“I love America,” he said with a jubilant look, and he looked more than ever like an elf who had fallen from another planet. He was medium height, and taller than Paris, but he was extremely wiry and lithe. Almost like a young boy. “You are married?” he asked her, although she had a distinct impression that he wouldn't have cared if she were.

“No. Divorced.” She smiled at him.

“You are happy or sad?”

“About being divorced?” she inquired, and he nodded. And she thought about it. “Both. Very sad at first. Very, very sad. Now I'm happier.”

“You have a little friend?” She looked puzzled, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a passionate hug and looked like he was embracing someone, and she laughed. “Un petit ami,” he said in French this time, and she understood.

“A boyfriend! No. No boyfriend.” It seemed a funny question for him to be asking, and she pointed a finger at him to ask the same question. Not that it mattered. She was nearly twice his age.

“My little friend … my girlfriend … she go away… I am very, very sad.” He made a tragic face and marked tears down his face with his fingers. “Now I am verrrrry happy. She was very much trouble.” He managed to get his messages across, and Paris laughed. “You have children?” She loved his accent and his mannerisms, and he was full of life as he conversed with her. Language didn't really seem to be a problem.

“I have two children. A son and a daughter. Maybe older than you. How old are you?” she asked, and he laughed. People never guessed his age correctly, and he found it funny.

“Thirty-two,” he said, and she looked surprised.

“You look younger.”

“And you? Thirty-five?”

“Merci, ” she said, laughing at him too. “Fortyseven.”

He nodded with a very Gallic face. “Bravo. You look very young.” She loved his accent and the way his eyes danced. “You are of California?”

“New York. Then Connecticut. Now here for nine months, because of the divorce. My children are here,” she explained.

“ 'Ow hold?” He had trouble with h 's, but she knew what he meant. How old?

“My daughter is twenty-four, and my son is nineteen. He's in college, and she lives in Los Angeles and works for a movie studio.”

“Very good. Actrice? ”

“No. Production.” He nodded, and they continued to chat while he ate his pancakes and eggs, and she drank tea and had an English muffin. She wasn't hungry, but she was enjoying him very much. “How long will you be here?” She was curious. It would be fun seeing him again, although it seemed a little silly. Even though he was older than he looked, he was still very young. Too young for her, no matter how attractive he was.

“I don't know,” he said in his rolling accent. “Three days. Four. Maybe I go to Los Angeles, and do some work. I have a visa for six months. Maybe I stay a month. I don't know. I want to see Lac Tahoe, Carmel. Los Angeles. Santa Barbara. En voiture. ” He made the gesture of a steering wheel. He wanted to drive around. “Maybe photo for Vogue in New York. I am very tired. Work very much. Maintenant peut-être des vacances. On verra. ” He lapsed into French, and this time she understood because he spoke slowly. He said he might take a vacation, he would see. When he talked to the others, he spoke so quickly, she didn't get it, but when he spoke to her, it was much easier.

They left the diner well after three o'clock. She dropped him at his hotel, and he kissed her on both cheeks before he left, and then she drove home, peeled off her clothes, and fell into bed. And she lay staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, thinking about Jean-Pierre. It was crazy, but she was incredibly attracted to him. He was a boy, and very talented, but he was so full of life and charm. If she thought she could get away with it, she would have loved to run away with him, just for a day or two. But she knew that was impossible, and would have been very foolish, but even at forty-seven, sometimes it was nice to dream.





Chapter 24




Paris's cell phone rang the next morning, and she rolled over in bed and grabbed it, and was surprised to find it was Jean-Pierre. He said, “Bonjour,” and she knew instantly who it was.

“How are you?” she asked with a smile on her face.

“Very good. Et toi? And you?”

“Tired,” she admitted as she stretched.

“I wake you up? I am very sorry. What do you do today?”

“Je ne sais pas, ” she said carefully. “I don't know.” It was a lazy Sunday and she had no plans, other than to recover from the wedding.

“I see Sausalito. You will like to come?” She smiled as he said it. Crazy as it was, she liked the idea. There was something so joyful and full of life about him. He was playful and high-spirited and full of fun. And she liked being with him. It was the antithesis of the time she had spent with Jim Thompson, who was such heavy furniture and so much work. And even Chandler, who was so sophisticated and so smooth. There was no artifice to this boy, which was the only way she could think of him. He was totally alive, and unfailingly direct, even with his broken English. Something told her that whatever you did with him, or said, you would know where you stood. “We go to Sausalito together?” he asked, and she thought about taking him to Tiburon to lunch at Sam's. It was on the water, and there was an open deck. She had a feeling he would like that very much. She looked at her watch. It was just after eleven.

“I'll pick you up at noon.”

“Noon? Where is that?” He sounded confused.

“Twelve o'clock,” she clarified, and he laughed.

“Ah bon, midi. D'accord.”

“D'accord?” It was her turn not to understand.

“D'accord is ‘okay.’ ” She liked the way he said “okay.” She liked everything about him, which was the worst of it. She showered and put on a red sweater and jeans, and grabbed her pea coat out of her closet. She knew that with him, she didn't have to get dressed up. And she told herself they were doing just a little harmless tourism. It didn't hurt anything. They could have fun seeing the sights together, and he'd be gone in a few days.

He hopped in her car when she picked him up, and he had a camera in his pocket. He was wearing jeans, a black sweater, and a black leather jacket, and he looked like a rock star with the diamond earring and the spiky hair. She tried to say as much to him, and he laughed.

“I cannot sing,” he said, pretending to strangle himself, and they headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge. He hung out the window and took photographs of the city as they went across. It was a crystal-clear day, and when they got to Tiburon, he was delighted with Sam's. He managed to explain to her, using both languages, that he had been taking pictures since he was a little boy. His parents had died, and he was raised by an older sister whom he loved very much. He had been married at twenty-one, and he had a son ten years old, but the boy lived with his mother, and Jean-Pierre almost never saw him because he and the child's mother were on bad terms.

“That's very sad,” Paris said. He showed her a photograph of an adorable child, who looked undeniably French. “Where do they live?”

“In Bordeaux. I don't like at all. Good wine, but very small.”

They managed very decently to talk about her children, and the divorce, the work she did with Bix, and the fact that Peter had left her for another woman. He told her that he wanted to take a lot of photographs in the States, and he liked San Francisco a lot.

After that they went to Sausalito, and they walked around, and then he asked her if Sonoma was very far away.

“Not very,” she said, looking at him. “Do you want to go?” They had no plans, and it would take less than an hour to get there.

“Maintenant? Now?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” He looked pleased.

They drove past the vineyards, and roamed around, and then went on to the Napa Valley, and were there by dinnertime, and they stopped at a little bistro for dinner where everyone spoke French, and Jean-Pierre was thrilled. He and the waiter had a long conversation, and they headed back to the city around nine o'clock. They were back in San Francisco at ten-thirty, and had had a terrific day.

“What do you do tomorrow, Paris?” he asked when she dropped him off.

“I work,” she said ruefully. But it had been a nice day. “What are you doing?” She was going to invite him to the office, to show him around, but he said he was going to Los Angeles in the morning. He was going to drive the van. “Will you come back?”

“Je ne sais pas. I don't know. If I come back, I call … je t'appellerai.”

“D'accord,” she said, and he smiled.

“Sois sage,” he said as he looked at her, and she looked puzzled. “It means be very good behaved. You know, be a good girl.” It was odd, Paris realized, when she was with him, she didn't feel the difference in their age. She wondered if it was like that between Richard and Meg. But this was ridiculous. Jean-Pierre was fifteen years younger than she. And he was only there for a minute. It was fine to drive around with him for a day, playing tourist, but she couldn't think of him as a romantic possibility. And he probably wouldn't come back anyway. He kissed her on both cheeks, and hopped out of the car, and she waved as she drove away. When she glanced in the rearview mirror, he was standing outside the hotel, watching her.

And all that night, she was haunted by him. All she could think about were the things they had talked about, and the expressive look on his face. And the French words he had taught her seemed to dance in her head. She was still feeling dazed the next day, as though she had taken a drug and was hung over. Being with him was some kind of strange aphrodisiac she couldn't have explained to anyone. He was such a powerful presence, in an almost sexual way. She could suddenly understand for the first time in her life why older women had affairs with younger men. But that wasn't going to happen to her.