A Summer in Paris

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Grandmama! Grandpapa!” A pretty, dark-haired young woman ran up and threw her arms around the Cartiers, hugging each one of them before stepping back, blinking. “Let me look at you,” she said in French. “It has been ... how long?”

  “Too long,” Madame Cartier replied. “Ah Michèle, you look so lovely.”

  Jennifer had to admit that the girl standing there with bright blue eyes and flushed cheeks was pretty. She was also energetic and animated, one of those people whose faces reflected everything they were thinking.

  “We are forgetting the most important thing!” Monsieur Cartier exclaimed. “Michèle, you must meet our guest from the United States. Jennifer, Michèle. I hope this is the beginning of a fine friendship.”

  Jennifer opened her mouth, intending to say something polite. But Michèle beat her to the punch.

  “Oh, Jennifer, I’m so glad to meet you!” she cried in English. “I’m so looking forward to having the chance to show you around Paris. I mean the Paris I love—young people’s Paris—not the stodgy city full of monuments and boring tour guides that is all that most visitors get to see. And you don’t mind if we speak English, do you? I would really welcome the chance to practice on a real American.”

  Jennifer was taken aback by the girl’s enthusiasm. “Uh, sure, Michèle. Speaking English would be fine. In fact, speaking English would be great. I was afraid I was forgetting how.”

  Michèle laughed. “Ah, Jennifer. I can hardly wait to begin. I have so many people I want you to meet, so many places I want to show you. I think we are going to have fun, you and me.”

  Jennifer just stared at her. Was that really possible? Would she really have fun with this girl?

  I really, really doubt that, she was thinking, still sizing up her brand-new companion. Then again, I suppose I could at least give it a try....

  * * * *

  “You’re only posing for a drawing.” Nina gazed at her reflection in the mirror, her hairbrush poised midair. “You’ve never done anything like this before. That’s the only reason you have all these butterflies in your stomach.”

  For the fifth time that morning, she decided to rearrange her hairstyle. Impatiently she pulled out the barrette she had just fastened in back and held it on one side of her head, studying the effect. And then she began brushing her hair fiercely, having concluded that she should wear it loose, with no barrette at all.

  “Usually you’re so ... so level-headed,” she scolded herself. Yet she continued studying the girl in the mirror, casting her a disapproving frown and picking up the rose-colored blush she had already applied twice. “You’ve always had so much common sense. Yet ever since Pierre called to say he was coming to Paris to do some sketches of you, you’ve been fussing like ... like someone about to go off on her very first date.

  “Besides,” she went on, “the main reason you’re interested in seeing Pierre du Lac again is because you want to find out more about his grandfather.”

  Despite her protests, however, Nina knew she was only fooling herself. The truth was that the idea of seeing Pierre again was filling her with excitement. And both being the subject of his sketches and learning more about his grandfather were only a very, very small part of it.

  “You are certainly looking lovely today,” Pierre greeted her when they met near the main entrance of the Bois de Boulogne, the huge park on the edge of the city. “You look radiant, as if you were glowing.”

  Nina laughed. “That’s because I was rushing to get here on time. I ran all the way from the métro.” But she kept her face down so he wouldn’t see the flush of delight on her cheeks.

  Pierre’s studio was close to the Bois, a short walk through quiet streets lined with well-kept homes. As they walked to the fifth floor of a narrow stone building, up to a large, airy space bright with sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling, Nina suddenly felt shy.

  “I’ve never done this before,” she said. “I don’t know how I’ll feel about having someone stare at me so closely.”

  “Just keep in mind that I will be breaking you down into colors and planes and shapes.” Pierre was only half teasing. “I’ll barely see you as a person at all!”

  “How’s this?” She wasted no time before arranging herself in a comfortable position on the wooden platform.

  Pierre studied her for a few seconds. “No, not quite.”

  He came over to her and knelt down at her side. Touching her lightly, he positioned her face, then gently pulled her shoulders a bit forward, meanwhile frowning in concentration.

  “You’re treating me like a vase of flowers.” Nina pretended to be annoyed. “Or even a bowl of fruit.”

  “Ah, I told you so. Now keep still, ma petite. It is important that the light be just right. It is not a simple matter for an artist to pose his subject.”

  As he brushed her hair back over her shoulder, Nina felt a shiver run down her spine. Perhaps, in Pierre’s mind, all he was doing was rearranging the subject he was about to draw. But to Nina, being so close to him, feeling his gentle touch, was making her feel a rush of emotions she was reluctant to be experiencing.

  In fact, as she sat as still as she could, she was unable to stop thinking about how being so near to Pierre had made her feel. Keeping her body motionless, she watched his blue eyes travel from the sketchbook to her face, back and forth, so regularly that it was as if he were watching a tennis match. The scratchy sound of the charcoal against the coarse paper was the only sound that broke the silence of the room.

  “Can I see it?” she finally asked, knowing that no more than ten minutes had passed.

  “Be patient,” Pierre mumbled. “Great art takes time.”

  She held out for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only another ten minutes. “Pierre, I’m getting tired. It’s hard, sitting so still.”

  “Please, Nina. I’m doing your mouth right now.”

  After five more minutes had passed, Nina said, “There’s something I’ve been wondering about.”

  “What is that?” Pierre never changed his expression, never altered the steady back-and-forth movement of his eyes.

  “I was wondering about the woman your grandfather married.”

  “Ah. Grandmother.” His handsome face tensed into a pensive frown. He stopped sketching, but his eyes remained glued to the paper. “She and grandfather were not a very good match, I am afraid.”

  “Really?” Nina’s face registered her surprise.

  “Nina! Do not move!” Pierre cried, having noticed her change of expression. “How can you expect to be the subject of a beautiful drawing if you keep moving your face?”

  “How can you expect me not to react when you tell me something like that? What do you mean, your grandmother and your grandfather weren’t a very good match?”

  “Nina, do you want to talk or pose?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Pierre sighed and put down his piece of charcoal. His fingers were covered with black smudges.

  “Perhaps we have done enough for now,” he said. “I must admit that you have been a very patient model. We both need a break. And to show you that this temperamental artist is not such a terrible person, I will take you out to lunch and tell you all about my grandparents and their marriage.”

  * * * *

  Sitting outside in front of a sidewalk cafe, opposite Pierre at a tiny round table, Nina realized that whenever she had fantasized about what it would be like to be in Paris, this was precisely the scene that she had imagined. The Café des Papillons—“The Butterflies”—was tiny, with red-and-white checkered cloth tablecloths on its dozen or so round tables. The curtains on the windows were made of lace. Even the proprietor of the café was exactly what she would have expected. He was short and chubby with a black mustache, round red cheeks, and a warm, wide smile.

  On the sidewalk, Nina could see all of Paris passing by. Fascinated, she watched the parade of people strolling by: women so fashionably dressed they looked as
if they had just stepped out of the pages of a magazine; intense young students in jeans engaged in earnest conversations; businessmen and -women hurrying by on their way to a meeting or in search of a quick lunch.

  As for the young man with whom she was sitting, the two of them so close that they were almost touching ... well, Nina had to admit that he was part of her dream, too. But as much as she delighted in his company, she was still not sure what to make of her relationship with Pierre.

  He was charming, handsome, and fun to be with. On those points, she was perfectly clear. And it was similarly clear that he liked her. But something was getting in the way of allowing her simply to sit back and let whatever may happen to happen. She was holding back, afraid of admitting her true feelings, feelings that seemed to be growing stronger with each passing minute. But despite her desire to keep her emotions in check, she still had the feeling that she was heading in a direction that was going to make things very, very complicated.

  At the moment, however, she was not about to let herself be distracted by either the charm of her surroundings or the charm of her luncheon companion.

  “Go on, Pierre,” she said impatiently, right after she had ordered a sandwich on a baguette, the long loaf of crusty bread that had already become her passion. “Tell me about your grandmother.”

  “Ah, yes. Grandmère.” He was wearing a devilish grin as he added, “And here I’ve been hoping you would rather talk about the romance of the city—or the delights of having lunch with me.”

  Nina laughed. “I’m not saying that Paris isn’t wonderful. And I’m not saying that my lunch companion isn’t ... well, let’s just say that he isn’t without a certain charm.” Suddenly she grew serious. “But I really am eager to hear about your grandparents’ marriage. Your grandfather is such a sweet man. For years I’ve wanted to know more about him. This is my chance.”

  Pierre was silent while their waiter, the plump proprietor of the cafe, poured them each a glass of mineral water. When he began speaking again, his tone was serious.

  “Nina, it is a very sad story. One that my father told me many times.” He drew in a deep breath. “After your grandmother left Paris, disappearing without giving a reason or even saying good-bye, my grandfather, Marcel, was heartbroken. For a long time he simply threw himself into his work. He became very successful at his law practice, but everyone could see that he was very lonely.

  “Then a young actress came into his life. She was beautiful, they say, and the pictures I have seen of her bear that out. But she was much younger than he was—and, I have heard, after little more besides his money.” Pierre sighed sadly. “They were married for a short time, only a year or two. During that time, my father was born. Then, when Papa was just a baby, the woman simply disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Nina blinked. She was so fascinated by Pierre’s story that she didn’t even notice when the café’s owner set her lunch down on the table before her. “What do you mean, she disappeared? Where did she go?”

  Pierre frowned. “They say she ran off with a road company, some theatrical group. The man who ran it apparently offered her the lead role in a play that was about to tour Europe. She went off ... and was never heard from again.”

  “And your grandfather?” Nina asked softly. “How did he react to all this?”

  “Of course he was heartbroken. At least, he was at first. It didn’t take him long to realize that it was probably for the best. Yes, he made a few efforts to find her, but he soon gave up. He discovered that whatever feelings he had at one time felt for her quickly faded.

  “But his child—my father—was a completely different story. It seems that Grandfather doted on him from the very start. He hired a nanny to care for him when he was a baby, but he devoted every spare moment he had to his son.” Pierre shrugged.

  “Then my father grew up, got married, and had two sons of his own, me and my brother. And here we are.” With that, he reached for his own lunch and began to eat.

  Nina, however, was still too enthralled by the story Pierre had just told her to care about anything as mundane as food. “So your grandfather never remarried,” she said wistfully. “He was hurt twice, and he gave up.”

  “It is tragic, isn’t it?” Pierre agreed. He spoke slowly as he went on, as if he were being very careful to choose just the right words. “Nina, after you left his house, my grandfather and I had a very long talk. He told me about your grandmother, and how he was destroyed by their parting. It is true that having met you, having heard what really happened, has helped him.

  “But the fact remains that many years ago, two people who were deeply in love were separated by forces beyond their control. And my grandfather has never quite recovered from that.”

  “I don’t think my grandmother ever did, either.” Nina was picturing her as a very old woman, sitting in her garden with that lost, faraway look in her eyes as she lovingly tended her yellow roses.

  She was silent for a long time, lost in her own thoughts. When she finally glanced up, she saw that Pierre was staring at her. There was a strange look in his piercing blue eyes.

  “Nina,” he said, his voice hoarse, “there is something I have to say. I ... I am a bit confused right now. I find I am experiencing feelings I have never had before. I have this sense that you and I are heading toward something—”

  “Pardon, Mademoiselle,” the cafe’s owner suddenly interrupted, coming over to their table. “Is there something wrong with your sandwich? You haven’t touched it.”

  Nina glanced up at him. The concern she saw in the man’s face immediately drew her out of her dreaminess. The intense moment that had existed between her and Pierre had vanished. When she looked at him, she saw that he was looking down, suddenly shy.

  “Oh, no, Monsieur. The sandwich is fine,” Nina was quick to assure him. “We were just so busy talking.”

  As they ate their lunch, Nina and Pierre talked about meaningless things: the bad traffic on the streets of Paris, the possibility of a spell of hot weather, the differences between living in America and in France. But Nina could not forget the look she had seen in Pierre’s eyes. Even more important, she could not ignore the way that being with him made her feel.

  * * * *

  “Taking a walk was a lovely idea, Pierre. And I appreciate your agreeing to act as my tour guide, showing me around this section of the city. But it’s starting to look as if we might get rained out.”

  Nervously Nina glanced at the sky. What had begun as a beautiful July day was now clouding over. The temperature was dropping, and from somewhere far in the distance came the rumble of thunder.

  “Do you want to head back?” Pierre asked. “The studio is only a few blocks away from here. We could probably beat the rain, if we hurried.”

  “No, I don’t want to go in yet, not until we really have to.” With a sigh, she added, “I love this city so much that I want to enjoy it every second I can. I adore walking around. Oh, I know it sounds silly, but with every street I turn onto, every building I pass, I can’t help wondering whether my grandmother saw that same building or walked down that same street when she was here.”

  “I think we’re going to have to cut our walk short,” Pierre suddenly cried. “It’s starting to pour. Here, let’s duck into this doorway.”

  They raced toward the closest shelter, the entry-way to a bookstore. And they reached it just in time. Nina and Pierre stood huddled together, gazing out at the sheeting downpour that had seemingly come out of nowhere. He pulled off the light cotton sweater he had been wearing and draped it gently over her shoulders.

  “Just look. It’s like ... it’s like an Impressionist painting.” Nina’s voice was almost a whisper. “How lovely the city looks in the rain. I wonder if my grandmother ever stood in a doorway on a day like this, looking out at the gray city....”

  “Nina, you are so serious,” Pierre interrupted. “You are so concerned with your grandmother, but what about you?”

  “Me?”
Nina turned to face him, blinking. “What about me?”

  “What happened between your grandmother and my grandfather happened a long, long time ago. It is part of the past.”

  “Yes, but ...”

  Pierre’s voice sounded oddly husky as he said, “And what about the present?”

  “What about the present?” Nina asked, not understanding the point he was trying to make.

  “The present,” he said, “belongs to you and me.”

  With that, he placed his finger under Nina’s chin and drew her face upward toward his. And then his lips were upon hers, kissing her lightly, almost as if he were asking her a question.

  Nina was surprised at how urgently she kissed him back. For the moment, all of Paris vanished. The rain, the gray buildings ... she was aware of none of it. For the moment, only Pierre existed.

  All of a sudden, the romance of the city, the promise that seemed to hang in the air, had been realized.

  Chapter 6

  “Oh, my gosh,” Kristy cried.

  She had just opened the envelope containing her newly developed photographs, the very first roll of pictures she had taken with the camera her parents had sent. She hadn’t been expecting anything beyond the usual mishmash of snapshots: Alain in his silly poses, of course, but also some pretentious-looking close-ups of flowers and benches and rocks, all of them out of focus and either underexposed or overexposed.

  Instead, she was pleasantly surprised.

  “Wow,” she muttered, standing on the street corner in front of the photography shop. “I may not know much about photography, but from what I can tell, these aren’t half bad.”

  “Half bad? On the contrary.” A familiar male voice interrupted her. “If anything, I would say these are half good.”

  Kristy looked up, chuckling.

  “Alain, you have a real knack for the English language.”

  “Knack? What is this ‘knack’?” As usual, he was frowning in confusion over the new expression that had just been thrown his way. Kristy was as charmed as always.