben.

  “Are you from New York, by any chance?”

  “No, from Seattle,” April answered. “I’ve never even been to New York.”

  “Huh.” Penelope picked up her bag as April sat on one of the stools by the door. “I’d love to go. It’s always been my dream.”

  “You should then. What’s stopping you?”

  “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” Penelope said. “I’m sure you had family support to come here. My family does not want me to study art or travel, so I’m not going to get any help from them.”

  April paused before responding. “I suppose you could say I have family support—or I did anyway. But everything I’m doing is on my own. I’ll have to depend on what my father left me for future trips. For this first one, I’m using the money I earned while studying. So you see, you can do anything you set your mind to.”

  “If you have a firm enough mind.” Penelope stared straight ahead, then sighed. “And generally I do, but…”

  “I know,” April said. “Sometimes circumstances make it tricky.”

  “You do understand.” Penelope looked at her curiously. “Do you know a lot of people in Paris?”

  April shook her head.

  “You know what?” Penelope said, suddenly. “Why not. Let’s go have coffee. I have a few hours to kill before I go to a party later, and maybe I’m in the mood for company after all. Plus, I like you, and I don’t like everybody.”

  Coffee led to an invitation to the party Penelope was attending that evening. She explained that she had some good friends from high school who lived in the area, and they were hosting a dinner party, but that they wouldn’t mind one more. “And Arthur will be there too. The one who came to the s
tudio with Mr. Chambourd.”

  “But I don’t speak French very well,” April put out nervously.

  “Don’t worry about that. People are always eager to practice their English.”

  The sky was starting to darken when they arrived at a simple building that was only four stories high, with large bay windows in each apartment. “Nice place,” April said. “Your friends from school seem to be doing well.”

  “Oh, Guillaume’s parents bought this place for him,” Penelope replied. When they entered the apartment, Penelope was met by a chorus of greetings with a few curious faces turned April’s way.

  “This is April from the art school. You’re going to have to practice your English with her because she only just arrived in France.”

  The mood in the apartment surprised April. Instead of smoke and beer glasses and the loud noise of a party, she found a group of sober, neatly dressed young people cooking together and sipping glasses of wine or sparkling water. The kitchen was larger, she suspected, than most French kitchens, and they were able to work around a center island with a wood top. One was tearing salad into pieces, another was seasoning steaks to be cooked, and yet another was mixing dressing in a brown ceramic bowl.

  “Would you like to help, April?” one asked, in English.

  “I don’t know much about cooking,” she replied, “but I’ll do my best.”

  They gave her tomatoes to slice and she tried to match her slices to the ones already on the wood platter.

  “I’m Guillaume.” A thin man with tousled brown curls, and sideburns that suited him, came and gave April a kiss on each cheek. “I’m Penelope's boyfriend, but she doesn’t know it yet.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes, but April laughed. “You have a really nice apartment, Guillaume.”

  He bowed. “You’re an artist like Penelope?” When April nodded, he added in a stage whisper, “She’s very talented, but she’ll be the last one to tell you that.”

  “Well, having seen her paintings, I can confirm she’s very talented.” April ignored Penelope’s noise of protest. “And, so, what do you do?”

  “I’m a physical therapist,” Guillaume replied. “I put people back together when they’re broken. That’s why Penelope is so perfect for me.”

  “Stop teasing, Guillaume,” Penelope said, without rancor, but April didn’t think his words were empty. Guillaume’s eyes followed her when she left the room.

  “I’m done with the tomatoes,” April said. “What are you making?”

  “Tomatoes, mozzarella and basil for the entrée, steak au poivre with green beans for the main dish, and chocolate fondant for dessert. After the cheese and salad, of course.”

  April looked around at the group of eight people, who were chopping, drinking and making jokes. “Have you always done this? You cook together? Do all of you know how to cook?”

  “I’m the one who likes it best, and I’m the one who organizes it, but everyone here knows how to cook or is learning fast.”

  April sighed in appreciation. “Thanks so much for having a novice like me. This is really great. We never did anything like this back at home.”

  Guillaume lifted his eyebrow. “No hamburger assembly parties?”

  “Now you’re just teasing,” April retorted, with a bump on his shoulder.

  When they sat down to the meal, it was with cloth napkins and chunks of warm baguette that someone must have just gotten from the bakery. The tomatoes were a festive red against the green basil leaves, and someone had cut the mozzarella in thin slices and drizzled olive oil over the top. When they got to the main course, April was surprised there was no starch to accompany the meat and green beans, but she figured nobody needed it with the baguettes, and then the cheese course that would follow. She had been right. By the time she finished sampling from the cheese selection, choosing the pungent chèvre, camembert, and Roquefort, as well as the hard Comté, she was certain she couldn’t hold another bite.

  Penelope sat on the other end of the table, looking much more cheerful than when she had arrived. The epitome of French, April thought. Her brown hair was cropped close to her face and it framed large brown eyes. She had delicate features that matched a slender frame, and when her smile appeared, it made her glow with beauty. No wonder Guillaume was smitten. Next to her sat Guillaume’s sister, Aimée, who looked a little like him, except for the shape of the mouth and the absence of sideburns. Then there were Théo and Martin, who were practically glued to the sides of Auriane and Morgane. She’d have to ask if they were dating.

  Only Arthur sat apart, and Penelope shot him covert glances that he didn’t seem to notice. He leaned back at the table to April’s left, aloof, but not unfriendly. In fact, she was never made to feel that she was a third—or rather ninth—wheel. She’d have to get to know Penelope better. Anyone who had friends like these must be a good person to know.

  Guillaume brought the chocolate fondant right from the oven, and April couldn’t believe her mouth could still water when she was so stuffed. But she salivated with the first bite. “This is amazing,” she exclaimed, then clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment. That was louder than she’d meant it to be. Everyone gave a small cheer then went back to their dessert.

  “C’est incroyable,” Théo said. “You’d best start practicing your French if you’re going to spend time here.”

  April nodded her head. “C’est incroyable,’ she repeated, badly, and put another spoonful in her mouth.

  “So you’re studying art. Are you here for the year?” Arthur had finally come out of his shell, and she was conscious that his question was not mere idleness since she knew he was an artist himself.

  “Just for the spring semester and the summer. Although I’d like to go to Arles for the month of August when school is closed and tour there.”

  “A fan of Van Gogh, are you?” Arthur made a hard g sound at the end of the name, rhyming it with cog.

  April stared at him. “How did you pronounce that? Isn’t it pronounced like van go?”

  “Not in France. It’s pronounced van gog.”

  “Oh. Well I won’t make that mistake again,” April said. “One ought to know how a name is pronounced.”

  “Especially an artist’s name if you’re an artist.” Arthur lifted an eyebrow as he held the espresso that Auriane had just set in front of him.

  So even the reserved Arthur had decided to open up at last, and they talked about Mr. Chambourd’s style of art over the constant volley of teasing and light-hearted sallies that flew back and forth across the table. When one or two comments were directed her way, April grasped enough of the French to hold her own, though she answered in English.

  “We’re not going to let you off that easy. You need to speak French,” Théo said with a wink, enunciating the words slowly so she would understand.

  As she was preparing to leave, April realized she’d not had such a good time with a group of people her age…ever. No drama, no trying to impress, no love triangles (although it seemed like there was some unrequited love). No hard feelings, anyway. What a treasure to have friends like this. I wonder what had happened to Penelope to make her sad…

  Penelope came to see her out. “I’m going to stay behind and help Guillaume clean up.”

  “I should help too,” April urged.

  “No, we have stuff to talk about.” Penelope smiled and shook her head. “And no, there’s nothing between us. He was just joking.”

  Hmm, thought April. “If you insist. But I feel bad leaving a mess.”

  “It’s fine. Thanks for cheering me up.” Penelope had put on bright red lipstick after dinner, which completed her pixie look, and she gave a dimpled smile.

  “It was nothing. You have the best group of friends,” April said. “Seriously.”

  “You’ll have to join us again then.” Penelope leaned in to give her the bises.

  “I would love that.” April hoped her invitation was sincere.

  It was only ten o’clo
ck when April got on the direct train line to come home. Perfect. When Penelope had first proposed that April join her, April feared the evening would just be starting about now, and she was not the type to stay up all night for social activities. In fact, an hour was generally about all she could handle. What a pleasant surprise that the evening had been so rich in friendship and laughter, and that it ended early enough for her to get home at a reasonable hour. She’d be tucked away in her bed before eleven and ready to start tomorrow’s adventures fresh. It was time to incorporate her sketches of the figures into the painting.

  Chapter 11

  Having entered the door code, April’s footsteps echoed on the cobblestones as she crossed the quiet courtyard. She pressed her key fob against the second door, hesitating by the elevator. No, she would take the stairs. The exertion would clear her mind, and the exercise certainly wouldn’t hurt her body. The lights in the stairwell didn’t work. It was the second time it had happened this month, and she’d heard there was a glitch in the electricity from time to time. Good thing she wasn’t stuck in the elevator. She heard the sound of her own breathing as she climbed the stairs.

  A window in the sloped roof let in light from the moonlit sky that showed the contours of the steps and railing in dim relief. April could see well enough as she rounded the stairs and approached the top floor. Normally, she hated fumbling through the dark. It made her nervous. But the meal and convivial atmosphere she’d just shared with new friends made her feel invincible, like only good things could happen. At the top of the stairs, she pulled on the railing and headed left to her apartment, but a movement on the right brought her head around. A man got up from the window ledge.

  It was Lucas.

  April’s skin prickled. Her pounding heart and breathlessness were not just from climbing six flights of stairs. Some primitive instinct told her Lucas was not here to chat. Danger crackled in the air.