Dating Game

“You are a pig. That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard. Christ, with all the shit guys loose in the world, we don't need you to turn into one too. Get real.”

“What do you expect me to do? Get married freshman year? I'm a kid.” He was all innocence and good humor.

“Then be a decent one, for God's sake,” Meg scolded him, as Paris approved. “Be a nice guy, who treats women with kindness and respect. The world needs more nice guys like you.”

“I don't want to be a nice guy yet. I want to have some fun.”

“Not at someone else's expense, I hope, Wim,” Paris chided him. “People have a responsibility to each other, to treat each other well.”

“Yeah, I know. But sometimes you just have to be a little funky. You can't be responsible all the time.”

“Yes, you can,” his sister insisted. “Start now. You're nearly nineteen years old.” His birthday was two days after his mother's in May. “It's never too early to be a decent man. I'm counting on you, Wim.”

“Do I have to?” he asked, as he finished his soup. His mother and sister both seemed to be in a weird mood.

“Yes, you do,” Paris said. “Because if you aren't, you're going to hurt someone one day.” And in spite of herself, she was thinking of their father as she said it. It went over Wim's head, but Meg understood.

Chapter 21

Paris didn't even think about dating after she broke up with Chandler. As May rolled around, they had a thousand details to take care of for the weddings they were doing in June. There were seven. And Meg flew up for the night to celebrate her birthday with her, and then flew back on a six A.M. plane. It was a sweet thing to do. Bix had given her a cake in the office, and a lovely turquoise cashmere stole. He said it would look fabulous on a black dress. And two days later she drove over to Berkeley to celebrate Wim's birthday with him. It was a busy month.

But the anniversary of the day Peter had left her was a hard one for her. She woke up with a bleak feeling, and remembered instantly what date it was. She was quiet and solemn all day. Bix asked her about it finally, and she told him what it was. And when she got home from work, she went to bed and cried. A lot of good things had happened to her in the last year, but if anyone had asked, or given her a magic wand, all she would have wanted, in an instant, was to have Peter back. No questions asked. Her life was forever changed, and not always for the best. But some nice things had happened too. The move to San Francisco, the house she was living in, and the job that had been her salvation, thanks to Bix, his friendship and Steven's. There were a lot of things she was grateful for. But she still missed Peter terribly, and was beginning to suspect she always would. It was just the way it was. She no longer expected anyone to fill that void, and didn't imagine that they could. She was relieved when she fell asleep finally, and the hideous day was over at last.

It was a few days afterward when Sydney Harrington called. She'd had an idea. She had an old friend coming into town, and she wanted to give a little dinner party for him. But her real reason for calling was that she said she wanted to introduce him to Paris first. He lived in Santa Fe, and was an artist. Sydney said he was a lovely man, and if nothing else, Paris would enjoy him. He was a sculptor, and worked in clay.

Paris tried to be polite about it, but she was noticeably vague. And finally, after Sydney rhapsodized endlessly, she agreed to meet them for lunch. She felt she owed Sydney one for recommending her for the job nearly four months before. And Sydney was a sensible, intelligent woman, with a fine mind, sound judgment, and good taste. How bad could her friend be?

Paris mentioned it to Bix that afternoon, and he laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Do you know something I don't?” she asked, looking worried.

“No. But you know how I feel about blind dates. One of my favorites was the eighty-two-year-old man who was dropped off for lunch with me by his nurse. I was twenty-six at the time, and the friend who'd set me up thought I would put a little spark back in his life. I would have, except the poor old guy just sat there and drooled. He could hardly talk, and I burst into tears when I left. But there were others that were worse.”

“You're not encouraging me,” Paris said, looking unnerved. “I couldn't get out of it. Sydney twisted my arm. He's an old friend of hers.”

“We're all blind about our friends. Where does this guy live?”

“Santa Fe. He's an artist.”

“Forget it. He's geographically undesirable. What are you going to do with a guy in Santa Fe, even if he's great?”

“How did I get myself into this?” Paris complained. “Three months ago I said I'd never date. Now I've become cannon fodder for visiting artists, and God knows who else. What am I going to do?”

“Go to lunch with the guy. It'll make Sydney happy. And we're going to kill her in June with all these weddings.” She was catering five of them, and making a hell of a lot of money.

But when the day of the blind date came, Paris was tired and in a rotten mood. Her blow dryer had short-circuited and nearly set the house on fire. Her car had broken down on the way to work. And she was coming down with a cold.

“Can't I just commit suicide and forget lunch?” she asked Bix. She had waited an hour for AAA. They'd had an emergency on the bridge.

“No. You promised Sydney. Be nice.”

“You go, and tell him you're me.”

“That would be cute.” He laughed at her. “You got yourself into this, now go play.”

They had agreed to meet at a Mexican restaurant, which was four blocks away, and Paris didn't even like Mexican food. And when she got there Sydney was waiting at a table. Her friend was parking the car. He must have parked it in another county, because it was another half-hour before he showed up. And when he came through the door wearing an Indian poncho and a cowboy hat, he seemed to be staggering, and Paris thought he was drunk. Sydney was quick to explain.

“He has a problem with his ears. It affects his balance. He's a really great guy.” Paris smiled wanly as he approached, and he smiled at her hesitantly and sat down. He took the cowboy hat off and set it down on a chair, and as he did, Paris couldn't help noticing that he looked like he had ten years of clay under his nails. But there was no denying, he was an interesting-looking man. He looked almost Native American himself, but said he wasn't when she asked. He said he hated them, and they were the scourge of Santa Fe.

“They're all drunks,” he said, as Paris recoiled. And after that he went on a tirade about blacks. He somehow forgot to mention Jews. He managed to make racial slurs on just about everyone else, including their Mexican waiter, which the man heard, and he turned around to give all three of them an evil look. Paris was sure he would spit in their food, and she didn't blame him a bit.

“So, Sydney tells me you're an artist,” Paris managed to say sweetly, trying not to worry about the waiter and their food. But she had to get through this somehow. It was not going to be easy, and all respect for Sydney's judgment had vanished when the man appeared.

“I brought you some pictures of my work,” he said proudly. His name was William Weinstein, which may have explained why he left Jews off his hate list. He had been born in Brooklyn, and moved to Santa Fe ten years before. He took an envelope out of his pocket, rifled through some pictures, and handed them to Paris. They were ten-foot phallic symbols made of clay. The man had penises on the brain.

“It's very interesting work,” Paris said, pretending to be impressed. “Do you use live models?” she asked more in jest, and he nodded.

“Actually, I use my own.” He thought that hysterically funny and laughed so hard he almost coughed himself to death. Along with the clay under his nails, enough of it to create another sculpture, his fingers were stained with nicotine. “Do you like to ride?”

“Yes, but I haven't in a long time. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I have a ranch, you ought to come down. We have no electricity and no plumbing. It's a two-day ride to my ranch.”

“That must make it very hard to get in or out.”

“I like it that way,” Bill said. “My wife hated it. She wanted to go back to New York. She died last year.” Paris nodded, paralyzed with astonishment that Sydney had wanted her to meet him. She didn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry about your wife.”

“So am I. We were married for nearly fifty years. I'm seventy-three.” And with that, mercifully, their food arrived. Paris had ordered a quesadilla, which was as bland as she could get. The artist had ordered some evil-looking concoction covered with a mountain of beans, which he seemed to like and said he ate almost every day. “Beans are the best thing you can eat. Healthiest food there is. Even if they do make you fart. Do you like beans?” Paris made a choking sound, and Sydney seemed not to notice. She said he had been a friend of her father's, who had also been an artist, and had had a great fondness for Bill's wife. Paris couldn't even imagine what the poor woman's life had been like, trapped on a ranch with him. She could only assume she had committed suicide, as her only avenue of escape. And as she thought about it, Paris excused herself, and went to the ladies' room. And as soon as she got there, she locked the door and reached for her cell phone. She got Bix at the office.

“Is he cute?”

“If you don't get me out of here, I may have to kill Sydney before the end of lunch. Or myself.”

“Not cute, I guess.”

“Beyond belief. He's a Neanderthal in a cowboy costume, who makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick.”

“Listen, if his dick is that big, it might be worth going to Santa Fe. I might even come with you.”

“Will you shut up? Call me in five minutes. I'm going to tell them you have an emergency at the office.”

“What kind of emergency?” He sounded vastly amused. Paris wasn't.

“I don't care what kind of emergency. The emergency is this goddamn lunch.”

“You're being very expressive. Did he show you pictures of his dick?”

“More or less. The sculptures are the worst thing I've ever seen.”

“Don't be such an art critic. Maybe he's a nice guy.”

“Look, he's worse than your drooler. Does that paint a picture for you?” She was getting more desperate by the minute.

“He can't be.” Bix sounded skeptical. “That was the worst blind date I ever had.”

“So is this. Now call me on my cell phone in five minutes.”

“Okay, okay, I'll call you. But you'd better think up a good emergency. Sydney's no fool. She'll see right through it.”

“Sydney is a total fool if she wanted me to meet this guy. In fact, she must be psychotic. Maybe she hates me.”

“She doesn't hate you. She told me last week how much she likes you. And Paris?”

“What?” She was ready to kill someone. Bix if need be.

“Bring me a picture of his dick.”

“Just call me…I mean it! Or I quit.”

She went back to the table with fresh lipstick on, and the artist looked up from his lunch. “You look nice with lipstick. It's a good color.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him, and as she started eating again, her phone rang.

“I hate those things,” he commented as she answered it, and she immediately frowned. It was Bix, saying every lewd thing he could think of over her phone.

“You did what ?” she said, looking horrified, as she glanced at Sydney with concern. “Oh Bix, how awful. I'm so sorry … now? I … well, I'm at lunch with Sydney and her friend…oh all right, all right, calm down… I'll be back in five minutes. Don't try to move till I get back.” She clicked off the phone, and looked at Sydney with distress.

“What happened?” She looked worried too.

“It's Bix. You know what a wimp he is.” She glanced over at Bill with a smile, to create a little mischief before she left. “He's gay,” she explained.

“I hate fags,” he said, and burped.

“I thought you might say that.” She turned back to Sydney then. “He threw his back out.”

“I didn't know he had a bad back.” She looked instantly sympathetic, because Paris knew she had a bad back herself, and wore a brace when she worked.

“He's on the floor and can't even move. He needs me to get him to the chiropractor. He says if I don't come back now, he'll call 911.”

“I know just how he feels. I have a herniated disk, and when it acts up, I can't walk for weeks. Do you want us to come too?”

“Don't worry. I can manage him. But I've got to get back.”

“All fags should be shot,” the artist declared, and then burped again.

“I'm so sorry to run,” she apologized to them both, and then shook Bill's hand. “Have a wonderful time while you're here. I enjoyed meeting you very much. And good luck with your work.”

“You mean with my dick?” He laughed out loud, and then coughed.

“Absolutely. Good luck with your dick. ‘Bye, Syd.’ Thanks for lunch.” She waved and ran out the door, fuming all the way back, and when she got to the office, Bix was waiting for her with a grin.

“So where is it?”

“Where is what? I may have to kill someone I'm so mad.”

“My picture of his dick.”

“Don't even talk to me. Ever again. I'm never speaking to you or Sydney. For the rest of my life. The guy was a total nutcase. And for your information, he hates fags, and thinks they should all be shot. But he hates blacks and Native Americans too.”

“I love this guy. What did he look like?”

“A zombie. He lives on a ranch with no electricity or plumbing.”

“No wonder he makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick. The poor bastard has nothing else to do.”

“Don't talk to me. Just don't talk to me. Ever again. And I am never, ever, never for the rest of my whole goddamned life going on a blind date again.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bix said, leaning back in his chair, laughing at her. “I said that too. And you know what? I did. And so will you.”

“Fuck you,” she said, marched into her office, and slammed the door so loudly the bookkeeper came out of her cubbyhole and looked around with a frightened expression.

“Is Paris all right?”

“She's fine,” he said, still laughing. “She just had a blind date.”

“It didn't work out?” she asked, looking sympathetic, and Bix grinned widely and shook his head.

“I think not, Mrs. Simpson. I think not. And that is the story of blind dates.”

Chapter 22

Paris and Bix were enormously busy in May, and managed to survive all seven weddings in June, much to their own amazement. Paris had never worked as hard in her life, and Bix said he hadn't either. But all of the weddings were gorgeous, all the brides ecstatic, all the mothers proud, and all the fathers paid the relatively astronomical bills. It was a great month for Bixby Mason, Inc. And the weekend after the last wedding, Meg came up from L.A. It was their only moment of respite, since they were doing two mammoth Fourth of July parties on the following weekend.

They were relaxing quietly in Paris's garden, talking about work, and life, and Wim's trip to Europe. He had left with friends the day before, when Meg turned to her mother cautiously, and seemed to be weighing something. And Paris saw it.

“What are you chewing on?” Paris asked her. “What's up?”

“I wanted to ask you something, but I wasn't sure how.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds important. Someone new in your life?”

“Nope.” Neither of them had dated in two months. And Paris was emphatic that she didn't want to. The blind date Sydney had set up had been the icing on the cake. But she knew Meg would meet someone at some point, and she hoped she would. “I ran into a friend from Vassar the other day. I haven't seen her in a while. She's married and having a baby, which seems weird, but she also told me a sad story. I haven't seen her since we graduated, and her mother was very sick then. Apparently she died that July. She's been gone for two years, breast cancer, I think. I didn't want to ask.” Paris was trying to figure out where Meg was going with all this, she couldn't see what she could do to help. Or maybe the girl needed a motherly figure to talk to, especially now that she was pregnant. And if so, Paris was willing.

“How's she doing?” Paris sounded concerned.

“She seemed okay. She's a very strong girl. And she married a very nice guy. I had a crush on him myself.” She smiled at the memory, and then turned to her mother with serious eyes. “Anyway, she says her fa-ther's doing fine, but he's lonely. I just wondered if… well… actually, I met him a few times, and he's a really nice man. I think you'd like him, Mom.”

“Oh, for God's sake… Meg, don't start. I told you, I'm not going out anymore.” She sounded not only firm, but emphatic. Chandler Freeman and the sculptor from Santa Fe had been enough to last a lifetime, or at least several years. Paris was no longer interested in dating.

“Mom, that's silly. You're forty-seven years old. You can't just quit for the rest of your life, and give up. That's not right.”

“It's extremely right for me. I don't need a man in my life. And furthermore, I don't want one.” The truth was she did, on both counts, but it was just too damned hard to find one. And the only one she'd ever wanted was gone.

“What if you're passing up the opportunity of a lifetime? He's a banker, and an extremely decent person. He's not some kind of swinging singles wild man.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I've met him,” Meg insisted. “And he's even handsome.”

“I don't care. You haven't dated him. Men turn into sociopaths when they date.”

“No, they don't. Some are just weirder than others. Like Peace.” Paris grinned, and Meg laughed.

“Exactly. How do you know this man isn't Peace's father?”

“Trust me. He looks like Dad. Same type. Shirt, tie, pin-striped suit, good haircut, nice manners, polite, smart, and he's a good father. Everything you like.”

“I'm not doing this, Meg.”

“Yes, you are,” her daughter said with a wicked smile.

“No, I'm not.”

“The hell you aren't. I told her we'd have dinner with them tonight. She was coming home for the weekend too, to see her dad.”

“You what ? I can't believe you did that! Meg, I won't!”

“You have to, or you'll make a liar out of me. This is how nice people meet. They get fixed up. This is what parents used to do, now kids do it, they introduce their divorced parents to new mates.” It sounded sensible to Meg.

“I don't intend to ‘mate’ with this man.” Paris was incensed, but Meg wouldn't budge an inch, and Paris didn't want to embarrass her, so under great protest, in the end, she agreed. “I should have my head examined,” she muttered as they drove downtown. They were having dinner at a steakhouse Meg's friend had suggested. His name was Jim Thompson, and apparently he liked steak. At least he wasn't a vegan. And Paris intended to make it the shortest evening possible. She had worn a grim black suit, her hair in a ponytail, and no makeup.

“Can't you at least try a little bit?” Meg had complained while she watched her dress. “You look like a funeral director, Mom.”

“Good. Then he won't want to see me again.”

“You're not helping things,” Meg chided her.

“I don't intend to.”

“This is how a lot of women meet their second husbands.”

“I don't want a second husband. I haven't gotten over my first one. And I am positively allergic to blind dates.”

“I know. I remember the last one. He must have been an exception.”

“No, he wasn't. Some of Bix's stories are worse,” she muttered darkly, and on the way downtown, Paris sank into a sullen silence.

Both Thompsons were there when they got to the restaurant. Jim was a tall, thin, gray-haired man with a serious face, in gray slacks and a blazer. He was with his very pretty, very pregnant daughter, who was Meg's age. Her name was Sally, and Paris remembered her as soon as she saw her. She didn't even let herself look at Jim, until they sat down. There was something very kind and decent looking about him, Paris had to admit, and she thought he had beautiful, sad eyes. You could tell that something terrible had happened to him, just as it had to her, but you could also tell that he was a very nice man. And without meaning to, Paris felt herself feeling sorry for him. And halfway through dinner, they started to talk. They spoke quietly while the girls caught up on old times, and laughed about their friends. And all the while, Jim was telling her about when his wife died. And before she knew it, she was telling him about Peter leaving. They were trading tragedies like baseball cards.

“What are you two talking about?” Sally asked, as the two elder members of the group looked suddenly guilty. It wasn't exactly cheerful dinner conversation, and they didn't want to share it with their children. Sally and his son always told Jim he had to stop talking about their mother, particularly to strangers. He did it often. She'd been gone for nearly two years now. And to Jim, it seemed like minutes.

“We're just talking about our children,” Paris said blithely, covering for him, and herself. Sally's brother was a year older than Wim, and was at Harvard. “What rotten kids you are and how much we hate you,” Paris teased, with a conspiratorial look at Sally's father, for which he was grateful. He had liked talking to her, more than he'd expected. He had been as reluctant as she to come to dinner, and he had done everything he could to dissuade his daughter. But now that he was here, he was delighted he hadn't succeeded. Both girls were very stubborn, and loved their parents.

They talked about their respective Fourth of July plans then. Sally and her husband were going away for the weekend, probably their last one alone before the baby came. Jim said he was in a sailboat race with friends, and Paris said she would be working, on two holiday picnics. Jim thought her job sounded like great fun, although he admitted that personally he wasn't fond of parties. He seemed like a quiet, somewhat withdrawn person, but it was hard to tell if that was from circumstance or nature. He admitted to Paris that he had been depressed since being widowed. But he also had to admit that once he was out, he felt better.

The girls kissed each other good-bye when they left, and Jim asked Paris quietly in a discreet aside if he could call her. He seemed very old-fashioned, and very formal, and she hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. If nothing else, maybe she could help him. She wasn't physically attracted to him, but he obviously needed someone to talk to, and he wasn't unattractive. His circuits just seemed to be disconnected at the moment, and she wondered if he was on some kind of medication. They shook hands when they separated, and Jim whispered to her that he'd call her, and then he walked briskly down the street with his daughter. He looked like a man without a country. Even the slope of his shoulders suggested that he was unhappy.

“So,” Meg asked, as they got in the car, “what did you think?” She had the feeling her mother liked him, even if she wasn't willing to admit it. And Sally had whispered to Meg as they hugged good-bye that she hadn't seen her father so animated since her mom died.

“I like him. Not the way you think, or the way you and Sally plotted, evil children that you are.” Paris smiled. “But he's a lonely man who needs someone to talk to. And obviously a very decent person. His wife's illness and death were very hard for him.”

“It was hard on Sally too,” Meg commented, and then looked sternly at her mother. “He doesn't need a psych nurse, Mom, he needs a girlfriend. Don't be so codependent.”

“I'm not codependent. I feel sorry for him.”

“Well, don't. Just enjoy him.” But there wasn't much to enjoy yet. He had spent the entire dinner talking about her doctors, and her disease, her death, her funeral and how beautiful it had been, and the monument he was still building for her. All roads had led to Rome, and whatever subject she brought up had led right back to the late Phyllis. Paris knew he needed to get it out of his system, just as she had needed to with Peter. And obviously it took longer to mourn a death than a divorce or a betrayal. As far as she was concerned, Jim was entitled, and she was willing to listen. Besides, she could relate to a lot of it. In some ways, she still felt less divorced and more widowed, because of the suddenness of Peter's departing, and the fact that she had no voice in it. He might as well have died.

“He said he'd call me,” Paris volunteered, and Meg looked pleased. Particularly when she answered the phone and it was he the next morning. After saying hello pleasantly to Meg, Jim asked to speak to her mother. And Paris took the phone from her quickly. They chatted for a few minutes, and Meg saw her mother jot a note down, nod her head, and say she'd be delighted to have dinner with him.

“You have a date?” Meg asked with a look of astonishment. “Already? When?” She was grinning from ear to ear as Paris looked nonplussed, and insisted it wasn't romantic. “Tell me that in three weeks when you're sleeping with him,” Meg teased. “And don't forget, this time remember to ask if it's exclusive.” Although they both agreed that with Jim Thompson that wasn't likely to be a problem, at least not for the moment. Sally said he hadn't even looked at another woman since his wife died. And Paris believed it. She wasn't sure he was looking at her either. He just needed someone to listen, while he talked about his late wife. “So when are you seeing him?” Meg asked anxiously. She felt like a little mother. She wanted this romance to work. They all did.

“Tuesday, for dinner.”

“At least he's civilized, and won't take you to the kind of places mine take me. I either get to go to bottom-of-the-barrel sushi places where I get food poisoning, vegetarian, or diners so scary I'm afraid to walk into them. The men I go out with never take me anyplace decent.”

“Maybe you need someone a little older,” Paris suggested simply, although Meg had never liked older boys even when she was growing up. They just didn't appeal to her. She always liked them her own age, and once in a while, a year or two younger. But then she had to put up with all the immature games that went with it.

“Call and tell me how it goes with Mr. Thompson,” Meg reminded her when she left, and Paris spent the rest of the evening doing laundry, which wasn't glamorous, but useful. And on Monday she and Bix got in high gear over the Fourth of July picnics they were doing that weekend. By Tuesday night Paris was up to her ears in details, and almost forgot she had a date with Jim Thompson. She ran home from the office at six, after flying out of a meeting with Bix, and telling him she had to go out for dinner.

“Do you have a date?” He looked startled. She hadn't said a word about meeting someone new, and she'd been emphatic lately about not dating. She was still bitching about the blind date from Santa Fe, and used him as ample reason to remain a born-again virgin.

In answer to his question, Paris looked vague and said, “Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm acting as a psych tech to the father of a friend of Meg's who lost his wife to breast cancer two years ago.”

“That's tough,” Bix said, looking sympathetic. “What's he look like?”

“Proper, uptight, nice looking. Normal.”

“Excellent. How old?”

“About fifty-nine or sixty.”

“He sounds perfect. We'll take him. Go.”

“Don't get yourself excited. All he does is talk about his late wife. He's obsessed with her.”

“You'll change all that. Steven was just like that when I met him. I thought if I heard one more time about how his lover had died in his arms, I would scream. It takes a while, but eventually, it goes. Give him time. Or maybe Prozac. Or maybe Viagra.”

“Never mind that. I'm just having dinner with him. This is grief counseling, not sex therapy, Mr. Mason.”

“Whatever, have fun. G'night!” he called after her as she hurried down the stairs, and half an hour later she had washed and blow-dried her hair, woven it quickly into a braid while it was still damp, and put on charcoal-gray slacks and a matching sweater, and she had just put on shoes when the doorbell rang. She was still breathless when she opened the door and invited Jim in.

“Am I early?” Jim Thompson asked hesitantly. She had that look of what-are-you-doing-here-so-soon?, but she was just harassed and in a hurry, and tried to relax as she smiled at him and he walked in.

“Not at all. I just got home from work a little while ago. It's a crazy week, it always is. If it isn't Fourth of July, it's Valentine's Day, or Thanksgiving, or an anniversary, or a birthday or a wedding or ‘just a little dinner party’ for forty on a Tuesday night. It's fun, but it keeps us on our toes.”

“It sounds like a happy business you're in. Lucky you. Banking isn't a lot of fun, but I suppose it's useful too.” He sat down on the couch in the living room, and she poured him a glass of wine. It was a beautiful night, and the fog hadn't come in that afternoon, so it was still warm. Often it was colder in the summer than in the spring. “What a lovely house you have, Paris,” he said, looking around. She had beautiful antiques, and obviously excellent taste too. “Phyllis loved antiques. We used to go antiquing in every city we went to. She preferred English, just as you do.” As she had the first night, Phyllis had joined them once again. And Paris tried to steer the conversation toward their kids, by asking him about his son. Like Wim, he had just left for Europe to travel with friends. “I don't see enough of him, now that he's on the East Coast,” Jim complained. “He doesn't seem to like to come home anymore, and I can't say I blame him. It's not a very happy place.”

“Are you taking any trips this summer?” Paris asked, determined to turn the conversation around, and genuinely trying. If she could just get him off the subject of his loss, he might actually have a good time, or even be one. There was nothing obviously wrong with him. He was solvent, intelligent, educated, employed, good-looking, almost handsome, and he had children the same age as hers. It was certainly more than enough to go on, if she could just get Phyllis out of the room. It was becoming something of a challenge to her, and Paris was determined to win, for his sake as well as her own. As Bix had guessed from her thumbnail sketch, he was the most likely candidate she'd seen. And the most like Peter in some ways. All they had to do was ease Phyllis gently back into her grave, where she belonged.

They chatted for a while, and then Jim drove her to dinner, at a little French bistro with a sidewalk café. It was an adorable place, and brought back a flood of memories for Jim. He and his late wife both loved France, and had spent a lot of time in Paris. In fact, Phyllis had spoken nearly flawless French. It seemed hopeless to stem the tide as they limped awkwardly through dinner, and not knowing what else to do, Paris found herself pulling out memories about Peter. What their marriage had been like, how close they had been for all those years, and the immense shock it had been when he left. They seemed to alternate war stories with each other, and by the time Paris got home, she was exhausted. She hadn't talked about Peter that much since he left her.

“I'd like to see you again,” Jim said cautiously when he took her home after dinner. Paris didn't ask him to come in. She just didn't want to hear another story about Phyllis, nor to talk about Peter yet again. She wanted to bury them both. And she was dying to make a pact with Jim that if they saw each other again, neither of them could speak of their previous spouses. But she didn't feel she knew him well enough to say that to him. “I'd love to cook you dinner,” he volunteered.

“I'd love that.” Paris smiled at him, although she was a little leery of having dinner in what he clearly perceived was his late wife's house, as much as his own. She still thought he was a lovely person, but it had been an uphill battle for neutral conversation all night. Whatever they did, wherever they went, Phyllis seemed to peek around the corner at them, whether talking about children, antiques, or trips. Or anything else that came to mind. And Peter had been running a close second all night. More than anything, Paris wanted to bury their dead. “I have to work this weekend,” she reminded him.

“What about Sunday night?” he said, looking hopeful. He really liked her a lot, and she was a wonderful listener. Sensitive, and sympathetic. He hadn't expected to like her as much as he did.

“That would be perfect,” Paris said, giving him a warm hug, and she waved at him as she closed the door. She had had a nice evening, but she had to admit that being alone in her house again, without Phyllis or Peter, was an immense relief.

“So? How was it?” Bix asked as she walked in the next morning, looking distracted. “Wild sex all night? Are you addicted yet?”

“Not exactly.” She grinned. “I'm still doing grief counseling on a fairly major scale,” she confessed, and he shook his head.

“Enough of that. If you let it go too far, you'll never get him off it later. He'll start to associate you with her.” He had eventually made a deal with Steven that he could only mention his late partner once a day. And it had worked. Steven said it had helped him get control of himself again, and it had helped the relationship no end. Now all these years later, he hardly mentioned him at all, and when he did, it was in a healthy way. Jim Thompson was still in the deep grieving phase, even after two years.

“Great,” Paris said, looking discouraged. “I don't know why I'm working so hard at this, or why I care. What do you suggest?”

“It becomes a challenge just to unseat the dead person and take their place. No one wants to be outranked by a ghost. I'd say, if gentle conversational hints don't do it, then maybe a blow job is in order,” Bix said, looking serious, while sitting at his desk, and Paris laughed.

“Terrific. I'll suggest it to him the next time he comes to the door.”

“You might want to wait till he gets inside. The neighbors might start lining up.” Bix smiled mischievously at her, as the phones started to ring, and they didn't stop all day, or even all week. But both picnics went off without a hitch, as planned. Bix did the one in Palo Alto, and Paris did the one in Tiburon. There was no way, given the distance, that they could go back and forth. But Bix was completely confident that she could handle anything by now. Sydney Harrington had worked the Tiburon party with her, and she started to apologize again for her friend in Santa Fe, and Paris told her not to worry about it, he was probably a nice man.

“You know, sometimes you don't realize how wacky your friends are, till you set them up with someone for a date. I thought he was a little off that day.” Paris didn't tell her that she thought he was about as off as it could get. But without saying more about it, they both went back to work.

Paris slept nearly all day Sunday. It was a lazy day, and she had been working hard for weeks. Between their heavy schedule in May, the June weddings, and the Fourth of July picnics, she felt as though she hadn't slowed down in two months. It was nice to have a day to sleep. And at six o'clock, she drove to Jim's address. He lived in a handsome, rambling old house in Seacliff. The weather tended to be foggier out there and, because of that, sometimes more depressing than it was farther east, where Paris lived. But the house had been designed by a famous architect, and had a breathtaking view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay. She admired it as soon as she walked in. And below the house there was a slice of China Beach, where Jim said he often liked to walk. Phyllis had loved to walk there too. She was with them even before Paris had taken off her coat. And Peter was close on her heels.

“Peter and I always loved the beach.” Paris couldn't believe what she was doing. As much as she liked Jim Thompson, he seemed to bring out the worst in her. Or the worst of her memories at least. She tried to remember what Bix had told her, and made a deal with herself to only mention Peter once a day. It was weird, because for all intents and purposes, she had stopped talking about him months before. And now, thanks to Jim, and Phyllis, he was back in her conversation full force. It hadn't been this bad since he left.

Jim had been busy in the kitchen. He was making roast beef for her, with purée of asparagus, and little fluted potatoes. She knew what was coming before he said it, he and Phyllis had loved to cook. And Paris almost shuddered when she saw Phyllis's tired old faded straw hat hanging on a hook near the back door. It was still there after two years, and she wondered how many of her belongings were still around. Probably most or all. Jim had a lot of mopping up to do, and he didn't seem to have done any of it yet, nor want to.

“It's a big house for me alone,” he admitted, as he sat down to dinner. “But the children love it, and so do I. They grew up here, and I can't bring myself to give it up.” No Phyllis, Paris noticed as she held her breath. Now she was counting the times he didn't mention her, as much as she was counting the times he did. It was sick, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from keeping track of how often he spoke of his late wife.

“I had the same problem with the house in Greenwich,” she countered. “I felt lost in it after Peter left. And when Wim left for Berkeley, it damn near killed me. That's why I moved out here.”

“Did you sell it?” he asked with interest. The meat was delicious, and the vegetables better yet. He was a surprisingly good cook. Though Phyllis was probably even better.

“No, I rented it for a year, with an option for a second year. I wanted to buy time to see how I felt out here.”

“And how do you feel?” he asked with genuine interest, as they sat in a cozy corner of the large kitchen that also shared the view. It would have been an ideal house, if it hadn't been quite so dark. There was a lot of dark wood paneling everywhere, which seemed to fit Jim's mood.

“I love it here,” Paris said, smiling at him, and beginning to relax, as she felt the dual ghosts recede, although it was a little odd being in Phyllis's house, with her hat hanging only feet away. “I love my job. I never worked in all the years I was married. And this isn't brain surgery, but it's wonderfully creative. And the man I work for has become a dear friend. He's incredibly good at what he does. Coming out here has turned my life around just as I hoped it would.”

“What did you major in in college?” he asked, wanting to know more about her. But he was already impressed by what he did know.

“Econ. I was practically the only girl, except for two sisters from Taiwan. I got an MBA, but I never used it. I just took care of Peter and the kids.”

“So did Phyllis. She had a Ph.D. in art history, and she wanted to teach, but she never did. She stayed at home with our children. And then of course, she got sick.” Paris tried not to wince. They had already been there.

“Yes, I know. What about you? Tell me about your sailing.” She knew he had been out on the bay in a regatta the day before, and said they'd come in third place. “Do you have your own boat?”

“Not anymore. I sold it years ago. It was just a little thirty-footer.” She knew what was coming next, before she heard the words. “Phyllis and I used to take it out on weekends. She was the best sailor I've ever seen. My kids love it too.”

“Maybe you should get another boat. You could have a lot of fun with it on weekends.” She was trying to think of constructive things for him to do, instead of sitting in the house thinking of Phyllis.

“Too much work,” he said, “particularly all alone. I couldn't do it. At my age, I'd rather crew on someone else's boat.” By then, she knew that he was sixty-one years old. But unlike other men she knew, even those like Bixby who hadn't had surgery, Jim looked older than his years. It was more than likely what grief had done to him. It was a powerful force, and even killed people sometimes, usually when they had been married forever and ever, and lost each other when they were very old. He was young enough to recover, if he wanted to. Paris wasn't sure he did. That was the key. “Do you like to sail?” he asked her.

“Sometimes. Depends on the circumstances. Yes, in the Caribbean. No, in rough waters like these. I'm a big chicken,” she said honestly, smiling at him.

“You don't look it to me. Maybe I can teach you to sail one day.”

He said he was going to visit friends in Mendocino later in the summer. He'd been invited to Maine too, but it was too far away and he didn't want to go. And then he talked about the summer he and Phyllis had spent with the children in Martha's Vineyard. And the next thing Paris knew, she was chronicling every trip she, Peter, and the children ever took. She was about to suggest a pact with Jim, a ban on talking about their late and ex-spouses, but she didn't dare.

And in spite of it, she had a nice evening with him, helped him do the dishes, and left around ten. But as she had the last time she saw him, she felt drained when she got home. There was something so profoundly sad about him. And she noticed that he drank a lot of wine at dinner. Given how he was feeling, it was hardly surprising, but alcohol wasn't going to help buoy his spirits. On the contrary, the more he drank, the sadder he got, and the more he talked about his late wife. It was beginning to seem hopeless.

Jim called her at the office the next morning, and they made plans to go to a movie later that week. He suggested a particularly sad one, which had had excellent reviews, and she countered with a funny one she wanted to see. And after they saw it, they went out for pizza, and he smiled at her.

“You know, my daughter was right to introduce us, Paris. You're good for me.” He had laughed nonstop at the movie, and they were both smiling when they came out. He seemed to be in a particularly buoyant mood. And for once Peter and Phyllis hadn't come with them. Neither of them had mentioned their absent spouses all night. But Paris knew it wouldn't be long before one or both of them reappeared. “You seem like a very happy person,” Jim said admiringly. “I envy you. I've been depressed now for two years.”

“Have you thought about taking medication?” she said helpfully, remembering Meg's warning not to be codependent, but it was hard to resist with him. Being sympathetic was okay, rescuing wasn't. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish between the two.

“I did. It didn't help. I took it for a week.”

“It takes longer than that for it to work,” Paris said quietly, wishing she had met him a year or two later. But she wasn't sure if he'd be any healthier then, unless he made some serious efforts to get there. “I think you have to be patient about those things. I've been in therapy since Peter left.” Although she was only talking to Anne now about once a month, just to check in. And she hadn't called her in about six weeks. She hadn't felt the need or had the time. Although lately, she'd been wanting to call. After talking about Peter constantly with Jim, he was more on her mind than he had been in a year.

“I admire you for that,” Jim said, commenting on her mention of being in therapy. “But it's not for me. I went to a grief group for the first few weeks, and it just made me feel worse.”

“Maybe it was too soon. Maybe you should try it again now.”

“No,” he said, smiling at her, “I'm fine. I've made my peace with things.” Paris had a mouthful of pizza when he said it, and she looked up and just stared at him. “Don't you think? I've pretty much accepted Phyllis's death.” Are you kidding? Paris wanted to scream. He had her propped up in a corner and took her everywhere he went. It was Weekend at Phyllis's, instead of Weekend at Bernie's, although even thinking it seemed disrespectful of him. But it was true. He hadn't even begun to make peace with it, and was in complete denial over the state he was in.

“You're the best judge of how you feel,” she said politely, and then talked about the film they'd seen again, to keep the subject light.

And that night, when he took her home, he surprised her by kissing her tenderly on the front steps. She was surprised by what a passionate man he was, and she melted toward him when they kissed. He was either lonelier than even she thought, or the old adage was in fact true that still waters run deep. But he was far more sexual than she had thought, and she could feel as he held her close to him that he was aroused, which was a hopeful sign. At least Phyllis hadn't taken that with her too.

“You're a beautiful woman, Paris,” he said gruffly. “I'm hungry for you… but I don't want to do anything we'll both regret. I know how you felt about your husband, and I…I haven't been with anyone since my wife …” She had suspected as much, and she didn't want to tell him that she'd already had one affair since Peter left. She didn't want to seem like a slut. But both her psyche and the rest of her machinery seemed to be working fine. She wasn't sure about his. Intense grief did strange things. And as he himself admitted, he had been depressed for two years. Men, and their elaborate inner works, were fragile beings. She didn't want to frighten him.

“We're in no rush,” she said in a soothing tone, and he kissed her again before he left. She thought it was a hopeful sign, and she was beginning to like him better and better. She liked what he stood for, and how he felt about his children, he had a lot of integrity, and a good heart. If they could just get Phyllis out of the way, maybe everything would be fine. But thus far, she seemed reluctant to leave. Or rather, Jim was reluctant to let her go. He was still hanging on tight. Though maybe, judging by the kiss he and Paris had exchanged, not quite as tight.

For the next several weeks, they continued to see each other, go to movies, and dinner. They even cooked dinner at her house, which Paris thought was easier for him. There were no memories of Phyllis there, and no hat hanging in the kitchen. There was just Paris. And things got rather heated between them late one night when they were first sitting, and then lying on the couch. It was early August by then. And she had put on a stack of CDs he liked. He seemed happy with her, happier than he'd been in a long time. But in the end they decided not to pursue their physical relationship any further that night.

Bix checked in with her later that week. “Are you still a virgin, or has it happened yet?”

“Don't be so nosy.” She felt protective of Jim, and was beginning to have stronger feelings for him. As they got to know each other better, she could even imagine falling in love with him. And it was a definite selling point that he was also a very sensual man. His senses had just been asleep for a long time.

“Are you falling for him?” Bix was intrigued.

“Maybe,” she said cryptically. “I think I could, with time.”

“That's pretty neat.” He looked pleased for her. And Meg was pleased too. She could tell from her mother's voice when she called that good things were happening. Sally had had the baby by then, and the two girls had talked and agreed that things were looking good. Sally said her father was crazy about Meg's mother, and couldn't stop talking about how beautiful she was. And if he wasn't in love yet, he had a major crush. And so did Paris, although she was keeping it quiet. But she liked everything he stood for.

And by mid-August, Meg had her own news, which she had been keeping under her hat. She had met someone over the Fourth of July weekend, and they had been seeing each other for five weeks. But she wasn't sure how her mother would feel about it. She was afraid she wouldn't like it. He was considerably older than Meg was, and a year older than her mother.

“What's he like?” Paris asked benevolently. Meg had not yet mentioned his age to her. She hadn't said anything about him for a month until she was sure they were at least minimally compatible with each other. He was a major departure for her.

“Nice, Mom. Very, very, very nice. He's an entertainment lawyer. A big one. He represents some pretty major stars.” And Meg had already met several of them, as she told her mother.

“How did you meet him?”

“At a Fourth of July party.” She didn't say that he was a friend's father. She was still afraid of her mother's reaction.

“Will I like him, or does he have spiked hair and wear earrings?”

“No earrings. He looks kind of like Dad. Sort of.”

And for no reason in particular Paris moved on to the next question. “How old is he?” She was expecting to hear twenty-four or twenty-five, Meg's usual range, or maybe a little younger, but not if he was an attorney. He was probably fresh out of law school, so maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. And then she remembered that he had important clients. There was silence at Meg's end. “Are you there?” Paris thought the cell phone had disconnected.

“I'm here. He's kind of older, Mom.”

“How kind of older? Work back from ninety,” Paris said, smiling. To Meg, “older” would be twenty-nine or thirty.

She took it at one gulp and spat it in her mother's lap. “Forty-eight. He's divorced, and has a daughter my age. That's how I know him.”

“Forty-eight?” Paris said in disbelief. “He's twice your age? What are you doing? He must feel like a father to you.” Paris sounded upset, and was.

“No, he doesn't. I just feel comfortable with him. And he doesn't play all those games and bullshit.”

“I should be dating him,” Paris said, still sounding shocked, and not sure what to make of it. He sounded like a player, like Chandler, if he was going out with a girl Meg's age. She was instantly inclined not to like him.

“Yes, you should, Mom,” Meg agreed. “You'd love him. He's a terrific person.”

“How terrific can he be if he's robbing the cradle and going out with children?” Worse yet, her children.

“Those things happen. I don't think age matters. All that matters are the people.”

“When you're forty-five, he'll be nearly seventy, if it gets to that. That's something to think about.”

“We're not there yet,” Meg said softly. But they had talked about it.

“I certainly hope not. Maybe I should come down and meet him.”

“We've been talking about coming up for Labor Day weekend.”

“I think you should. I want this man to know that you're not an orphan, and you have a mother who's keeping an eye on him. What's his name?”

“Richard. Richard Bolen.” Paris was stunned into silence. Her daughter was dating a forty-eight-year-old man. And she didn't like it. But she tried not to get too excited about it when she talked to Meg. She didn't want to push her into it any deeper in order to defend him. And she talked to Jim about it that night. He was concerned too, but willing to concede that major age differences weren't always a bad thing, if he was a responsible, decent person.

“See what you think when you meet him,” Jim said reasonably.

“I'd like you to meet him,” she said, and he was flattered. Other than that piece of somewhat distressing news, they had a nice time that night, and Jim asked her if she'd like to go away for a weekend with him, to the Napa Valley. Given what had been happening between them, it was a major invitation. They had been dating for two months, and hadn't gone to bed yet. A weekend in Napa might make a difference. And Paris looked at him mischievously as he kissed her.

“Two rooms or one, Mr. Thompson?” It was a very bold question.

“What would you like?” he asked gently. She'd been ready for weeks, but she didn't want to scare him.

“Would you be comfortable with one, Jim?” she asked, as she snuggled against him. The one thing she didn't want was to take Phyllis with them. Or Peter. She was ready for Peter to go back in the closet, where he belonged now, with Rachel. Phyllis was a far different matter. And Jim had to put her in his own closet, when he was ready, and so far he still wasn't. She dropped into their midst like a Murphy bed, as often as he let her. Which was often.

“I think I'd be happy with one room,” he said, smiling at Paris. “Shall I make a reservation?” She thought he looked handsome and sexy as he asked her.

“I'd love it.” Paris beamed at him.

Two days later they were on their way to Rutherford, in the Napa Valley, to stay at the Auberge du Soleil. What he didn't tell Paris till they got there was that he had spent his last anniversary there, with Phyllis, only months before she died.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Paris looked disappointed when he finally shared that with her. “We could have stayed somewhere else.” And should have. She was afraid of their single room now, with the huge king-size bed and the cozy fireplace. There was something sexy and subtle about the room, and she would have had a good time there, minus Phyllis. But she had already joined them, and was settling in as Paris unpacked.

He told Paris all about the final anniversary, where they'd gone, what they'd done, what they'd eaten. It was as though he did it to protect himself from his feelings for Paris. Phyllis was the shield he was using against his own emotions. His guilt was stronger than his libido. He poured Paris a glass of champagne, and drank three himself before they went to dinner. And when they got back, he lit the fire, and turned to Paris, just as two and a half years before, he had turned to Phyllis. He could still see it, although for once he didn't say it. But Phyllis's presence was palpable in the room.

“Tired?” he asked quietly, and she nodded. In fact, she wasn't. She was extremely nervous. And it was hard to tell how he felt. He had seemed nostalgic and quiet all evening. Maybe he was getting ready to let Phyllis go, Paris hoped. Maybe this was going to be the epiphany he needed. She was praying it would be. It was time.

Paris put on the simple white satin nightgown she had brought, which dropped easily over her lithe figure, and clung to it enticingly as she emerged from the bathroom. He was already in bed, wearing crisp linen pajamas. His hair was combed, and he had shaved for her. She felt like a bride and groom on a wedding night, fraught with all the same tensions as old-fashioned couples who had never slept with each other. And she was beginning to wonder if they should have made less of a fuss of it, and just climbed into bed one night at her house. But they were here now, and there was no turning back.

And as she got into bed and he turned off the light, he kissed her, and all the passion they had felt for each other suddenly rushed to the surface. He was instantly aroused and so was she, and they seemed to be starving for each other. It was far more heated than she had hoped for, and she felt relief wash over her along with passion. She dropped her nightgown to the floor, and he peeled off his pajamas and they disappeared somewhere, as they entangled in each other's arms, and their hands and lips discovered each other. And then just as he was about to enter her, she felt everything stop, and everything but the essential part of him went rigid.

“Are you okay?” she whispered in the dark. He had pulled away from her, and she was frightened.

“I was about to call you Phyllis.” He sounded as though he was nearly crying, and Paris suspected he was, or would be in a minute.

“It's all right, sweetheart … I love you … don't worry … everything is going to be fine.…” Shestroked him gently as she said it, but he was slowly backing away, and even in the half light, she could see that he was panicked. She didn't know what to do, she wanted to make this better for him. She cared about him, as a man, and as a person.

“I can't do this to her,” he said hoarsely. “She would never forgive me.”

“I think she'd want you to be happy,” Paris said, rubbing his back gently, and trying to relax him. “Why don't you let me give you a backrub, and not worry about this. We don't have to make love tonight. There's no hurry.” And no need for pressure. But all he wanted suddenly was to get away from her. To be as far from Paris as he could get, and as close to Phyllis. It was as though he wanted to crawl back into the womb of time and be with her, and Paris could feel it.

Instead of letting her rub his back, he got up, and walked across the room naked. She could see he had a remarkable body for a man his age, but it did her no good, if he wouldn't share it with her. And he wouldn't. He locked himself in the bathroom without a word to her, and stayed there for half an hour, and when he came out, he was wearing what he had worn to dinner. Paris was shocked, but tried to conceal it. He stood looking down at her in bed with a tragic expression.

“I hate to do this to you, Paris. But I can't be here. I want to go back to the city.” He looked as though something in him had died. He had given up.

“Now?” She sat up in bed and looked at him, and the glow of her skin shimmered like pearls in the moonlight. She was every bit as beautiful as he had thought she would be. But he still couldn't do it. To his late wife. He honestly believed Phyllis would never forgive him.

“I know you must think I'm crazy, and I guess I am. I'm just not ready, and I don't think I ever will be. I loved her too much for too long, and we went through too much together. I can't leave her, or betray her.”

“She left you,” Paris said gently, leaning back against the headboard. “She didn't mean to, and I'm sure she never wanted to, but she had no choice. She's gone, Jim. You can't die with her.”

“I think I did. I think I died in her arms that night. I just didn't know it. I'm sorry to do this to you. I can't have a relationship. Now or ever.” It was what she had feared from the beginning and had begun to think was all right, but clearly it wasn't. He wasn't willing to recover. He didn't want to. He had opted for death instead of life. And nothing Paris could do would change that.

“Why don't we just spend the night together, and hold each other? We don't need to make love. Let's just be here. You'll feel better in the morning.” She patted the bed for him to come closer to her.

“No, I won't.” He looked panicked. “I'll walk back to the city if I have to.” He didn't want to take the car and leave her stranded, but all he wanted now was to go home. He didn't even want to look at her. And if he had, all he would have seen was his late wife's face. He had blocked Paris out completely.

“I'll get dressed,” she said quietly, trying not to think of what was happening. She felt immensely sad, and the rejection was overwhelming for her. She wasn't angry at him, and she knew it had nothing to do with her, but it hurt anyway. She was disappointed that their weekend, not to mention their relationship, had turned out as it had.

Ten minutes later she followed him to the car in blue jeans and a sweater she had brought with her, and her suitcase hastily repacked. Jim put it in the back of his car without a word, as she slid into the passenger seat. And five minutes later they drove away. The hotel had an imprint of his credit card, so he didn't need to settle accounts with them. Only with himself. They were halfway to the city before he spoke to Paris, and all he could say was that he was sorry. He was stone-faced the rest of the way. And when she tried to put a hand on his, he didn't react. She wondered if he'd had too much to drink, and that increased his panic somehow. It was as though he was in the grip of a powerful demon. Or perhaps more simply, and more benignly, Phyllis had simply reclaimed him.

“I'm not going to call you again,” Jim said woodenly as he stopped in front of her house at two-thirty in the morning. “There's no point, Paris, I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry I wasted your time.” He was angry at himself, but sounded as though he was angry at her.

“You didn't waste my time,” she said gently. “I'm disappointed for both of us. I hope one day you work this out, for your sake. You deserve not to be alone for the rest of your life.”

“I'm not. I have Phyllis and all our memories. That's enough for me.” And then he turned to her, and what she saw in his eyes broke her heart. They were two pools of pain that looked like burning embers. In the white heat of his misery, there was nothing left of him but ash. “And you have Peter,” he said, as though to let himself off the hook and draw her into the swamp of despair with him. But Paris shook her head.

“No, I don't, Jim,” Paris said clearly. “Rachel does. I have myself.” And with that she got out of the car quietly, took her bag, and walked up her front steps. She unlocked the door, and before she could turn to look at him or wave, Jim Thompson drove away. She never heard from him again.

Chapter 23

Just as she had said they might, Meg brought Richard Bolen up to San Francisco for the Labor Day weekend. Richard took a room at the Ritz-Carlton, and although she would have preferred to stay with him, she decided to stay with her mother in the end. Richard thought it would make for a smoother introduction to him than if he was in competition with Paris for her little girl. And it proved to be a wise move, although it was clear from the moment they met that Paris was suspicious of him. She circled him like a dog around a tree, asking questions, looking long and hard, and talking to him about everything from his childhood to his job. After three days in his company, she hated to admit it, but she liked him very much.

And she couldn't help but think that he was exactly the sort of man that she should have been going out with, but he was dating a woman half her age, who in this case happened to be Meg. It was a very odd thought. But she didn't hold it against him, and they were sitting alone in her garden while Meg went upstairs for a few minutes, when Paris turned to him with a concerned expression.

“I don't want to be intrusive, Richard, but do you worry about the age difference between you?” He was twenty-four years older than Meg, exactly twice her age. And a year older than Paris.

“I try not to,” he said honestly. “The last woman in my life was older than I am, she was fifty-four. Generally, I've always gone out with women my own age. My ex-wife was, we were college sweethearts. But your daughter is a very special young woman, as you know.” He was handsome and rugged and looked younger than his years. And oddly enough, he looked very much like Meg and Paris, with green eyes and sandy blond hair. He looked almost more like Paris than Meg. And the two seemed extremely well suited to each other. In his company, Meg seemed to flourish and relax. She looked as though she felt totally safe with him. They had been dating for exactly two months, and Paris had the feeling it might be getting serious between them, from everything he said.

“I don't want to be terribly old-fashioned,” Paris said apologetically, feeling foolish, particularly given the closeness of their age. “It's too soon for either of you to know what your intentions are, but don't play with her, Richard. I don't want a man your age coming along and breaking her heart. She doesn't deserve that.” She was thinking about Chandler Freeman as she said it. He would have made mincemeat of a young girl. But Richard didn't look to be cut of the same cloth. And wasn't. “You're a lot older and wiser than she is, and stronger. If you're not serious about her, don't play with her, and don't hurt her.”

“I promise you, Paris,” he said intently, “I won't. And if I am serious?” He asked the question pointedly, and held his breath. “Would you object?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I'd have to think about it. You're a lot older than she is. All I want is for her to be happy.”

“Happiness doesn't always respect the boundaries of age,” he said wisely. “In fact it often doesn't. Age has nothing to do with this. She is the woman I love,” he said simply. “I've never felt like this about any woman, except my ex-wife.” What he said rang a bell with her, and she frowned as she looked at him.

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Three years,” he said quietly. And Paris was immediately relieved. At least he hadn't been divorced and playing for fifteen or twenty. She remembered all the warnings she'd had from Bix.

“That's respectable.”

“I haven't met anyone important to me yet. Until Meg. And I didn't expect it to be with her. She and my daughter are friends.”

“You never know how love is going to walk into your life, or if. And when it does, you don't know what face it's going to wear. In some ways, for both of you, I'm glad it's hers.” She liked him a lot. It was just odd to have her daughter's boyfriend be the same age as she was. But it also allowed them to be friends, and far more candid with each other than she ever could have been with Anthony or Peace, who were mere children. Richard was a man, and a good one, and she said as much to Meg when they left. Meg looked peaceful and happy, and thrilled that her mother had liked him. She was madly in love with Richard, and he was equally so with her.

And after they left, Paris couldn't help musing about how strange life was. The kind of man she should have been with was with her daughter. And she was left to damaged goods like Jim Thompson, playboys like Chandler Freeman, and blind dates like the sculptor from Santa Fe. There wasn't a decent one in the lot, except Jim, who was a nice man, but wounded beyond repair. She was beginning to wonder if that was all she would find, and all the good ones belonged to someone else. She wondered if there was another one like Richard Bolen out there somewhere. She doubted it, and if there wasn't, she was better off alone. She had finally come to accept that. It no longer felt like a life sentence to her anymore, but a simple fact of life. If she never found another man to love, she knew she'd be all right. Better alone than with the wrong one. She no longer had the energy for that, or the interest. Love at any price came too dear.

She told Bix about Richard the next day.

“That's too bad,” Bix said sensibly. “He sounds like just the kind of guy you need, instead of all these weirdos and freaks running around, and wounded animals with thorns in their paws. Christ, sometimes I wonder if there's anyone normal left.”

“So do I. And you're not dating them, I am. Or I could be, if I were crazy enough to try. And the good ones like Richard want women half my age. By the time they want me, they have to be a hundred years old.”

“Hardly. A nice fifty-year-old would do you just fine. All we have to do is find one.”

“Good luck!” Paris said, looking cynical.

“Do you think he'll marry her?” Bix inquired with interest.

“I don't know. He might. Last week I would have said ‘I hope not.’ This week I'm not so sure. He's too old for her theoretically, but shit, Bix, if they're happy and they love each other, why not? Maybe age doesn't matter as much as we think.”

“I don't think it does. Look at Steven and me. We have almost as much age difference as Meg and Richard, and we couldn't be happier.”

“Maybe I need an old one,” Paris said with a grin. “If I find a guy twenty-four years older than I am, he'd be seventy-one. Maybe that's not such a bad thought.”

“Depends on the guy,” Bix said openly. “I've met some seventy-year-olds I would give my right arm for. These days, if they want to be, men can be young into their eighties, and beyond that. I know a woman who's married to an eighty-six-year-old man in Los Altos, and she swears their sex life is better than ever, and two years ago, they had a baby.”

“Now, there's a thought.” Paris looked amused, although eighty-six seemed a little over the limit, at least for the moment.

“What, an eighty-six-year-old? I can find you one in a hot minute. They'd love to have you!” He was laughing.

“No, a baby. God, I'd love that. It's what I do best, Bix, bringing up children.” For just a minute, there were stars in her eyes.

“Please!” he said, and rolled his eyes. “I hired you because you're a grown-up, single, your kids are out of the house, and you're not going to get pregnant, and give birth at our next party. If you go and get pregnant on me, Paris, I'm going to kill you!” But she wasn't thinking of getting pregnant. More and more lately, she had been thinking that she would be alone forever, and she'd love to adopt a baby. But she hadn't said anything to anyone about it, not even Meg, and surely not Bix. He would have had the vapors if she told him. And she didn't know if it was something real she wanted to pursue, or a pipe dream she had to cheat Father Time and delude herself that she was still young. Starting out with a baby at this point would be a major challenge, and she wasn't ready to do more than think about it yet. But the idea had crossed her mind.

And the following week she felt as though she had almost been psychic, when the subject of babies came up again. But it came up very differently this time. Meg called her to tell her that Rachel was pregnant, and expecting a baby in May. She was six weeks pregnant, and Meg admitted to her mother that Peter was thrilled. And when Paris hung up the phone, she sat staring into space for a long time, digesting it. There was no question now. He was really gone. His life was enmeshed with Rachel's forever. And she felt it almost like a physical blow to her heart and soul.

Much to her surprise, Wim called her the next day to tell her how angry he was about Peter and Rachel's baby. He thought it was a terrible idea, and that his father was a complete fool, and too old. Meg was a little more moderate about it, but she wasn't happy either. They both seemed to feel threatened by it, which surprised Paris at their age, since they were both out in the world and had spread their wings, and they would hardly see their father's new child. But it also told them that Rachel was there for good, and important to him. And even if only out of loyalty to their mother, neither of them was crazy about her. She seemed to devour their father's energies and attention, and had him wrapped around her two little boys, who never saw their own father. Meg said he was thinking of adopting them. The landscape of their family had certainly changed in the last year and a half. There was no denying it anymore. And somehow, in spite of the two children she adored, Paris felt like the odd man out. Wim and Meg would go on to their own lives one day, and in fact already had. Peter had Rachel and his new family, and was starting over again. And she was alone. Sometimes it was tough to swallow.

And as always when she was troubled, Paris buried herself in work, with Bix's help. They did the opening of the opera and the symphony, which were the two most major social events of the year, and a slew of parties to mark the beginning of the social season. They were nearly halfway through most of them, when Bix came into her office looking sheepish. By now she knew him well. They spent so much time together that sometimes they seemed like Siamese twins, with one brain. She could hear him in her head.

“Okay, you look guilty as hell,” she accused him. “What have you done? From the look of it, I'd say you booked three weddings on one date, or maybe four. Something equally nightmarish, I'm sure.” He hated to say no to anyone, and sometimes he booked four or five events in one day, which nearly drove them both insane

when they had to pull them together.

“It's nothing like that. I just had a thought.”

“Let me guess. You want to go to Carnival in Rio and do the entire event?…or… you're taking over Pac-Bell Park and turning it into a garden party…or you want me to fly the Rockettes in for some event and they won't come….” He was laughing at her, she knew him too well, but he shook his head.

“It's nothing like that. I want to do something I know you won't like.” Her eyes opened wide as he said it.

“Is Jane coming back? Are you firing me?” Her only fear these days was of losing the job she loved so much.

“Hell, no. I think she might be pregnant again. She said something about it when we last talked. She's gone forever. I'm never letting you go … but I want you to do something for me. Promise you'll do it, and we'll discuss it after.”

“Does it involve nudity or lewd acts in public?” she asked suspiciously, but Bix shook his head. “Okay, I promise. I trust you. What is it?”

“I want you to go on a blind date. You know how I hate them, and I don't believe in them. All those people who claim they met their husbands that way have to be lying. I've never met anyone but psychos and drips on blind dates. But this guy is perfect for you. I met him last week. He's a fairly well-known writer, and he hired us to do a birthday party for his mother. He's an incredibly smart guy, and has a lot of style. I think he's just what you want. He's been widowed for five years, but he talks about her sensibly, he's not obsessed. He has three grown kids. He travels between here and England. He has kind of a tweedy look. He just broke up with a girlfriend six months ago who was approximately your age, and he seems surprisingly normal.”

“He probably isn't. Did you ask him if he cross-dresses?”

“No, but I asked him everything else. The minute I saw him, I thought of you. Will you meet him, Paris? You don't even have to go to dinner with him. I didn't say anything to him about you. But you could come with me on our next meeting, or go alone. Will you meet him at least?” She had heard him out, and although she didn't want to date anymore, or so she said, she was intrigued. And when Bix told her who he was, she said she had read three of his books. He was very good at what he did, and was always at the top of the best-seller lists. And Bix even loved his house.

“Okay, I'll go with you,” she said, more cooperative than usual on the subject. After Sydney's artist friend, she had sworn she would never go on another blind date. But this wasn't a blind date. It was a blind meeting. “When are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow morning, at nine-thirty.” Bix looked pleased that she'd offered no resistance. He was convinced it was a perfect match.

Paris nodded and said nothing, and the next morning Bix picked her up at nine-fifteen. The writer they were seeing, Malcolm Ford, lived only a few blocks from her. And when they got to his address, Paris had to admit the house was impressive. It was a solid brick residence on upper Broadway, on what was referred to as the Gold Coast. All the biggest bucks in the city were there. But there was nothing showy about him when he opened the door. He had salt-and-pepper hair and steel-blue eyes, and he was wearing an old Irish sweater and jeans, and as they walked through the house, it was handsome but unpretentious. They settled into a library that was lined with first editions and rare books, and there were stacks of more current books on the floor. He went over the details for his mother's party calmly. He wanted something elegant and nice, but not too showy. And since he didn't have a wife, he had hired them. His mother was turning ninety, and Bix knew Malcolm was sixty. He had a very distinguished look, and he chatted with them for quite a while. Paris told him she'd read his books and enjoyed them very much, and he seemed pleased. There was a nice photo of his late wife on the desk, but he didn't talk about her. There was an equally nice one of his last girlfriend too, who was also a well-known writer. And he mentioned that he had a house in England. But everything about him seemed normal and human, and surprisingly low-key considering how successful he was. He didn't drive a Ferrari or have a plane, and he said he went to Sonoma on weekends, but admitted that his place there was a mess, and he liked it that way. He had absolutely everything going for him, including looks and money, and as they left his house after the meeting, Bix looked at her victoriously. He had found a gem for her, and he knew it, but the expression on Paris's face was blank.

“Was I right?” he asked her in the car, grinning happily as he drove her to the office. “He's great, isn't he?” He was practically in love with him himself, but he also looked a little like Steven.

“Totally,” Paris agreed, but she didn't wax poetic about him, and she didn't offer further comment.

“So?” He could see that something was wrong. “What aren't you saying to me?” Bix asked, curious about her silence, and she seemed to be thinking about it herself.

“I don't know. I know this sounds crazy, and you'll think I'm nuts. He's incredibly nice, looks great, he's obviously smart. I like his house. But I don't feel any chemistry for him. Nothing. He doesn't appeal to me or turn me on. I have no vibes at all. If anything, I think he's boring.”

“Shit,” Bixby said, looking heartbroken. “I finally find you a good one and you don't want him.” But he knew himself that if there was no chemistry, there was nothing. And why and when there was, was impossible to explain, but it was crucial.

“It must be me. I just don't feel anything. If I met him at a party, I think I'd probably walk right by him. Just nothing.”

“Well, so much for that,” Bix said, looking disappointed. “Are you sure? You decided that very quickly.” But chemistry was a quick decision. They both knew you either felt it with someone, or you didn't.

“Absolutely. I'm not sure I want anyone anymore. I'm perfectly comfortable the way I am.”

“That's when the good ones always come. At least that's what they say. When you don't give a damn anymore, they flock to you like flies to honey. God, if that guy were gay and I was alone, I would leap on him.”

“I'm sure he'd be happy to hear it,” Paris said, laughing. “I don't think he's gay, by the way. He's just not for me, and I don't think he felt anything for me either. No electricity, no contact.”

“Well, back to the drawing board,” Bix said cheerfully. He had tried, and Paris was grateful to him for it.

“I think you can put the drawing board away. For now anyway. I think I'm burnt out on men.” He could see why. Her little episode with Jim Thompson that summer had really disappointed her. The one thing Paris didn't need was another rejection, and Bix didn't want that for her. She'd had enough heartache for one lifetime.

They went back to the office after that, and got to work. They worked their way through their October events, and it was early October when she and Bix were sitting in his office working out the last details of an October wedding. The bride was French, and her parents were bringing in a photographer from Paris. But other than that, they were using all their usual resources, and so far everything had gone smoothly. The bride looked like a little porcelain doll. And the dress had been made by Balmain in Paris. It was going to be the social event of the season, possibly the decade.

“Do we need to book a room for the photographer?” Paris asked, checking her notes.

“I already took care of it. He's staying at the Sir Francis Drake. I got a good rate. He's bringing two assistants. He's coming out before the wedding, to do family portraits.” There were also at least a dozen relatives, and twice as many social friends, many of them titled, coming in from Europe. They were all booked into the Ritz. All the last details were set. And the only last-minute hitch was that the van they had rented for the photographer had to be picked up in the city, and not at the airport.

“He can take a cab,” Bix said. The flight was due in an hour.

“I can pick him up,” Paris volunteered. “He may not speak English, and all we need is some spoiled-brat French photographer having a tantrum at the airport and kicking our ass for it later. I have time this afternoon. I'll do it.” She looked at her watch, and knew she had to leave in a few minutes.

“Are you sure?” She had better things to do, and Bix hated to use her as a chauffeur. But everything was in good order, and she liked to make sure that every last detail and loose end was tied up, even if she had to do it herself.

She left for the airport five minutes later, in her station wagon, and hoped she'd have enough room for their equipment. If not, they could put one of the assistants in a taxi, but at least the photographer himself would feel that they had paid him sufficient homage. She knew how the French were. Or photographers, at least. And it was a nice break to drive to the airport. It was a crisp October day, and San Francisco had never looked better.

She parked her car at the airport, and went to wait while the passengers made their way through customs after an eleven-hour flight that had just landed from Paris. She assumed she would recognize them by their equipment. The photographer's name was Jean-Pierre Belmont. She had seen his work in French Vogue, but hadn't a clue what he looked like. She kept her eyes peeled for people carrying cases that looked like photographic equipment. And finally she saw them. There were three of them, a distinguished older man with gray hair, carrying two enormous silver cases, and two younger ones, one of whom had bright red hair and looked about fourteen and another barely older with spiky black hair, an impish smile, and a diamond earring. The younger two were wearing leather jackets and jeans, and the older man wore a proper topcoat and a muffler. And Paris rapidly approached them.

“Hello,” she said with a broad smile. “I'm Paris Armstrong, from Bixby Mason. Mr. Belmont?” she said to the older man, and she heard a burst of laughter behind her, and the boy with the red hair chuckled. The older man looked uncomfortable and shook his head. It was obvious that he didn't speak a word of English.

“You are looking for Monsieur Belmont?” the imp with the spiky hair and diamond earring asked her. He seemed to be the only one who spoke English, though with a heavy accent.

“Yes, I am,” she said politely. She was wearing slacks and a pea coat and the spiky-haired imp was barely taller than she was. But she saw as she talked to him that he was probably a little older than she'd guessed. She had figured him for about eighteen or twenty, and seeing him at close range, she guessed him to be Meg's age. “Is that he?” She indicated the older man again without pointing directly at him. He had to be. He was the only obvious grown-up in the threesome.

“Non, ” the imp said, and she wondered if she had mistaken the entire group and they were playing with her. If so, she had missed the right crew completely, and had no idea where they were now. “It is me, Monsieur Belmont,” he said with a look of vast amusement. “Your name is Paris? Like the city?” She nodded, relieved at least to have found them, although it was hard to believe that this boy was Jean-Pierre Belmont, who was a considerably well-known photographer in Paris. “Paris is a man's name,” he corrected her. “He was a Greek god in mythology,” he said with interest.

“I know. It's a long story.” She was not going to explain to him, with subtitles, that she had been conceived on her parents' honeymoon in Paris. “Do you have all your bags?” she asked him pleasantly, still trying to figure out who was who. But if he was Belmont, the other two were obviously his assistants, although one of them looked old enough to be his father.

“We have everything,” he said in heavily accented but coherent English. “We have very little bag, only cameras,” he explained and pointed, and she nodded. There was something vastly charming about him. She wasn't sure if it was the accent or the hair or the earring, or maybe the smile. She kept wanting to laugh every time she looked at him. And the red-headed boy looked like a baby, and was in fact Jean-Pierre's nineteen-year-old cousin. Belmont himself was thirty-two, Paris discovered later, but looked nowhere near it. His whole demeanor and style was that of someone infinitely younger. He was the personification of charming, outrageous youth and totally Parisian.

She told him she would be back in a minute with the car, and left the three of them with a porter, and five minutes later she was back, and the two assistants and the photographer himself proceeded to pack her station wagon with such speed and precision that it looked like some kind of puzzle. And moments later he was in the passenger seat, the two others were behind them, and they were on their way to the city.

“We go to the hotel or to see the bride girl now?” he asked clearly.

“I think they're expecting you a little later. I thought you'd like to go to the hotel first, rest, eat, shower, and get ready.” She said it carefully and clearly as he nodded, and seemed very interested in his surroundings. He spoke to her again a few minutes later.

“What do you do? You are secretary… assistant… to the bride mother?”

“No, I plan the wedding. Bixby Mason. Flowers, music, decoration. We hire all the people to do the wedding.” He nodded, having understood what her function was in the scheme of things. He was quick and alert, and extremely lively. And as he looked out the window, he lit a Gauloise, papier mais, with bright yellow paper made from corn, and a pungent smell like no other filled her station wagon.

“Ees okay?” he asked politely after it was lit, remembering that Americans weren't nearly as amenable to smoking, but Paris nodded.

“It's okay. I used to smoke a long time ago. It smells nice.”

“Merci,” he said perfunctorily, and then chatted with the others. Although she spoke a little French, she had no idea what they were saying. They spoke far too quickly. And then he turned to her again. “Ees a good wedding? Beautiful dress?… Good?”

“Very good,” she reassured him. “Beautiful girl, beautiful dress. Handsome groom. Beautiful party. It is at the Legion of Honor Museum. Seven hundred people.” The Delacroix family controlled an enormous French textile industry and had moved to San Francisco during the Socialist regime, and then stayed there, to protect their fortune from French taxes. But they still spent as much time in France as they could get away with.

“Big money, yes?” he inquired, and Paris smiled and nodded.

“Very big money.” She didn't tell him, but they were spending two and a half million dollars on the wedding. More than respectable, to say the least.

She drove him to the hotel without further ceremony, and arranged at the hotel desk for someone to pick up their van and deliver it to them. All they had to do was show their driver's licenses and sign the papers. She handed Jean-Pierre Belmont a map of the city, and showed him on the map where they had to be at six o'clock.

“Will you be okay?” she asked, as he blew a cloud of smoke in her face inadvertently, and someone at the desk asked him to put it out. He found an ashtray full of sand a few steps away, and came back to Paris at the desk. “Call me if you need anything,” she said, and handed him her card. He was going to be doing portraits of the family and the bride.

He relayed everything to the others then, waved at her, and they disappeared into the elevator to find their rooms, as Paris went back outside to her car. Being around Jean-Pierre was like being in a whirlwind, with arms waving everywhere, hands gesticulating, clouds of smoke, and snatches of conversation with the others that she didn't understand. There were lots of exclamations, facial expressions, and through it all he never seemed to stop moving with his big brown eyes and spiky hair. He looked like one of Meg's friends, except everything about him was so French. And at the same time, although he looked young, he seemed very much in command. She could still smell his corn-wrapped cigarettes when she got back in her car and drove back to the office, to pick up her messages and a last file.

Bix was still there, and he looked up when she came in. “Everything go okay?” She nodded, glancing at her messages. Everything was on track for that night.

“Fine,” she reported, and then told him about Jean-Pierre Belmont. “He looks about twelve. Well, not quite, but close.”

“I figured he'd be older than that,” Bix said, looking surprised, and she nodded.

“So did I. He's very French. Too bad Meg has a boyfriend, he'd be fun for her.” But she wasn't sorry really that Meg had Richard. He was so wonderful to her. They'd been dating for almost three months, and Meg was ecstatically happy.

Bix and Paris were both at the Delacroix house that night, overseeing a family dinner for thirty people, as people started arriving from France. And Paris stood in a back corner to watch the portraits being done. Ariane Delacroix looked exquisite when she posed in her wedding dress, which no one else saw. The bride looked like a tiny fairy princess, and laughed when she saw Jean-Pierre smile his outrageously contagious smile. When he caught sight of Paris, he winked at her, and then went back to work, as his assistants alternated cameras, and changed film for him. He took several family portraits. And when the bride went upstairs to change into a dinner dress, to pose for a photograph with her mother, he stopped for a minute to talk to her.

“Would you like a photograph?” he asked Paris formally, since no one else was around, and she shook her head quickly. It would have been terribly unprofessional, and she would never have done that.

“No, no, thanks.” She smiled.

“Beautiful eyes,” he said, pointing to her green eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, and as he looked at her, she could almost feel an electric current run through her. It was exactly the opposite of what she had felt, or hadn't felt, for Malcolm Ford. She couldn't even talk to this man, and he looked about half her age, but everything about him was masculine and electric, and he had a visceral effect on her. She could never have explained it, nor wanted to. There was nothing gentle or subtle or cautious about him. Everything about him was bright and vibrant and bold, from his brilliant eyes to his spiky hair, to the diamond in his ear. And when the bride and her mother came back, he went back to work again and Paris disappeared. But she felt almost shaken as she left the room, as though she had touched something and gotten a severe electric shock.

“You okay?” Bix asked as she walked by. He thought she had an odd look on her face.

“Yes, I am,” she said, and they met again once the family and guests had gone into the dining room, and Jean-Pierre and his crew were leaving too. He smiled at her, and she had never had such a flirtatious look from any man. And certainly not one her own age.

“Pretty hot,” Bix commented, which was the perfect word for him. “In my youth, I'd have gone berserk over him,” he said, and laughed, as Paris did the same.

“In my old age, so would I,” Paris said. She was teasing, but nonetheless it would have been impossible not to feel the energy that emanated from the young photographer from Paris.

And for the next few days, their paths crossed constantly. He was always at work, crouching at people's knees, or hanging from somewhere, nearly falling off a staircase, or inching toward a face. He was in constant motion, yet every time Paris was in the vicinity, he made eye contact with her. And as the bride left the wedding, he finally seemed to unwind for an instant, and then walked over to where Paris was standing.

“Very good!” he said. “Very, very good marriage! Beautiful photographs … beautiful decor … et les fleurs !” The flower arrangements Bix had designed were beyond belief. They were all roses and lily of the valley, and exquisite tiny flowers Paris had never even seen before. They had been flown in from Africa and France and Ecuador, at outrageous expense. But the Palace of the Legion of Honor had never looked more beautiful. The lighting Bix had organized was spectacular and worthy of Versailles. And as she and Jean-Pierre stood there under a starry sky at two in the morning, she wasn't even tired. “We go for a drink?” he asked, and she was about to say no and then nodded. Why not? He was leaving in a few days anyway. She knew he was going to stick around to take some shots in San Francisco, although she also knew that his assistants were leaving the next day. “I go in your car?” he proposed, and she told him she'd meet him out front in ten minutes.

She told Bix she was going, and he was about to leave too. All the members of the family had left, and there were only a few stragglers left. Neither he nor Paris needed to stay.

“It was terrific, wasn't it? We did a hell of a job.” Bix beamed, tired but pleased.

“No, you did. All I am is the shepherd, and the organizer of details. You're the genius behind all this, Bix.” He kissed her and thanked her, and then she left to retrieve her car from the valet, and a moment later she and Jean-Pierre were in it, speeding off into the night. There was nowhere to go at that hour, except an all-night diner she knew, but he was enchanted when he saw it, and immediately started taking photographs at weird angles, including a quick roll of her. And then he settled back in the booth and ordered pancakes and scrambled eggs. He hadn't had time to eat all night.

“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.

She and Bix worked on a number of projects, and she was aware of a sense of malaise all day, as though some part of her were causing her body to be too big for her skin. She felt raw and uncomfortable all day. And it was crazy, but she actually missed him. She was determined not to give in to it, and she didn't call him on the cell phone he had rented, although he had given her the number. She went to bed early that night, and worked hard again the next day.

She felt better by Wednesday, and Meg called that night about their Thanksgiving plans. They were going to be with their father that year, and with her for Christmas. She never asked Meg how Rachel was doing with her pregnancy, because she didn't want to know. She had never asked if Peter was happy about it, if it was an accident, or planned. She couldn't bear to think of any of it, and Meg very discreetly never volunteered anything her mother didn't ask. She sensed just how painful it was for her, particularly since she was alone.

On Thursday as she drove home from the office at eight o'clock, her cell phone rang. She assumed it was either Bix or Meg. No one else ever called her on her cell. She was just pulling up in front of her house as she answered, and as she did, she saw him sitting there. It was Jean-Pierre both calling her, and sitting on her front steps.

“Où es tu?” he said in French, and she knew what it meant. It meant “Where are you?” She stopped the car, and smiled at him, embarrassingly pleased that he was there.

“I'm right here,” she answered, and got out of her car with the phone in her hand. She walked up the steps, and was going to kiss him on both cheeks, but he took her in his arms and kissed her searingly on the mouth. And she responded before she could stop herself. She never wanted it to stop, and didn't want him to go. It was as though she was being swept away on a tidal wave of sensuality, and for a moment she felt crazed. She had no idea what she was doing, why, or with whom. She hardly knew him, but all she did know was that she didn't want it to stop.

“I miss you so much,” he said simply, looking like a boy again, although he acted like a man, in all the important ways. “So I come back from Los Angeles. I go to Santa Barbara yesterday. Like Bordeaux. Very beautiful, and very small. Too quiet.”

“I think so too,” she agreed, and her heart pounded as she let them both into her house. He had gotten the address when he called her office and said he had proofs to show her. He followed her inside and looked around, nodding approval, as he took off his leather jacket. It looked as though it had been through the wars. “Would you like dinner?” she asked as he smiled and nodded, and went to look at the view, and then, while she was cooking, he took photographs of her. “Don't, I look terrible,” she said, brushing a lock of hair off her face. All she had was soup she had heated, cold chicken and salad she made for them, and she poured them each a glass of wine, while he put on some music. He seemed very much at home, and he came to kiss her from time to time while she organized dinner for them. It was harder and harder to keep her mind on what she was doing.

They sat down at the kitchen table, and talked about music. He had very sophisticated tastes, and was very knowledgeable about classical music. He said his mother had been an artist, and his father a conductor. And his sister was a doctor in Paris. A heart surgeon. He had an interesting background. He asked her what she had studied in school, and she told him economics, and he said he had studied political science.

“Sciences Po,” he said, as though he expected her to know it. “It is a very good school. And you? You did more high studies?” She knew what he meant.

“Graduate school. I have an MBA.” He didn't understand, and she said it was a very respected business degree, and he nodded.

“I understand. We have a very good school for that. HÉC. It is like Harvard Business School for us. I don't need that to take photographs,” he said, and laughed. And after they ate, he kissed her again, and she had to fight back a wave of passion that seemed to overwhelm her. This was crazy. She couldn't just let animal instinct overpower her. Nothing like this had ever happened to her, and she finally looked at him in dismay.

“Jean-Pierre, what are we doing? We don't know each other. This is crazy.”

“Sometimes crazy is good, no? I think yes. I am crazy to you.”

“For you, or about you.”

“Yes, that.”

“I feel that way too, but in a few days you'll leave, or sooner, and we'll be sorry if we do something foolish.”

He touched his heart and shook his head. “No, then I will always remember you. Here.”

“Me too. But maybe later we will be sorry.” She was worried about what they were doing or might do. He was nearly impossible to resist.

“Why sorry?”

“Because the heart can be very easily hurt. And we don't know each other,” she said sensibly, but he disagreed.

“I know you very much. I know many thing about you. Where you go to school, your children, your work, your marriage, your tristesse … your sadness…you have lose very much… sometimes we must find,” he said as he remembered something he wanted to share with her. “You know the book, The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry? There it say, ‘On ne voit l'essen-tiel qu'avec le coeur ’ … you only see the important thing in life with the heart … not the eyes. Or the head. It is a very wonderful book.”

“I read it to my children. It is very sad. The little prince dies in the end.” She looked touched. She loved the book.

“Yes, but he live forever in the stars.” He was pleased that she knew the book. It told him that she was a very special woman, as much so as he had thought. He had seen it in her eyes when he took photographs of her. “You must always see with the heart. And after, you will live forever in the stars.” It was a lovely thought, and it touched her.

They spent hours talking that night, and although she sensed that he would have liked to stay, he didn't ask her and she didn't offer. He didn't want to press her, and spoil what they had.

The next day he called her and then showed up at the office, and Bix looked surprised when he walked in.

“Are you still here, Jean-Pierre?” Bix asked with a smile of welcome. “I thought you left on Sunday or Monday.”

“I did. I go to Los Angeles.” He made it sound like a French city, and Bix smiled. “And then I come back yesterday.”

“How long will you be here?”

“Maybe a few week,” he said as Paris came out of her office and saw him. And something passed between them, as they looked at each other, like an electrical current of industrial voltage. Neither said anything, but Bix saw it immediately. He invited Jean-Pierre to stay for lunch, and the three of them ate sandwiches and drank cappuccinos in the room where they made presentations to clients. And afterward Jean-Pierre thanked them and left. He said he was going to visit Berkeley. He never said anything obvious to Paris, but he managed to communicate to her without words that he would see her later. And after he left, Bix stared at her.

“Am I imagining things, or is there something going on between you two?” He looked stunned, and turned to Paris, as she hesitated.

“No, there isn't really. We spent the day together on Sunday. I took him to Sausalito and Sonoma. And he dropped by last night. I'm not that foolish.” Though it was sorely tempting, and she knew that if he stayed much longer, it would get harder and harder to resist him. But however attracted to him she was, she had managed to keep her resolve so far.

“I would be,” Bix said, looking at her. “That foolish, I mean. Hell, Paris, he's adorable, and you don't owe anyone any explanations.”

“Yes, I do. I owe myself one. He's a kid. He's fifteen years younger than I am.”

“It doesn't look that way. You look like a kid yourself, and he's older than he looks. Hell, if he were giving me looks like that, I'd grab him. He's a hottie.”

“You sound like my children.” Paris laughed, and she couldn't disagree with him. But having an affair with Jean-Pierre would be total self-indulgence, no matter how attractive she found him. And she did. Very.

“I think you ought to kidnap him, and chain him to your bedpost before he goes back to Paris,” Bix said warmly, and Paris laughed.

“Is that what you did with Steven?” she teased him.

“I didn't have to. He did that with me. Well, not really,” Bix admitted. “But we were very attracted to each other pretty quickly. You two looked like you were going to set the room on fire with those looks. I could hardly eat my lunch. I thought he was going to grab you and throw you on the table.” He would have liked to, but Paris had tried to maintain appearances, at least for Bix. “Are you seeing him tonight?”

“I might,” she said, and Bix looked as though he approved, and when he commented on it again before she left, she scolded him for being a libertine.

“Why not, darling? You only live once. And I'd hate to miss a night with him, if I had the chance.” But she knew perfectly well he wouldn't have traded anyone on the planet for Steven. They were crazy about each other.

As she drove up in front of her house that night, Jean-Pierre was sitting on the steps again, looking very relaxed, eating an apple, and reading a magazine. The van was in her driveway. And he looked up with pleasure the minute he saw her. She had known him at that point for exactly eight days, and she knew more about him than many people she had known for years. But it still didn't justify the attraction she felt for him. What was happening between them was all about chemistry and hormones and pheromones. It was totally out of their control, except that Paris was trying to do everything she could to keep a harness and muzzle on her feelings.

“I don't have much in the fridge,” she said as they walked into the house together. And before she could say another word, he took her handbag and briefcase from her and set them down. He closed the front door with his foot, and kissed her so passionately it took her breath away. She had to fight to catch her breath when he stopped. She had never been kissed like that in her entire life, not even by him the night before.

“I am going crazy, Paris,” he said desperately, and then kissed her again, and as he did, he took off her coat and dropped it on the floor, and then her blouse, and her bra, and she did nothing to stop him. She didn't want to. All she wanted was what he was doing. And as he continued undressing her, she began undressing him. She unbuttoned his shirt, undid his belt buckle, and unzipped his trousers. And within seconds, they were both standing naked, and glued to each other in the front hall. And without a word, he swept her into his powerful young arms, and carried her up the steps to her bedroom, as though he had done it a thousand times before. He deposited her on her bed, and looked at her for a long moment, and then gave a soft almost animal moan, as he began kissing her everywhere, and touching her, and making her writhe with pleasure, and she turned to return the favor to him. She put all of him that she could into her mouth, and his head arched back, and the beautiful young head with the spiky hair was thrown backward, as she did all she could to bring him pleasure, and then finally he got on the bed with her, and made love to her as she had never been made love to before. It was a tidal wave that neither could stop, and it seemed to go on for hours, and when she lay in his arms finally afterward, he ran a hand through her long silky hair and told her that he loved her. And although they barely knew each other, she believed him.

“Je t'aime,” he whispered hoarsely, and then began kissing her again. He couldn't keep his lips or his hands off of her, or keep his body away from her, and she couldn't keep hers away from him. It was many hours later when they finally fell asleep in each other's arms, and when they woke at sunrise, they made love again, but more quietly this time. It was a night Paris knew she would never forget, and that she would remember for the rest of her life. She was totally under the spell of Jean-Pierre.

Chapter 25

Fortunately the first days of Paris and Jean-Pierre's love affair began over a weekend, because they never got dressed or out of bed for nearly forty-eight hours. All she wanted was to be with him. They ordered pizza on Saturday, and made peanut butter sandwiches, which he said were disgusting and then ate two of them. All he wanted to satisfy him was Paris. They were luxuriating in her bathtub on Sunday night, when the phone rang and it was Meg.

Paris talked to her for a few minutes, and didn't tell her anything, and Jean-Pierre understood immediately, and didn't say a word while she was on the phone. And he did the same again when Wim called half an hour later.

She didn't ask Jean-Pierre what they were going to do, because they weren't going to do anything. He was going to be there as long as he was there, and they would enjoy it for what it was. A brief and blissfully torrid interlude. She had never done anything like it, but she didn't expect anything more. She wasn't going to try to make it into something it wasn't, or extort promises from him, or offer them. She asked no questions, expected no answers. Whatever time they shared with each other was a gift, however brief. She wanted nothing more. And she assumed that he didn't either.

But as she left for work on Monday morning, she asked him what he was going to do all day, and he looked vague.

“I must see a magazine. Someone tell me about it in Paris. I am curious what they do.”

“Will you be here tonight when I come home?”

“I try.” He smiled at her, and then kissed her. He still had his hotel room but hadn't been there in three days. They hadn't put on clothes since they'd come through the door on Friday. They'd been living in bathrobes and towels, and walking around naked much of the time. She had no sense of modesty with him, and they couldn't get enough of each other's bodies. Before she left, she handed him a set of spare keys, and showed him how to work the alarm. She had no qualms about letting him roam around her house when she wasn't there. She trusted him completely, not only with her house, but with herself. She felt totally at ease with him.

“Merci, mon amour,” he said, thanking her for the keys. “À tout à l'heure.” See you later, he said, as he blew her a kiss when she left, and he went out only minutes after she did.

“How was your weekend?” Bix asked as she came into the office, and she looked vague as she hung up her jacket.

“It was fine. How was yours?”

“Don't give me that,” he said, he knew her too well. “Is Jean-Pierre still here?”

“I think so,” she said innocently, and he saw nothing in her eyes this time. She was so tired, she could hardly keep them open.

And when she went home that night, he was there, and had already started cooking dinner for her. He had made a roast leg of lamb and string beans, bought cheese and a baguette. It was a delicious dinner, and she asked him about the magazine he'd gone to see as they ate.

“How was it?” she asked as they devoured the gigot. They were both starving, neither of them had had a decent meal in three days.

“Interesting,” he said. “It is very small, but they do very good work. It is new.”

“Are you going to do some work for them?” He nodded and looked at her, and over the bread and cheese he asked her an honest question.

“Paris, do you want me to stay, or go? Will it make too complicate for you if I stay for one month or two?”

She looked at him long and hard, and was honest with him. “I'd like you to stay.” She was stunned by her own words, but it was how she felt.

He beamed at her, he was ready to do whatever she wanted, for as long as he could. “Then I stay. My visa is for six months. But I go whenever you say.” It was a pact between them, and entirely comfortable for her. No one knew he was there, and their nights and weekends belonged to them.

Meg was too busy to come up from Los Angeles these days, and Wim had midterms and was busy with his friends. They had a month together, before Meg volunteered to come to spend a night with her before she left for Thanksgiving in the East. Jean-Pierre had long since given up his hotel room, but he told her he'd be happy to leave for the night when Meg came.

“That might be a good idea,” Paris agreed. She didn't want to shock her daughter unduly, and she had no idea what she was going to say, if anything.

Meg arrived on the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, and Wim came over to spend the night as well. Paris loved having both of her children there, and she cooked them a delicious dinner, which was more than she'd done so far for Jean-Pierre. And both Wim and Meg were flying to New York in the morning. Richard was staying in Los Angeles with his daughter.

“Will you be okay for Thanksgiving, Mom?” Meg already knew she was going to Steven and Bix's for the holiday, but she worried about her getting lonely over the weekend. She didn't have a lot of friends in San Francisco yet, and Meg knew she wasn't seeing anyone, or so she thought.

“I'll be fine. I'm just glad you'll be here for Christmas. That's more important.” And it was only later, when she and Meg were both getting ready for bed, and Wim was downstairs, that Paris shared her secret, or part of it at least, with her. She rarely kept anything from her daughter. And what had gone on for the last five weeks was unusual for her in every way. She told her she was dating someone, and he was French. But she did not say that he was staying with her, and he was fifteen years younger. That was too much to confess at one gulp.

“What's he like?” Meg looked pleased for her, as she always was when things were going well for her mother.

“Adorable. He's a photographer. He's on assignment here for a few months.”

“That's too bad.” Meg looked disappointed. “How soon is he going back?”

“I don't know. We're having fun for now.” She sounded philosophical about it.

“Widowed or divorced?”

“Divorced. He has a ten-year-old son.” She didn't say that he was barely older than that himself.

“It's weird how all these older guys have young kids, isn't it?” Meg was thinking of her father, and her mother's new friend had obviously gotten a late start, she assumed. Paris made a vague mmming sound as she nodded and brushed her teeth. But she knew that sooner or later, if they met him, she would have to at least acknowledge the difference in their age. It didn't bother her or Jean-Pierre, he said it didn't matter to him at all, his ex-wife was older than he was too, though only five years, and not fifteen. But Paris had no idea how her children would react, and she was nervous about it.

She talked to Bix about it in the office the next day. She had felt dishonest not saying something to Meg, particularly after her comment about older guys getting a late start and having kids. There was nothing “older” about Jean-Pierre.

“I don't think anyone gives a damn these days,” Bix reassured her. “Older, younger, same age. Fifty-year-old women have twenty-five-year-old boyfriends. Seventy-year-old men marry thirty-year-olds and have babies. The world has changed. A lot of people don't even bother to get married to have kids these days. Single men and women adopt children. None of the old rules hold. I think you can do damn near anything you want. And you're not hurting anyone. I hope your children will be decent about it.” But Paris was still unsure.

Paris talked to them on Thanksgiving, they were at their father's. They were staying there, and Rachel answered the phone when she called. Paris just asked to speak to Meg, and didn't say anything to her. But she told Wim to wish his father a happy Thanksgiving. It was the only contact she had had with Peter in over a year, when they took Wim to school. They no longer even talked on the phone, they had no reason to, and it was easier for her this way.

Jean-Pierre was with her when she talked to them, and afterward they went to Bix and Steven's, and had a lovely Thanksgiving. It was Jean-Pierre's first, and he said he liked it. And they went to see two French movies and an American one that weekend. Jean-Pierre loved films.

And for the next month, they lived in their little bubble, like twins in the womb. Everything was protected and happy. She worked a million Christmas parties with Bix, or it felt that way at least, and Jean-Pierre was doing a lot of work for the new magazine. They couldn't believe their good fortune to have him, and he had to do a lot of explaining in Paris and New York as to why he had dropped out of sight for the past two months, and didn't know when he would return. He had until April, and then he either had to do something about getting a permanent resident's visa, which wouldn't be easy to obtain, or go home. But for the moment, everything was easy and simple in their world. And Paris had never been happier in her life. She invited Richard to join her and the children for Christmas, and realized that she had to say something to Wim and Meg, so Jean-Pierre could be there too, and she wanted him to be. She finally took the bull by the horns with Meg the week before they came. She wanted to give her at least a few days to digest it, but her hands were shaking before she made the call. Their approval and support were important to her, and she wondered if, in their eyes, she had gone too far.

She chatted with Meg for a few minutes, and then decided to drop the bomb. “Something unusual has happened,” she began, as Meg waited.

“Are you still seeing that French photographer?” Meg sensed what it was, or so she thought.

“Yes, I am. If it's all right with you, I'd like him to join us for Christmas. He has no one else here he knows, except the people he works with, and Bix and Steven.”

“That sounds fine, Mom.” She was grateful that her mother had invited Richard. Things had gotten very serious between them.

“I think I should probably mention something before you get here.”

“Is there something weird about him?” Meg sounded suspicious as Paris plunged in.

“Not weird,” Paris said cautiously. But all she could do now was tell the truth. “Just different. For me at least. He's young.” There was a silence at the other end of the phone, and she felt like the daughter instead of the mother.

“How young?”

Paris took a breath. “Thirty-two.” There, she'd said it, and Meg didn't answer for a minute.

“Oh. That's pretty young, Mom.” Meg sounded a little stunned.

“Yes, it is. He's very mature,” and then she laughed at herself. In fact he wasn't. He was totally age-appropriate, and sometimes she felt like his mother, except very certainly not in bed. “No, he's not,” she corrected. “He's a perfectly normal thirty-two-year-old, and I'm probably an old fool. But I'm having a wonderful time with him.” What she said was honest at least. There was no pretense about what she was doing.

“That's good.” Meg was trying to be mature herself, but Paris could hear that she was shocked. It was surely a departure from the ordinary, and not one her daughter had ever expected from her. “Are you in love with him?” Meg sounded concerned.

“I think I am. For now. But sooner or later he'll have to go home. We can't do this forever. He's basically taking some time off from his normal work. He can't do that forever either. He's working for a tiny magazine here, instead of Harper's Bazaar and Vogue. We're having fun.”

“If you're happy, Mom, that's all that counts. Just don't do anything too crazy. Like marry him.” Meg didn't think that would work although the age difference between her and Richard was far greater, but that seemed more normal to her, because he was a man. It was a shock to Meg to think of her mother with a much younger man. And later Richard reassured her. He didn't think her mother would do anything foolish, although a lot of well-known women seemed to be involved with younger men these days. And after she talked to him about it, Meg felt better.

It was Wim who was shocked. “How old is he, Mom?” he asked in a suddenly high-pitched voice. She told him again.

“That's like me going out with a four-year-old,” he said to bring the point home. Paris got it. He was upset.

“Not exactly. He's a grown man.”

“What's he doing with a woman your age?” Wim said in a tone of disapproval. The whole world was going crazy, as far as he was concerned. His father had left his mother and married a woman barely older than Meg, and they were having a baby, which seemed ridiculous to him, and in bad taste. And now his mother had a boyfriend nearly half her age, or close enough. Or actually the same age as his father's new wife. Young was certainly in. And Wim thought both his parents were nuts.

“You'll have to ask him,” Paris answered, trying to sound calmer than she felt. She didn't want either of her children to be upset, or to look foolish in their eyes and she was sure she did. But Bix reassured her again the next day. He thought Jean-Pierre was a terrific man. And Jean-Pierre himself seemed unconcerned. Whenever she brought it up, he brushed the age difference away, and she didn't feel it as a problem between them. It just sounded so bad. But in reality, it looked fine. No one ever stared at them, or seemed surprised to see them together, which was a relief for her.

And when her children arrived on the day before Christmas Eve, there was an awkward moment when she introduced them to Jean-Pierre. They all seemed to be circling each other and sniffing the way dogs did, checking each other out. But while Paris checked on dinner, Richard made an effort to break the ice. And before she knew it, everyone was talking and laughing, and teasing each other and making jokes, and by the end of the evening, they were friends. Even Wim. He and Jean-Pierre played squash with each other the next morning, and by the time they sat down to Christmas Eve dinner, he seemed more like their friend than hers. Their objections and concerns seemed to evaporate in thin air. It was a lovely Christmas, and at one point even Paris had to laugh. The world really was upside down. Meg was with a man old enough to be her father, who should have been going out with her mother, and her mother was with a man technically young enough to be her son. She was still thinking about it when she and Jean-Pierre went to bed that night. Her children were in the mother-in-law apartment downstairs.

“I like your children very much,” he said with a warm look. “They are very good. And very kind to me. They are not angry to you?”

“No, they're not. Thank you for being so understanding.” It couldn't have been easy for him either. He was in a foreign country where he barely spoke the language, working on a magazine that was far beneath his stature, living with a woman old enough to be his mother, or almost, with grown children he had to audition for. And he'd been a terrific sport. It had been a lovely Christmas so far, and when they went to bed, he handed her a small package with a smile. When she opened it, it was a beautiful gold bracelet from Cartier, with the Eiffel Tower on it and a gold heart with her initials on it on one side of the heart, and his on the other, and just above it he had had engraved Je t'aime.

“Joyeux Noël, mon amour, ” he said softly. And then she made him unwrap her present. They had shopped in the same place. She had bought him a Cartier watch. And she knew that whatever happened later, it was a Christmas she would cherish forever in her heart. They were savoring stolen moments, and living in a magic bubble. But it was becoming a little more real. The bubble included her children now, and so far at least, all was well. Joyeux Noël.

Chapter 26

Meg and Richard and Wim stayed with Paris for a week, and over the New Year weekend they all went to Squaw Valley to ski, and stayed at a large resort hotel. And Jean-Pierre joined them for the weekend. He turned out to be an Olympic-class skier and had raced in Val d'Isère as a kid. Wim loved skiing with him, and Richard stayed with Paris and Meg and skied more sedately down the slopes. And at night they all went out. It was an ideal vacation for all of them, and on New Year's Eve, Paris forced herself not to think that it was Peter and Rachel's first anniversary and they were having a baby in five months. It was still hard for her to believe. And she could remember all too easily how ghastly the day had been for her a year before, knowing that he was out of her life forever, and in Rachel's arms for good. As she thought about it while she dressed for the evening, Jean-Pierre saw the look on her face.

“Tu es triste? You are sad?”

“No, just thinking. I'm all right.” She smiled at him. He had understood instantly what it was. She only looked that way when her children talked about their father, and it hurt his feelings sometimes. To him, it meant that she didn't love him as much as he loved her. But it was more complicated than that. It was about history and memories and hearts that were forever intertwined, from her point of view at least, no matter what the legal papers said. She had tried to explain it to him once, and he had been upset for two days. He viewed her feelings about Peter as a disloyalty to him, and no amount of explaining changed that. She had learned that the words were better left unsaid. He didn't seem to understand what the loss of her marriage had meant to her. Maybe he was too young. He hadn't lost enough yet himself. There were times when, in spite of his warmth and charm, she felt the difference in their ages. He saw life as a young person, and preferred to live only in the moment. He hated to think about the future or make plans. He was entirely spontaneous, and did whatever felt good at the time, with no regard for consequences, which sometimes irked her. He had called his son on Christmas Day, but he admitted that the child was almost a stranger to him, and he didn't feel the loss. He had never spent time with him from the first. And had never allowed himself to love him, which seemed wrong to Paris. She felt Jean-Pierre owed him more than that, but Jean-Pierre didn't. He felt he owed him nothing, and it made him furious that he had to send money to support him. He hated the boy's mother, and said so. He and his ex-wife had married to give the child a name, and had divorced shortly after that. He had had no great emotional investment in the mother or the child. They had both been a burden to him, one he tried to ignore. So he avoided the boy, which seemed sad to Paris, and irresponsible. He had no other father than Jean-Pierre, but Jean-Pierre resisted any emotions about him, because he had been manipulated by the boy's mother. Paris always felt, when they talked about it, that his responsibilities to the child should have transcended his feelings about the mother, but they didn't. He had shut them both out years before. And ultimately it was the child's loss, which bothered Paris. But they saw it differently, and probably always would. She had stopped talking to him about it, because they argued over it, which upset her. She felt he owed the child more than he was giving, and she thought his attitude about it was selfish. But perhaps it was only young.

There were other things they saw differently too. He had a more casual work ethic than she, and the people he liked were younger, which made her uncomfortable. She preferred hanging out with people closer to her own age. And the people he brought home from the magazine were in their twenties and made her feel ancient. And one of the important topics they disagreed about was marriage.

Jean-Pierre talked a lot about it. Paris never did. She avoided it discreetly. There were times when she actually thought about it, and wondered if it could ever work with him long term, but there were subtle hints, to her, that it couldn't, that it would be too big a stretch. The people he liked, his boyishness, which translated to juvenile to her at times. And although he wasn't a socialist, he had very definite political ideas that were far more liberal than hers. He thought riches of any kind were offensive. He detested all things bourgeois. He hated old-fashioned ideas, and traditions and obligations that seemed pointless to him. He was very avant-garde and free in his thinking. He believed in high taxes, for the good of the people. And he detested anything elitist with a passion. The parties she and Bix organized always irritated him, because he thought the people were so pretentious. And they were, some of them, but she and Bix loved them, for the most part. And elitism was the essence of their business. Some of his ideas she knew were because he was French. But the essence of it was that he was young. It did make a difference. And the only ancient tradition he believed in was marriage, because he was a romantic, and believed in commitment, which she admired in him. Unlike Chandler Freeman, who was committed to nothing and no one. But Jean-Pierre was the reverse side of that coin, and he often pressed her and asked if she thought she would marry him one day. And threatened that, if she wouldn't, he would move on. She never promised that she would, and she thought about it herself from time to time, but never as often as he did, and she came to different conclusions, on her own. She thought that over time the difference in their age and philosophies would pull them apart, rather than the reverse.

Meg asked her about it before they left Squaw Valley. She had finally taken several runs down the mountain with Jean-Pierre and her brother, while Richard and Paris skied the easier runs in the afternoon. And that night she questioned her mother about Jean-Pierre.

“Are you thinking of marrying him, Mom?” she asked with a look of concern.

“No, I'm not. Why?”

“I just wondered. I went up on the chair with him today, and he said he hoped you would, and maybe next summer we could all take a trip to celebrate. I didn't know if that was his idea or yours.” She looked worried.

“His,” Paris said with a sigh, but it made her sad anyway. She knew that one day reality would have to be faced. She couldn't imagine committing the rest of her life to a man his age. A boy, as she thought of him at times, although he hated it when she said that. But he was. He was carefree and independent, and very young. He was a free spirit, detested schedules and plans, and was always late. It was hard at times to think of him as an adult. He had never had the responsibilities she had, and had no idea what they meant. It was hard to explain away time, or change it, to add it or subtract it at will. It wasn't an easy thing to do, even when the reasons for it were good. Time and history and experience were what they were, and couldn't be discounted or erased. They had to be earned, like patina on bronze. It took a long time to get there, and once it was there, it stayed. She knew it would be years before Jean-Pierre was responsible or even mature, if he ever was.

“He's terrific, and I like him a lot,” Meg said honestly, careful not to hurt her mother's feelings, but she had her own ideas, and Paris didn't disagree with them. They were similar to her own. “But a lot of the time, he reminds me of Wim. A little careless, a little crazy, they just don't see the whole picture, they're too busy having a good time. Not like you. You understand a lot more about people, who they are, what they need, and why they do what they do. He seems like such a kid.” The trouble was, he did to Paris too.

“Thank you,” Paris said with a warm look, she was touched. But she saw the same things in Jean-Pierre that Meg did. He was an irresistible, charming, delicious boy. But nonetheless a boy. Tenderhearted and loving, but irresponsible at times. He had never had to be otherwise, but she had, for many, many years. And she also thought he should have children one day, more than just a son he had been estranged from for all his life. And she wasn't going to have babies with him, although he had mentioned it more than once. He thought they should one day. Paris just couldn't see that, even if she could, which she was no longer sure was possible, not with ease anyway. Even if she started now, she'd be forty-eight when they had a child, which was pushing it, in her mind at least. And if they waited any longer, it wouldn't be possible at all. Not in a year or two, or five, when he'd be ready to settle down. There were so many reasons why marrying him didn't make sense, but loving him did. She just didn't have the answers yet. And in four months his visa would run out. That reality was going to force them both to make decisions they probably didn't want to make. And she was trying not to think of it. “Don't worry about it, Meg,” Paris reassured her.

“I just want you to be happy, Mom, whatever it takes. You deserve it. You've earned it after everything Daddy did.” She still felt terrible about that, and resentful of Rachel as a result. It had all been so unfair to her mom. “If you think you'd be happy with him forever, then do it, and we'll make the best of it. We all like him. I just don't think he's right for you in the long run.” She wanted someone who would take care of her mother, and she doubted Jean-Pierre ever would. It didn't even occur to him, which was part of Paris's appeal to him. She was totally capable of taking care of herself, and him, emotionally, which was all he wanted from her. But even that was a lot. Sometimes Paris felt like he was her third child.

“I don't think he's right for me either,” Paris said sadly. “I wish I did.” It would be so much simpler than going back out into the big bad ugly dating world again. She couldn't bear the thought. And Jean-Pierre was so sweet to her, sweeter than anyone had ever been. Even Peter. But sweet wasn't always enough. And love wasn't always enough. Sometimes life was just plain cruel, and no one was more aware of that than Paris.

And when she and Jean-Pierre snuggled in bed that night, all she could think of was how devastated she would be if she gave him up. She couldn't imagine that anymore either. There were a lot of decisions to make. But not yet.

And when they all went back to the city, they felt like a family, even Jean-Pierre. But as he cavorted in the snow, and then drove home with them in a van Paris had rented for the occasion, he seemed more like the kids than the adults. She knew exactly what Meg meant. He played tricks, he told jokes, and Paris loved all of that herself. He encouraged her playful side, and made her feel young again, but not young enough. He and Wim had constant snowball fights in Squaw Valley, but just like Wim, he never knew when to stop. They would pelt each other till they dropped, no matter what Paris said. And they came in soaking wet, and left their clothes strewn all over the floor. They were like two boys. Even Meg seemed more mature at twenty-four. And at times Paris and Richard would look over their heads, as they said something, or did something childish, and they seemed like parents to a Cub Scout troop. But there was no question, Jean-Pierre was a delicious cub. And she loved him like one of her own. She couldn't imagine giving him up.

The life Paris shared with Jean-Pierre was magical all the way into spring. On January 6, they celebrated Epiphany, La Fête des Rois, with a cake with a lucky “baby” in it, to bring luck all year to the one who found it. He bought the cake on his way home from work and explained it to her, and then they ate the cake, and when Paris found the baby, he cheered.

They drove to Carmel and Santa Barbara, went hiking in Yosemite, and visited Meg and Richard in Los Angeles. And on Valentine's Day, Meg called her mother, breathless with the news. But Richard had called Paris to ask her the day before, and she had approved. He had proposed, and they were getting married in September. He had given her an enormous ring. And she couldn't wait to show her mother.

And much to her consternation, Jean-Pierre gave her one too, a far simpler one than Richard had given Meg, but with equal meaning, though his came without a proposal, but the implication was clear. It was a gold band with a tiny diamond heart on it, and he put it on her left hand, which had seemed so naked to her for so long. She had missed her wedding ring so much and so often wished that she could still wear it, but it seemed a travesty now, with Peter married to someone else. Paris had loved all it stood for, and had never taken it off till the end. But Jean-Pierre's ring warmed her hand and her heart again, and made her wonder yet again if she should think seriously about spending the rest of her life with him. There were worse fates. She asked Bix what he thought of it, when they were talking about Meg's wedding one day, the week after she'd gotten engaged.

“You have to follow your heart,” he said sensibly. “What do you want?”

“I don't know. To be safe, I guess.” They were the first words that came to mind. After what had happened with Peter, that meant everything to her. But they both knew that in life everything was possible, and nothing was sure. There were no guarantees. Some risks were greater than others, and they seemed considerable to her with Jean-Pierre. He was undeniably young, though he had just turned thirty-three, which sounded better to her. But she was about to turn forty-eight in May, just over two months away. It sounded so old to her. And everything about him was young, his looks, his mind, his ideas. He was undeniably and irresistibly immature, and even if they had been the same age, their lifestyles and ideas and goals were often worlds apart. His sweetness appealed to her, and they loved each other. But Paris knew better than most that love was not always enough. He might grow up and feel differently one day, and fall in love with someone else. Or maybe not. Peter had. It had shaken her faith in everything, and now Jean-Pierre. It would forever taint whatever she loved or believed in or touched. There was no turning back the clock.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I just don't know if I love him enough.”

“How much is enough?”

“Enough to grow old together, and put up with all the miseries and disappointments that come your way in life.” They both knew that they never failed to come, no matter how much you loved someone. You had to be willing to stick it out. Peter wasn't. Would Jean-Pierre? Who the hell knew? Paris didn't. Nor did Bix. Jean-Pierre probably didn't know himself, but he thought he did. And in March, he proposed. His visa was running out in a month, and he wanted to know what Paris was going to do. She was desperately sorry he had asked. Once he did, there was no turning back. And he was devastated that she did not instantly accept. She gave it a great deal of thought.

He wanted her either to marry him so he could stay in the States and get a green card, or move back to Paris with him, so he could resume his life. But that meant giving up everything she had now. She loved working with Bix, and her life in San Francisco. It meant leaving the States. But Jean-Pierre was more than willing to stay. And he could only stay legally if they got married, so he could work. He felt he couldn't put off his real life any longer. He had given her a six-month gift. But she knew she couldn't hold him back forever. It wasn't fair to him. He had to go back to what he'd been doing before, as a star photographer in a bigger world. Or stay with her forever here, and drum up work on a bigger scale, probably in L.A. But they couldn't live in the twilight zone forever, as he pointed out to her when he told her how much he loved her, and wanted her to be his wife. In some ways, she wanted that too, but she couldn't help but worry about the future, and what would happen when he grew up, because he wasn't a grown-up yet. He was nearly there, but not quite, and his boyishness erupted constantly. It made her feel like his mother. And she hated that. She didn't want to be his mother. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to be his wife. There was no question that she loved him. The question was how much. And in all fairness to him, she felt he deserved someone who was sure.

It took her three weeks to figure it out, and it was already early April when they took a long walk in the Marina, and wound up on the lawn at the Palace of Fine Arts, sitting on the lawn, and watching the ducks. She loved going there with him. She loved going everywhere with him. It took every ounce of courage to say the fateful words to him that he had waited for, for three weeks. She said them in a whisper, and they tore at her heart, and were like a cannonball in his.

“Jean-Pierre, I can't marry you. I love you, but I just can't. The future is too uncertain … and you deserve so much more than I can give you … kids, if nothing else.” And he deserved to be a kid, if he wanted to be. The problem was, she needed an adult, and she wasn't sure he ever would be. Or not for a long time at least.

“Will you live with me in France, unmarried?” he asked in a strangled voice. His heart felt like a rock in his chest, just as hers once had. She knew it only too well, and hated doing it to him. But it was better this way in the long run. Better now than later. Better a terrible pain now than a total disaster later on, for both of them. She silently shook her head, and he walked home alone.

He said almost nothing to her that night, and he slept downstairs. He would not sleep with her again, would not touch her, would not beg her. And in the morning his bags were packed. She did not go to work that day, and they both cried uncontrollably when he left.

“I love you. I will always love you. If you want to come, I will be there. If you want me to come back, I will.” She couldn't have asked for more, and she was throwing it away. She felt insane. But right. At a terrible, terrible price. For both of them. “Je t'aime” were his last words.

“Moi aussi,” she whispered, and sobbed when he was gone. It was almost beyond bearing, but she bore it, because she knew it was right. She loved him. Too much to make a mistake. And enough to set him free, which was the greatest gift of love she could give him, and the right one, she believed.

She didn't go to the office all week, and when she did, she looked like death. She had been there before. She knew it well. She didn't even call Anne Smythe this time. She just gritted her teeth and lived through it. And on the second anniversary of the day Peter had left her, all she could think of was the double loss. And this time she knew that she had learned yet another painful lesson. That she could not give her heart again. Ever. Peter had taken the biggest part of it with him. And when Jean-Pierre had left, it had cost her the rest.

Chapter 27

Peter and Rachel's baby came the day after Wim's birthday, on the seventh of May. Three days after Paris's. She was numb by then, and almost didn't care. Almost. But some part of her still did. All she could think of were the moments she and Peter had shared with their babies. A time when life was beginning, not over for her as it was now. It just added to the bleak landscape she saw all around her, and a sense of utter despair.

Although she said little to them, and never mentioned Jean-Pierre, her children had no idea how to console her, and worried about her. Meg talked to Richard about it every time she spoke to her mother, and finally called Bix.

“How is she really? She sounds awful, but she keeps telling me she's fine. She doesn't sound fine to me.” Meg sounded worried, and sad for her mom.

“She isn't fine,” he confirmed, much to Meg's chagrin. “I guess she just has to get through it. I think it's a lot of stuff on top of each other. Your father. His new baby. Jean-Pierre. It all hurts like hell.”

“What can I do to make it better?”

“Nothing. She has to get through it herself. She'll find the way back. She has before.” But the road back was more arduous this time, and seemed to take longer. Although nothing would ever be as bad again as when Peter had left her, except death. This time she did not die. But she crawled back slowly, on her own. And the only thing that kept her going were the plans for Meg and Richard's wedding in the fall. They were having three hundred guests, and she and Bix were handling it all. Meg had total faith in them, and was leaving all the decisions to her mother.

It was in June, two months after Jean-Pierre left, that Paris finally couldn't stand it any longer, and sat for an entire night staring at the phone. She had promised herself that if she still wanted to call him in the morning, she would, and do whatever he wanted her to do, if he still did. She couldn't tolerate the agony anymore. She had been lonely for too long, and she missed him more than she ever knew she would. At eight o'clock in the morning in San Francisco, five in the afternoon in Paris, she called Jean-Pierre. Her heart pounded waiting to hear him, as she wondered if she could be on a flight by that night. If he still wanted her, she knew she would go. Maybe the age difference didn't matter after all.

The phone rang, and a woman's voice answered. She sounded very young. Paris didn't know who it was, and she asked for him. The girl said he was out. Paris spoke to her in French. She was able to now, thanks to him.

“Do you know when he's coming back?”

“Soon,” the girl said. “He went to pick up my little girl. I have the flu.”

“Are you living there?” Paris dared to ask, fearing some horrible reprisal for her intrusion. She had no business doing that to him, and she knew it, but she wanted to know.

“Yes, I am, with my little girl. Who are you?”

“A friend in San Francisco,” she said vaguely, wanting to ask the girl if she loved him, and if he loved her, but that was going too far. And she didn't need to know. They were living together, he hadn't lost much time. None at all. But she had wounded him deeply, she knew, and they each had to put balm on the wounds in their own way. He owed her nothing now.

“We're getting married in December,” the girl volunteered. It was June.

“Oh,” Paris said, feeling a torpedo shoot through her. It could have been she. But it couldn't have been, she knew. She couldn't do it. And her reasoning had been right at the time, for her, if not for him. Just as Peter had done what he had to do. Maybe they all did, even if others got hurt. It was love at a price. “Congratulations,” Paris said in a dead voice.

“Do you want to give me your name and number?” the girl asked helpfully, and Paris shook her head. It took her a moment to find her voice.

“No, that's all right. I'll call back. You don't have to tell him I called. In fact, better not. I'll surprise him when I call. Thank you,” Paris said, and hung up, and then sat there for an hour staring at the phone. Just like Peter, he was gone forever, living with this girl. He hadn't wasted any time. She wondered how it had happened, and if he really loved her, or if it was rebound. Whatever it was, it was his. Their lives had come unhooked. Their time together had been a magical moment, but that was all it was. Magic. And like all magic, something of a trick. An illusion. Something that she wanted it to be, but not necessarily what it really was.

She dressed and went to the office, and when Bix saw her, he shook his head. The one thing he was not going to suggest this time was that she start to date. She was in no condition to go out with anyone, and he suspected she wouldn't be for months. It was another two months before she looked human, as far as he was concerned, and by then Meg's wedding was only a month away. Paris hadn't even bought a dress, although Meg's had been hanging in the closet of the downstairs apartment for two months. It was spectacular and had been made according to a design Bix had drawn. There was an endless train, and the dress was white lace.

It was late August by the time Bix heard Paris laugh again, at a joke someone told, and he was so startled, he looked around to see who had laughed. It was she. And for the first time in four months, she looked like herself. He didn't know when it had happened, but when it had, it had happened overnight.

“Is that you?” He looked relieved. He'd been worried sick about her. They all were.

“Maybe. I'm not sure.”

“Well, don't go away again. I miss you too much when you do.”

“Believe me, I'm not planning to do that again. I can't afford it. I'm done. No more men.”

“Oh? Are we doing women now?”

“No.” She laughed again. It was a delicious sound. She had done her work for the past four months, but nothing else. She didn't go anywhere, see anyone, and she had only spoken to her children, just to check in. Wim was away for the summer again, on a work program in Spain, and Meg was swamped in L.A. The wedding was in four weeks. “I'm not planning to ‘do’ anyone. Men or women. Just me.”

“That'll do,” Bix said, looking pleased.

“I have to buy a dress for the wedding.” She looked panicked. Like Rip Van Winkle, who had just woken up. She'd been a zombie for four months. And she had never told him about the call in June to Jean-Pierre, which had only made it worse.

Bix looked sheepish, as he unlocked the door to his locked closet. He had had a dress made for her. If she liked it, she could have it, as a gift from him. If she didn't, he would give it away. It was a beautiful beige lace dress with a pale pink taffeta coat, and it looked perfect with her coloring and hair. “I hope it fits. You've lost a hell of a lot of weight.” Again. She had been through it before. But that had been worse. This was bad enough. She felt cured for life. She didn't want to get involved with anyone again. It just hurt too much. And maybe it always would. Maybe there was no way to avoid the price. Paris no longer knew, or cared. She was just glad to be back, and sane again.

“I'll take it home and try it. You're an angel, Bix.” They spent the rest of the afternoon going over the last details. Everything was in order. As usual, Bix had done an incredible job, even without a lot of help from her. Even though she had done her best. But her best hadn't been at its top form for a while, since Jean-Pierre left.

And that night when she went home, she tried on the dress. Even Paris had to smile when she looked in the mirror. She looked beautiful and young. He had made exactly the right choice. And it coordinated with the rest of the wedding. The bridesmaids were wearing beige silk. Seven of them. At the wedding of Meg's dreams.

The only nightmare for Paris was that Peter and Rachel were going to be there. And their baby. And Rachel's boys. The perfect little family. And Paris would be alone. It was a condition she accepted now, as she had once before. But losing Jean-Pierre was different. It had not been inflicted on her, like a prison sentence she had been given. It was a choice she had made. She had decided, after much thought, in the past four months, that she was better off alone. It wasn't what she had wanted, or how she had envisioned her life once upon a time. But it was what had happened to her. Her destiny maybe. And she knew without a moment's doubt now that she could be happy and comfortable without a man. She had come to that conclusion once before, and then everything had gone wrong again. But it wouldn't this time. And in the last two months, she had done a lot of thinking, and she had a plan.

She knew what she wanted. She wasn't sure how her children would feel about it. But it was her decision, no matter what anyone else thought. She had made quiet inquiries, and she had two names. She was going to call them after the wedding, and proceed from there. And even before she called them, she knew it was right for her. It was the only avenue that made sense to her now. The one thing she knew she was good at, and wouldn't break her heart. She didn't know how she'd get there, but she knew she would if it was meant to be. Paris wanted a baby, but not a man.

Chapter 28

Meg's wedding was everything Paris wanted it to be. It was elegant, beautiful, done in exquisite taste, not too showy. Unforgettable. Meg wanted it in a garden setting, so they held it at the Burlingame Club. And Paris and Bix agreed it was one of the prettiest weddings they'd ever done, which was what her mother had wanted for her.

She had spoken to Peter a few times over the final details, and estimates about cost, since he was splitting it with her, but their conversations had been cursory, businesslike, and brief. And each time she'd spoken to him, she'd felt shaken, and had to catch her breath afterward, but she knew it would be very different being able to set the phone down and walk away, than having to face him on Meg's wedding day. Paris had been dreading seeing him again. She hadn't in two years, since they'd settled Wim in Berkeley, and she had hardly spoken to him since. Now she had to face not only him but Rachel, her children, and their baby. Her stomach and her heart were in knots over it.

She was so busy with Meg the day of the wedding that she almost didn't have time to think of it, and when she saw Peter finally, he was waiting for his daughter in the back of the church. Richard was secluded in a separate room, with the best man, so he wouldn't see his bride before the ceremony. Meg wanted to do everything according to tradition, and she looked like a fairy princess in the gown Bix had designed for her, with a vast ephemeral cloud of veil, a tiny pearl tiara, and the white lace dress with the seemingly endless train. It was everything Paris had wanted for her. An unforgettably beautiful day, marrying a man who loved her just as much as she loved him. Paris had long since stopped worrying about the difference in their ages, she agreed that Richard was the perfect man for Meg.

And as she walked into the back of the church to check on the last details, she saw Peter standing quietly by himself, waiting for Meg. She was downstairs with her bridesmaids, having a last nervous giggle with the girls as they settled her veil over her face and wished her well. She was anxiously clutching an enormous bouquet of lily of the valley and the tiniest white orchids. Bix had had the lily of the valley flown in from Paris especially for her.

As Paris entered the room, she saw Peter standing there, and they said nothing to each other, just stood there. It was impossible not to think of their own wedding day twenty-six years before. She had never thought it would be this way when their children married. She had fully expected to go to Meg's wedding with her husband next to her, and not to meet him for the first time in two years in a church, knowing he was married to someone else.

“Hello, Peter,” she said formally, and she could see in his eyes that he was affected by seeing her. Thanks to Bix, she looked almost as breathtaking as Meg. The pink taffeta coat swirled around her and enveloped her, and underneath it the beige lace dress molded her still youthful figure. He wanted to say something to her about how remarkable she looked, but he couldn't find the words at first, and then he slowly approached her, looking shaken by the emotions of the day, and the sight of her. She was lovelier than he'd allowed himself to remember.

“Hello, Paris. You look beautiful,” he said simply. And for a moment, he even forgot that they were there for Meg. Like Paris, all he could think of suddenly was their own wedding day, and how everything had gone awry since then. He was happy with Rachel, and he loved their baby, but seeing Paris seemed to sweep the present away. He felt transported backward into time, and when he hugged her, she could sense in him and herself, everything they had once felt for each other. She pulled away and looked up at him.

“You look very handsome.” He always had. She had always loved him, and always would. “Wait till you see our daughter.” But it wasn't Meg who filled his heart now, it was Paris, and everything they had once shared, and lost since then. He didn't know what to say. He knew there was no way he could ever make up to her for all he'd done to her. It was so different knowing that at a distance than seeing her face-to-face again. He hadn't been prepared for the flood of emotions and regrets that would overwhelm him when he looked into her eyes. He could see there that she had forgiven him. But the worst of it, he realized, was that he no longer knew if he could forgive himself. It was far harder to do while looking at her. She was so elegant and so dignified, so vulnerable and so proud. Just feeling her stand next to him, his heart went out to her, and he had no idea what to say. He only hoped that one day life made it up to her. And he knew from what his children said that thus far at least it had not.

“They'll be ready in a few minutes,” she warned him, and then left the room again. Wim took his mother to her seat in the first pew, and she saw that Rachel was sitting directly behind her with her two boys, and she tried not to stiffen, but wished they had put her a few rows farther back at least. Paris turned to face forward, and Wim took his seat next to her, and an instant later the organist began playing the music that she knew meant the wedding was about to start, and the first of Meg's bridesmaids glided slowly down the aisle.

And when she saw Meg come toward her on her fa-ther's arm, Paris could hear her own breath catch, and others murmur. She was such a lovely bride, it tugged at the heart, and was everything a wedding was meant to be. She was all innocence and beauty, and hope and trust. And as she looked into Richard's eyes, there was such joy on her face that Paris thought her heart would burst and she could feel tears fill her eyes. Peter caught Paris's eye as he came back down the aisle toward her, and there was so much tenderness in his expression that she wanted to reach out and touch his hand. But she knew she couldn't. He slipped quietly into the pew behind her, beside his new wife, and Paris had to steel herself not to cry harder. The single gesture and the reality of where he was sitting summed up the entire situation, and Wim looked down at her to make sure she was all right, just as his sister would have. Meg had warned him that morning to be extra nice to Mom, because the wedding would be hard on her, Meg knew, and Wim had understood. And as they sat down again, he patted his mother's hand, and Paris smiled up at him through her tears. Paris knew she was lucky. He was a good boy, and a loving son.

And after the ceremony was over, Paris and Peter stood at the entrance to the church with the bride and groom, the matron of honor and the best man, and they formed a receiving line as people came past to greet and congratulate them. For a fraction of an instant, it felt like being married again, and then Paris looked across the vestibule through the crowd, and saw Rachel watching her. There was a strange look of apology on her face, and not the mask of victory Paris had feared would be there. The two women nodded discreetly to each other, so that no one else could see, and Paris nodded as though to tell her she forgave her. There had been no way of stopping Peter from what he wanted, and Paris knew it. And in some ways it was more about him than either of the women. And Paris was able to accept now that losing him was what was meant to be. A lesson of some mammoth proportion, a loss she had to experience of nearly everything she loved and believed in except her children. It was one of life's enormous cruelties, yet somewhere in it she knew there would be a gift one day. She had not found it yet, but she knew it was there, waiting for her to discover it, and when she did, she would be free. And until then she was struggling to find it, and still growing stronger every day. Rachel had been part of the journey, and Peter, and even Bix, and Jean-Pierre. And one day Paris knew that she would discover why it had happened to her.

But in the meantime, this woman Peter had left her for seemed insignificant suddenly. Paris envied her less for him than for the baby they now shared. Someone handed the baby to Rachel as Paris watched them, and she was mesmerized, and saw her holding the little girl close to her. She was only four months old, and she was everything Paris wanted now. It was all that was left to her. If a man was not going to love her, then perhaps another child would one day, in addition to those she had. She had said nothing to her children, but this was what she hungered for now, it was the path she was taking, or would soon, she hoped. And then she turned away from Rachel to greet the rest of their guests, and Meg and Richard were standing only a few feet away. Paris had never seen a happier couple in her life. Her new son-in-law embraced her, looking far older than his mother-in-law, and he thanked her profusely for everything she'd done for them, and for being so supportive of their marriage. He was grateful to her, and enormously fond of her now.

“I'll always be here for you, Paris,” he whispered as he hugged her, and she believed him. She and Richard were friends now, more than just being related by marriage, and she knew he would take wonderful care of Meg. She was a very lucky girl, and she deserved it. Paris knew she'd be a good wife to Richard, and a loving mother to his children. It was wonderful to see them embark on their journey, and to share in it. She wished them an abundance of happiness for the rest of their lives, and hopefully never grief. All her prayers, as Meg's mother, were that life would be kind to them.

The wedding party left for the club a short time later, and they spent an hour posing for photographs while the guests had cocktails and laughed and chatted, and Bix wove expertly through the crowd, greeting people, meeting friends, introducing some guests to others, and keeping an eye on all the details.

All three hundred guests had been seated according to careful seating charts, and there were two long tables with escort cards on them, which Paris had checked herself at the crack of dawn that morning. Two young women were handing them out as guests arrived. Paris and Peter were at separate tables, and were seated as far apart as correctly possible, and Bix and Steven were sitting with her, along with a handful of her friends. There had been three gaps at her table, because she wasn't close to that many people, even after being in San Francisco for nearly two years, but she worked so hard for Bix she had no time to cultivate friendships, except with clients for a brief time until their events were completed. So they had put Richard's business partner at her table, and the matron of honor's parents, whom Paris knew from Greenwich, which made a nice group for her.

Natalie and Virginia had come out for the wedding, and Paris had scarcely had time to see them. They were leaving in the morning, so she still wouldn't, but Meg had wanted them at other tables with a large group of Peter's friends who had come out from Greenwich, so socially it was kind of a lost day. There were too many other things for Paris to do than to sit and catch up on gossip with her friends.

By the time they sat down to dinner, she was breathless. She had said hello to all three hundred people, solved a minor crisis that Bix was unaware of, between a photographer and one of the catering staff, and she introduced herself to the man she knew was Richard's partner, as she slipped off the pink taffeta coat, and caught her breath.

“I'm sorry to be such an inattentive seatmate,” she apologized with a smile, as he helped her with the evening coat. “Have you met everyone at the table?” she asked solicitously, thinking that he looked surprisingly like Richard, except that he was older, taller, and his hair was darker. But there was a definite family air, and when she asked him about it, he laughed. His name was Andrew Warren, and Paris vaguely remembered Meg saying that he was divorced and had two daughters, but she couldn't remember more than that, other than that he was an entertainment attorney, like Richard. And when Paris inquired about it, he said that he actually handled writers, and Richard represented actors and directors, which was far more glamorous, he claimed, but also more stressful. He said writers caused far less trouble.

“I deal with all the screenwriters, and authors who sell books into movies. Most of them are a fairly reclusive lot, so I never see them, I just carry a lot of manuscripts around and read their work. And they like it a lot better if they never have to see me. A lot of the time I just stay home and read. I don't have to visit movie sets, and coax actresses out of trailers who are having hysterics, or go to premieres, like Richard. I'd much rather do what I do,” he admitted. “I'm a frustrated writer, I've been working on a book myself.” He sounded interesting and was nice to talk to, but Paris didn't pay much attention to him. She had to get up every five minutes to talk to someone, and she felt sorry for him. She was very poor company, she knew, and sorry to be so rude. He seemed pleasant enough, although she hardly spoke to him. She whispered to Bix as she left, for about the tenth time, to try and keep him amused. And Bix and Steven said afterward that they'd enjoyed talking to him.

When they played the first dance, Meg danced first with Richard, then her father, and then Peter danced with Rachel while Wim danced with Paris, and Richard danced with his mother, and then the bridal party and everyone else got on the floor, and Paris finally got back to her table, and collapsed in her chair. She hadn't stopped moving all evening.

“You haven't had a bite to eat all night,” Andrew chided her, looking fatherly, and they finally had a chance to chat a little. He said he had two daughters in their thirties, one in London, one in Paris, both were married, but neither had children yet. And he mentioned in passing that his ex-wife was remarried and lived in New York. He had lived there when he was married. And then Paris suddenly remembered what Meg had said. His ex-wife was from a famous family, and was now married to the governor of New York. He had moved in fairly illustrious circles while he was married, but led a quiet life now. And more out of training and habit, thanks to Bix, than out of any real interest, she asked how long he'd been divorced. And he smiled and told her it had been about ten years. He wasn't apologetic, didn't seem angry, spoke fondly of his ex-wife, and seemed very normal and low-key.

“It's been ten years. Both of my girls were in college, and we thought getting divorced made more sense than the way we were living. I had moved out here for business, and she hated California. She stayed in New York when I came to Los Angeles. She's very tied into political circles in New York, and that meant a lot to her. She thought it was too superficial out here, she hated the film industry, and I didn't disagree with her. I just liked what I was doing, and had a great business opportunity. The political arena in the East never meant much to me, but it meant everything to her. We were always very different, and eventually we just ran out of steam. Commuting got too difficult, and our lives had gone in opposite directions. We're very good friends, and I'm very fond of her new husband. He's perfect for her, much more so than I was. We had one of those hopeless romances that we tried to make last forever and couldn't,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “But we're on very good terms. When the girls were younger, I used to spend holidays with them and my ex-wife. I think the governor thought we were crazy, but it worked. I went shooting in Scotland with him last year. Modern-day families, they're a lot different than they used to be,” he said, laughing, and then invited her to dance, unless she'd rather just sit down and relax. He felt guilty making her get up again. And she didn't really want to dance with him, but she thought it would be rude to refuse. She would rather have sat at the table and chatted with Bix and Steven.

“It sounds very civilized,” she said about his relationship with his ex-wife and her husband, as they danced a slow waltz around the dance floor. “I don't think I'd be capable of it,” she said honestly. She and Rachel hadn't spoken at the wedding. They had only exchanged a look and a nod in church, acknowledging each other, but neither of them wanted more than that. Particularly Paris. The scar of losing Peter to her was still too raw, and perhaps always would be. Andrew Warren's relationship with his ex-wife seemed infinitely different.

“I'll admit, it's pretty rare. I don't know what the circumstances of your divorce were, but that only works if it was a fairly amicable mutual decision. We were both ready to let go, by the time we divorced. It was a mercy for both of us, and it turned out to be a real blessing for her. I think she's a lot happier with him than she was with me, or was for the latter half of our marriage. We were one of those couples who never should have gotten married, but did anyway, and tried like hell to make it work. It was a long shot at best. She's highly political, I wasn't. She's very social, I hated it. She was a debutante, my father owned a grocery store, and then turned it into a chain, and sold it very nicely, but I didn't grow up with the advantages she did,” although Paris knew from Meg he had made up for it since, and like Richard, he was a very wealthy, highly successful man. “She loved horses, I was terrified of them. I wanted lots of kids, she didn't. There was a lot of all that. To tell you the truth, I think I bored her to death.” He laughed, it didn't seem to bother him. He seemed very easygoing, so much so that Paris hardly paid attention to him. She was just doing her social duty as they chatted. “At least now we can be friends.”

She couldn't imagine being friends with Peter. All they were were strangers with common memories now, and many of them painful. The best she could offer him was peace and distance, and it was all he wanted from her. What Andrew and his ex-wife shared was something very different. And his ex-wife's husband was the leading hopeful for the next presidential election, so it was an interesting connection.

“And you've never wanted to remarry?” Paris pursued the conversation politely when they sat down again. He was an intriguing man, and she was waiting for the line about not meeting the right woman in ten years of looking, but he surprised her again.

“I have, but I don't need to. I've met a lot of wonderful women, most of whom would have made great wives. I'm not so sure about myself. I'm a pretty quiet guy. All I do is sit around reading manuscripts. I don't want to bore someone to death again. According to Elizabeth, my ex-wife, being married to me was about as exciting as watching paint dry. I figured I should spare someone that.” What he was saying really was that he didn't want to make another mistake, which was what most divorced people felt. He made a lot of sense and she liked him, not in a romantic sense. But he had the same kind of solid substance her new son-in-law did. She didn't view Andrew as a potential date, but thought he might make a nice friend, and given his close relationship with Richard, she was sure their paths would cross again.

“At my age, I don't need to get married.” He continued chatting with her. “I think it's wonderful for Meg and Richard. But I'm fifty-eight years old, I don't have the energy for a young girl, and I'd feel foolish with one. Richard is ten years younger than I am, that makes a difference. He wants kids with her, and to start all over again. I'm enjoying coasting, seeing my kids, being with my friends when I'm in the mood for it. I don't need to start all over again. I like my life fine the way it is.” He seemed completely comfortable with himself, and had no interest in impressing anyone, least of all Paris. He asked her about her job then, and she told him about it, and Bix entered the conversation and peppered her accounts with a lot of funny stories about her and their clients. Andrew said he thought it sounded terrific. “You two must have a lot of fun working together,” he said pleasantly, and Andrew went on talking to Bix when Paris's son-in-law came and asked her to dance.

“That's my best friend you're talking to,” Richard said to her easily, after he thanked her again for the wedding. “He's a great guy. I've told Meg a hundred times I wanted to introduce you two. She didn't think you'd like him, he's usually pretty quiet. But there isn't a better friend on the planet. I think his ex-wife will probably end up being First Lady.”

“That's what Meg said. We've had a nice time talking. I just hope Bix doesn't tell him a lot of horrible stories about me while we're dancing.” She laughed at the thought, but she didn't really care. She wasn't trying to impress Andrew. He wasn't that kind of person. He was the sort of man you could let your hair down with, and be normal. And she liked that. She could see how he would make a great friend. He didn't appeal to her in any other context. He was a nice-looking man, very handsome actually. But she wasn't interested in dating anymore, and he didn't seem particularly interested in her either. He was just as happy talking to Steven and Bix as he was to Paris, which was one of the things she liked about him.

And when Richard brought her back, Andrew had gone off to talk to someone at another table. Bix tried to tell her what a terrific guy he was, and she brushed him off, and said she had no interest. It wasn't even about chemistry now, or the lack of it. She was no longer interested in dating. At all. She liked her life the way it was, just as he did.

“Don't tell me this is another Malcolm Ford,” Bix said with a look of annoyance. She had become absolutely impossible since Jean-Pierre. She had surrounded herself with insuperable walls. “If you have no chemistry with this guy, then you must have an aversion to handsome, intelligent, nicely behaved men. Malcolm Ford is one of the smartest, nicest, best-looking guys I've ever met, and if you'd had the brains to go after him, or even talk to him, instead of that Parisian kid, you'd be married by now, Paris,” he scolded her with a stern expression.

“I don't want to be married,” she said happily, looking smug about it.

“Am I interrupting something?” Andrew asked as he sat down again, and Bix rolled his eyes and said she was impossible.

“Not at all. I just said I don't want to be married again.”

“That's too bad,” Andrew said pleasantly, “I don't disagree with you, but it's nice when it works out well. It's hard to get all the pieces of the puzzle lined up just right so they fit. But when they do, there's nothing better. Look at Meg and Richard.” They both smiled at the couple kissing on the dance floor.

“She's a lot younger than I am,” Paris laughed. “And as you said yourself, it takes a lot of energy. I'm not sure I have it. In fact, I'm sure I don't.”

“That's my problem too.” He smiled at her, and Bix groaned.

“The two of you need vitamins. If more people felt like you about marriage,” Bix said pointedly to her, “we'd be out of business.” They all laughed at his comment. He had a point. The lion's share of his business, and the real moneymaker, was weddings.

“Marriage is for the young,” Paris said emphatically.

“Marriage is for the young at heart,” Bix corrected.

“Marriage is not for sissies,” Andrew added, and they all laughed.

“Good point,” Steven said, entering the conversation. And a little while later they all left the tables, talked to friends, moved around, and the young people danced for hours. It was three o'clock in the morning when Paris and Bix left the wedding. Peter and Rachel had left hours before, and hadn't even stayed to watch Meg toss the bouquet. Rachel wanted to go to the hotel to nurse the baby, and the boys were exhausted. So Peter went with her, although he would have liked to stay, and have a few moments' conversation with Paris, if only to thank her, but it never happened. And Paris was relieved it hadn't. She had nothing left to say to him. There was too much water under the bridge now, and he didn't need to thank her. They had done it for their daughter. All Paris wanted was healing, and she was getting there. There were scars, she knew, but she could live with them. She was at peace now. It had taken a long time.

And Meg had done a silly thing when she'd tossed the bouquet. She had insisted that her mother get out on the dance floor with the single women. Bix had made her a special, smaller bouquet just for tossing, so Meg could preserve her real one. He did it for all brides. He thought it a terrible waste to let a magnificent bouquet go home with a stranger. And the smaller ones were easier for brides to throw at the single women. Meg had refused to move an inch till her mother was out there. And Paris felt ridiculous standing among girls half her age, or even slightly older, who were leaping and jumping to catch hope, in the form of an ancient tradition. It was a hope Paris no longer cherished, nor even wanted. And she had raised her hands halfheartedly and looked away as the bouquet flew at her and hit her in the chest like a football. Her daughter had taken careful aim and hurled it at her. Paris's first instinct was to let it drop and let someone else get it, and then as though a force beyond herself took over by simple reflex, she reached up and grabbed it before it fell. She thought it might be bad luck for Meg if she let that happen. So she stood there, holding it, with a dazed expression, and everyone cheered, as Meg looked at her lovingly from the chair she'd been standing on when she threw it. And immediately afterward Richard had tossed the garter to the bachelors, most of whom didn't want it, any more than Paris had wanted the bouquet. But she had it, and was still carrying it when she and Bix left the wedding. It had been a memorable celebration, and even Bix looked happy.

“What are you going to do with that?” He nodded at the bouquet as Steven went to get the car. Paris shrugged, as she smiled at him.

“Maybe burn it.”

“You're disgusting. I hope you see Andrew again, by the way. He said he has two writers in San Francisco, and comes here fairly often. You should invite him sometime.”

“To what? You keep me too busy to entertain. I don't have time to see him.” Or the interest, she almost added, but she didn't say it. He was nice. But so were a lot of men. She didn't want one. She'd had enough for one lifetime, she had decided, and had retired from the race.

“If you don't make an effort one of these days, I'm going to have Sydney dig up one of her blind dates. You can't play grieving widow forever,” Bix threatened. Jean-Pierre had been gone for nearly six months, and she had gotten more and more determined to stay by herself, instead of less so. It seemed like a hell of a waste to Bix.

“I'm not grieving. I'm happy,” she said, and meant it.

“That's what worries me. You're not lonely?”

“Sometimes. I'm not desperate. That's different. Lonely is the way it is sometimes.” She was feeling nostalgic, with her daughter having just gotten married. “I'd love to be married. I thought I always would be. But I don't need to do it again. Maybe I'm too scared to. By the time you figure out it's not going to work, you're up to your neck in alligators and you're drowning. I couldn't survive that again, Bix. The stakes are too high. And the chances of winning the prize at my age are so infinitesimally small. I'd rather buy a lottery ticket, I figure the odds are better.”

“Maybe it is time for another blind date,” he said, musing, as they waited for Steven. He was taking forever.

“I don't need one. Although it might be entertaining, particularly if you ask Sydney.” She still groaned when she thought of the sculptor from Santa Fe. Bix teased her about it often.

“You can't stay alone forever,” Bix said sadly. “You're a beautiful woman, and a nice one. Don't waste that.” He hated to think she might not find someone, but it certainly wasn't easy. And she was obviously no longer willing to make the effort. And there was no question, it was a lot of work to find someone. And most of the time, the pickings were slim, and the rewards few and far between, or even nonexistent.

“I think your needle-in-the-haystack theory is great,” she responded. “But the haystacks get bigger, and the needles get smaller as you get older. And my eyes aren't as good as they used to be. It's easier to just stop looking.”

“And when you do,” he said philosophically, “you dance over it barefoot, and it pricks you!”

“You sound like the guy from Santa Fe. He was a ten-foot prick if I ever saw one.” She laughed, and Bix grinned as Steven drove up with the car, and they both got in. She was still holding the bouquet, and she put it in water when she got home. It had been a sweet gesture on Meg's part. And hopefully, harmless. She hadn't really caught it anyway, Paris told herself. It had hit her. And damn near knocked her over, which didn't count. She was safe. But the bouquet was pretty.

Chapter 29

Just as she had promised herself she would, on the Monday after Meg's wedding, she took both business cards she'd been hanging on to to the office. And when she had a break midmorning, she called them.

The first one called her back in twenty minutes, or his assistant did, and said he was out of town till mid-October. The second one called back at lunchtime, while Paris was eating a yogurt and an apple at her desk. The second one was a woman. Her name was Alice Harper, and her voice sounded young and enthusiastic. Paris told her why she had called, and they made an appointment for Friday morning. It was very exciting.

Alice Harper's office was in a quiet residential neighborhood at the west end of Pacific Heights, on Maple. She had an office in her house, a secretary, and a young attorney working with her. And despite the youthful voice, Paris was surprised to find her to be a motherly-looking woman in her early sixties. She was an attorney specializing in adoption, and she welcomed Paris into her private office. And a moment later the secretary brought the cup of tea Paris had asked for.

“Let's start at the beginning,” Alice said pleasantly. She had a worn, comfortable face, short curly hair, and wore no makeup. But her eyes were lively and alert, she was in the business of assessing people constantly, both birth mothers and adoptive parents. The success of her matchmaking depended on how astute she was at listening to what they told her, and if need be, weeding out the weirdos, and those that thought they wanted a baby but didn't, or wanted one for the wrong reasons, just like biological parents who were bored, or didn't know what else to do, or were trying to fix a failing marriage. She assessed the birth mothers just as carefully, so as not to disappoint hopeful would-be parents when a girl decided not to give up her baby. She turned off the phone, and turned her full attention to Paris. “Why do you want to adopt a baby?”

“A lot of reasons,” Paris said cautiously. She wanted to be honest with her. She had come to the decision through a circuitous route. But she was almost certain it was the right decision for her. Which was exactly what Alice Harper wanted to know. “I think being a mother is what I've done best in my life. It's what I'm most proud of. I love my kids, and they're wonderful. I can't take credit for that, that's just who they are. But I have loved being part of their lives for every minute I've been there. And I hate the fact that they're gone now.”

“Are you married?” There was no sign of a husband, and Alice suspected that there wasn't one. But she wanted to know. She wanted to be sure that there wasn't in fact a husband, who hadn't come because he was either indifferent or hostile to the project. This required full participation, from either one single parent, or both if there was a partner.