Chapter 2

Amanda wore a simple black cocktail dress that was only slightly sexy to dinner.

It was short, but still respectable.

Her long blond hair was in a bun.

The de Beaumonts were very proper, and seemed more traditional than the somewhat daring art they bought.

Their home was very expensively decorated by one of the best decorators in Paris, and they owned a chateau two hours out of the city, where many of their larger pieces were.

The Paris home was smaller than the chateau but still very spacious, with a spectacular garden that was lit and that one could see from the dining room.

All the flowers in it were white, and had just begun to bloom.

The de Beaumonts had fourteen for dinner, which made Amanda realize that she had been invited so there wouldn't be thirteen guests.

One of the guests mentioned that his wife had a bad cold and had canceled, so, as Amanda had suspected, they had invited her.

Most of the guests were in their sixties and seventies, and Amanda was the youngest person there.

The de Beaumonts had their decorator to dinner too, a well-known older man who had done some of the finest homes in Paris.

He and Amanda had met several times, and they chatted before dinner, while Virginie de Beaumont fluttered around among her guests and Francois de Beaumont talked business with some of the men.

He had invested family money in two television stations, and multiplied their fortune unimaginably.

Virginie wore only haute couture clothes, and had a huge diamond on her left hand.

They had unlimited money, but less taste, except for the art pieces they bought.

They were kind, well-meaning people, and had three sons Amanda's age who were married and had several children each.

Amanda had met the sons, but they didn't share their parents' interest in contemporary art and had never bought anything from her.

After chatting with the decorator, Amanda spoke with two of the guests' wives, who were talking about their summer plans.

Several of them had chateaux, and their grandchildren were coming to stay with them after school let out.

The conversation was pretty much what it always was at the de Beaumont dinners, very domestic among the women, and business among the men.

They sat down promptly at eight o'clock, which was early for Paris, and only half an hour after they arrived.

As they arrived at the table laden with flowers in the dining room, Amanda saw that she was sitting next to one of the older men, who greeted her pleasantly, and then turned to the woman on his other side, whom he knew.

Amanda noticed that she had an empty seat next to her just as she heard the doorbell ring, and a man in a dark suit rushed into the dining room with apologies to their hostess, who kissed him on both cheeks and pointed to the only empty seat.

He came quickly to sit next to Amanda and smiled at her as he slipped into his chair.

She couldn't help noticing that he was strikingly handsome and looked very distinguished in a suit, white shirt, and navy Hermès tie, he had impeccably cut brown hair, almost black, with gray at the temples.

He looked to be somewhere in his mid- to late forties and introduced himself with a pleasant smile.

"Sorry for the late arrival,"

he said, with a smile that lit up his face.

He had warm brown eyes and chiseled features, looked very athletic with broad shoulders, and had good manners as he spoke to her.

"I got caught in a meeting.

I don't usually get out of the office this early.

I don't suppose Francois stays late at the office much anymore."

Francois de Beaumont wasn't retired yet, but he was getting there.

Her seatmate paid close attention to Amanda as he spoke to her, and she had the feeling he was looking her over, and wondering who she was.

Neither of them looked as though they belonged there with a much older group of guests.

The man on Amanda's left looked vital and alive, and there was a powerful electricity about him that was easy to respond to.

He had introduced himself as Olivier Saint Albin.

The name was familiar, but Amanda couldn't place it and it didn't ring any immediate bells.

"How do you know the de Beaumonts?"

he asked her directly.

"They buy art from me.

I own a gallery,"

she said simply, and he nodded, and seemed interested.

Amanda felt stupid doing so, but almost by reflex glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a ring, as he ate the somewhat unruly salad, which was their first course, with chunks of lobster in it.

The food looked a little better than usual, as the waiters who served their dinner parties put the heavily laden plate in front of each of them.

And she saw clearly that Olivier Saint Albin wasn't wearing a wedding ring, and only a crest ring on his right hand, as many Frenchmen did, if they had a crest, which was a sign of noble ancestry.

"That's interesting.

Where is your gallery?"

She told him and he looked impressed.

"Is it new?"

She smiled.

"No, I've been there for fourteen years, almost fifteen.

Are you a fan of the art world?"

She didn't know why, but he didn't look it to her.

She could imagine him being more interested in business than art.

"Not really,"

he said honestly.

"I don't know anything about contemporary art, and haven't had time to get educated about it."

"It's all about what one loves.

I always think that's the best way to buy art, not simply for its value."

People always wanted to know which pieces were the best investment, which Amanda felt was a sad way to buy art.

If you were going to live with it, you should love it, not just buy it as an investment.

Francois de Beaumont had a tendency to buy art for its value.

He preferred adding important artists to their collection.

Virginie and their decorator picked most of the pieces they bought from Galerie Delanoe, and Amanda usually agreed with their choices.

Virginie fell in love with the pieces they bought.

As they chatted, the accordionist appeared and began playing old Edith Piaf songs, starting with "La Vie en Rose,"

which had been a favorite of Amanda's father, but wasn't hers.

She had to force herself to keep a straight face, and Olivier grinned.

"Ms. Delanoe,"

he whispered conspiratorially, "do I get the impression that you're not a fan of the accordion?"

"No…I…yes, well…"

She giggled, and smiled at him.

"No, I'm not,"

she whispered back.

"That's a shame, particularly if our host joins him after dinner."

She laughed out loud then, and his smile grew broader.

"There are two instruments I hate.

The accordion and the harp.

The harp always makes me feel that I died and went to Heaven, and I didn't notice.

You must think I'm a savage who hates art and music."

"No, I don't like either instrument.

The de Beaumonts always have the accordion,"

she informed him.

"I know.

I met them through my parents, and they've been kind enough to invite me a number of times."

His expression was hard to read, and she couldn't tell if he enjoyed being there or not, and she didn't want to be rude and say that she considered their dinner parties deadly.

"What do you do?"

she asked, hoping it didn't sound intrusive.

Well-brought-up French people were taught early not to ask overly personal questions, like about family or business.

"I'm a publisher.

I ran a big publishing house for most of my career and started a small one on my own three years ago.

I'm sure you've never heard of it.

It's been very exciting, but we're still small."

"That's brave of you.

Publishing isn't an easy business these days."

"Neither is selling art.

That makes two of us who are brave.

Francois has been very encouraging.

He advised me that doing something entrepreneurial might be more rewarding than going back into the corporate world.

I decided he was right and took the leap.

It's been an incredible amount of work, but I love it.

I particularly enjoy getting to know our new unknown writers and what inspires them."

Amanda nodded, wondered if he was divorced, and assumed he was.

She felt a little foolish and girlish for the reaction, but she was happy he hadn't been wearing a wedding ring.

She hadn't met any man she liked as much or who was as fun to talk to in ages, and it would have been discouraging if the first man she found attractive in three years was married.

She'd probably never see him again, but at least if she did, he was fair game.

She cringed, thinking of what Pascal would have to say about it.

But sitting next to Olivier was making the evening pass more quickly, and surely more pleasantly.

"I'm more of a babysitter for my young writers, and I enjoy it.

Our conversations become part of their process and how they build the book,"

he said, as the waiters removed the lobster remains and switched to clean plates and a large serving platter with rice, green beans, and some kind of chicken casserole, which looked typical of the food at these parties.

Amanda hesitated when it got to her.

Olivier leaned over and whispered to her again.

"I'd go light on the chicken.

The sauce looks deadly.

The rice and beans are safer if you're in doubt."

The food they served always tasted the same, from Virginie's recipes.

"I was thinking the same thing,"

she said, helping herself sparingly.

"The waiter says the chicken is spicy, some kind of Indian curry.

You might want to be careful if you don't like hot food."

She had taken the tiniest piece of white meat, and the chicken didn't look fully cooked.

Both the rice and the string beans were plain and had been steamed, and seemed safer.

"I think the cook is very elderly.

The de Beaumonts used to give big dinner parties with caterers.

But we all come here for them, not for the food,"

he commented.

"Or the music,"

she whispered, and he laughed out loud, and a minute later he turned to the woman on his left and started talking to her.

He had spent a long time conversing with Amanda, which he preferred, but he was supposed to divide himself evenly between the two.

Amanda spoke to the older man on her right, and they struggled for topics of interest to both of them.

He very kindly discussed art with her once he knew her profession.

And then the dessert came, some kind of Bavarian raspberry mousse, as Francois de Beaumont went to get his accordion and Amanda successfully managed not to groan.

"I heard that,"

Olivier whispered to tease her.

"No, you didn't, I didn't say anything."

"No, but your face did,"

he said accurately.

"The last time I was here we had chocolate soufflé, which was delicious.

I thought we had gotten past the mousses and gelatin desserts, but now they're back.

They always make me feel like I'm in school."

"Me too.

I used to shoot chocolate pudding at the ceiling and it would come down on the nuns' heads,"

she whispered, and he laughed again.

"You must have been a charming student,"

he said with a warm look.

"Did you eventually get expelled?"

There was something very appealing about him.

They were like two irreverent students whispering at the back of the classroom.

He was playful and he seemed very at ease with women.

"No, my parents moved me to a different school.

The nuns and I weren't compatible."

"I had the same problem with Jesuit priests.

I eventually got sent to boarding school,"

he said, "in Switzerland."

She could guess it was one of the two or three famous ones where aristocratic boys went to school.

She had been happy at home with her parents, until New York and the divorce.

Before that, she and her parents had been like the Three Musketeers.

By then, their host was playing the accordion with the hired musician, and listening to it was painful.

Coffee was served in the drawing room in delicate antique cups, and the two men playing accordion followed them in.

But Olivier made it all bearable.

She was intrigued by him.

He seemed effortlessly seductive and kept the conversation light.

"You mentioned babysitting your young writers, that's what I do with my artists.

I love that part of my work.

They're so innocent in a way, most of them.

Some of them are outrageous and very badly behaved, but most of them are adorable."

"Do you have children?"

he asked her, which was a surprisingly personal question for a first meeting in polite social circles in France.

She was startled and shook her head.

"I'm not married,"

she answered, and then was mortified because it sounded like a come-on line, which wasn't her intention.

It sounded embarrassingly obvious.

And as good-looking as he was, she could easily imagine that women pursued him all the time.

There was a faintly flirtatious style to his conversation, but in a polite, well-brought-up way.

He wasn't vulgar or presumptuous, but he was very much a man, and seemed aware of her as a woman.

In her embarrassment, she didn't feel comfortable asking him if he had children and assumed he'd volunteer it if he did.

The fact that he didn't told her he didn't have children either, and she wondered if he was divorced or had never been married, but didn't ask him.

She was almost sorry when he was the first to leave after coffee in the living room, apologizing to their hostess, and explaining that he was taking the Eurostar to London early the next morning and didn't want to stay out too late.

He made a point of saying goodbye to Amanda, and said he hoped to see her again sometime and that he would stop by her gallery.

She wondered if he was just being polite or would really stop by.

She had enjoyed talking to him, which had made the evening much more bearable than she'd expected.

She didn't want to leave as soon as he did, since she had no valid excuse, and she got trapped for another hour listening to the two men play their accordions, and finally escaped just before midnight.

Without Olivier to add levity to it, the evening seemed endless after he left, and she was relieved to get home, take her dress off, and climb into bed with Lulu.

It had been a very long evening, and the only enjoyable part had been talking to Olivier Saint Albin.

She hoped he'd come to the gallery, as he had said.

—

She wasn't going to mention him to Pascal the next day.

There was nothing to say really, except that she had been seated next to a bright, interesting guy.

Olivier Saint Albin hadn't asked Amanda for her card or her number.

She had mentioned the name of the gallery, so he could find her if he really wanted to.

But in fact he was just friendly and polite, and the only other guest close to her age.

The others were all very old and very dull, like most of the de Beaumonts' friends.

She wondered why they had invited him.

Possibly only because he was younger, single, and good-looking.

Handsome bachelors were always welcome guests.

"So, how bad was it?"

Pascal asked her, as he slid into his favorite chair facing her.

"It was the usual, nothing special, some nasty chicken dish for the main course, and raspberry mousse for dessert."

"One accordion or two?"

he asked, grinning.

"Two, of course.

I left at midnight, and they were still playing."

"Why is it that you don't look as miserable as usual while you're telling me about it?"

he asked suspiciously.

"Because I'm a good sport, and it's your turn next time."

She laughed at him.

"How was your date?"

she asked.

"Promising.

I'm seeing her again tomorrow night."

He was off and running, and looked ecstatic.

"You're not off the hook yet.

There's something you're not telling me about last night."

He knew her well, and she was in a good mood.

"Don't be ridiculous.

You know what their dinners are like.

They start with ‘La Vie en Rose' and by dessert you hope you can find an excuse to leave before you die of boredom."

"True.

Who did you sit next to? Not Francois, I hope.

He's agony to talk to once he's drunk.

He fell asleep next to me last time."

"I sat next to someone's very old husband who was very polite, and we never really talked.

And someone else they'd invited, a publisher."

She was sparing with the details, so Pascal wouldn't make a big deal of it.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at her.

"What are you keeping from me?"

She laughed at the question.

"Nothing."

"How old was he?"

"I didn't ask him.

Maybe your age, or a few years older."

His eyes grew wide at her answer.

"I've never seen anyone younger at their dinner table.

What was he doing there?"

"His father knows them."

"Was he good-looking?"

"I don't know…maybe…probably…I didn't notice."

"Amanda Delanoe, you are a liar! The only man in the room close to your age, and you didn't notice if he was good-looking? Did you drink yourself blind? Is he married? Was his wife there?"

"I don't think so.

And no, in that order.

He wasn't wearing a wedding ring."

"That doesn't mean anything.

Did you ask him?"

"Of course not.

And it does mean something if he wasn't wearing a ring.

In France even separated men and widowers still wear their wedding rings, as protection."

"Yes, but some don't.

He may have taken it off for the evening."

"At the de Beaumonts'? Only if he's after women in their seventies.

He asked if I had children, and I said no and I'm not married, not that that means anything.

But he didn't mention children of his own.

Most married men mention their wife at least once, as a warning signal, and if they have kids, they say so.

He didn't mention either one.

I'm almost sure he's single."

"Well, good for you.

Do you like him?"

"Yes, as much as you can tell at a dinner party.

He came late and left early.

He was going to London this morning.

He has his own small publishing house."

"He sounds interesting.

What's his name? Let's google him."

Amanda had thought of it the night before when she got home, but she didn't want to get excited about him, since she'd probably never hear from him again.

He was charming, which didn't necessarily mean he was interested in her.

"Olivier Saint Albin."

"It'll probably say if he's married,"

Pascal said, and brought the profile up on his phone immediately with the name of Olivier's publishing house.

It was called simply Saint Albin.

Pascal read it carefully, and there was no mention of a wife or children.

It was all professional.

He handed it to Amanda and she read it too.

"And I was right, you are a liar.

The guy is really good-looking,"

he said, looking at the photograph of Olivier.

"He's forty-seven years old.

He sounds perfect for you.

So, when are you going to see him again?"

"Probably never.

He didn't ask for my number or to see me again.

We just had a nice time at dinner.

He said he'd stop by the gallery sometime, but he's probably very busy, that's why he was late to dinner.

And he must have a girlfriend.

He's too good-looking not to."

"A girlfriend is easy to get rid of,"

Pascal said confidently.

"A wife is more complicated, although nothing is insurmountable,"

Pascal added, sounding very French.

"If he is married, he should have dropped a hint and told you, just to keep things aboveboard."

"I agree.

I don't think he is,"

she laughed then.

"Besides, he didn't have a tan mark from a wedding ring."

She knew all the signs to look for.

"It's winter, so that doesn't count.

You women sure know what to notice, don't you!"

he said, amused.

"I'll have to remember that if I ever get married.

Don't get a suntan with your wedding ring on."

"He was definitely smart and interesting and fun to talk to.

And he hates the accordion too."

She smiled.

Pascal always knew all her secrets, but she knew his too.

They were best friends.

"I don't know why, but his name does ring a bell.

I think I may have met him somewhere."

He was only a few years older than Pascal, and it was entirely possible.

Paris was a small town in some ways.

And they were from similar milieus.

It wasn't inconceivable that they had met.

"I like the sound of him for you.

Does he seem like a nice guy?"

"Yes, as far as I could tell.

He's very smooth.

And very well brought up.

He went to boarding school in Switzerland.

I didn't ask which one, but I can guess.

There are only a few where guys like him go to school."

"I hope he calls you,"

Pascal said seriously, and so did Amanda, but she didn't want to say so.

She didn't want to jinx it, get her hopes up, make too much of the chance meeting, or look foolish or pathetic if he didn't.

And just as she had said to Pascal, he might have a girlfriend, and probably did.

She thought that more likely than a wife, since he had dropped no hints that he was married, which was how most married men gave an early warning signal, with a mention of their wife or children.

But she considered it highly unlikely that a man as attractive as Olivier would have no attachments whatsoever.

He was the first man in a while who had appealed to her and caught her attention, and she liked how bright and playful he was.

They had been co-conspirators for the evening, at a dull dinner party.

He had spiced up the evening more than the hot curry.

"I hope you hear from him,"

Pascal said sincerely.

"He sounds interesting, and fun for you.

I'll bet he calls in the next few days.

He'll want to be cool for at least a few days and then he'll reach out,"

he said confidently.

Amanda was beautiful, and a catch herself.

But much to Pascal's surprise, he didn't call her or stop by.

Not in the next few days, or the following week, or the week after.

Time passed, and Pascal and the model he had gone out with that same night were deeply involved by then.

Within three weeks, she was staying at his apartment.

And he was raving about her to Amanda, about how beautiful she was, how sexy, how smart.

Amanda had heard it all before, and she knew that in a month or two, the girl would be gone.

Her name was Claire, and Pascal wanted to take her to Saint-Tropez that summer, to the house he rented every year with two other bachelors.

Amanda knew the story of all Pascal's love affairs.

They all followed the same pattern.

He was dazzled at first, blinded by the beauty and attributes of the girl in question, all of which were physical, and roughly two months later, something would go wrong, and he would discover some significant flaw he had overlooked previously, like a drug problem, or a boyfriend she was still seeing and hadn't told him about.

Or one of them would cheat on the other.

And the girl's fate would be sealed after that.

It would take days or weeks or months, but the die was cast then, and a month or so after his big discovery, or their cheating, she would leave or be sent away in a shower of tears.

Pascal would pack up her things and send them back to her, wherever she was staying, and he would mourn her for a few days, or slightly longer, and she would fade into memory rapidly.

A new girl would take her place weeks later.

And it would start all over again.

A new face, a new girl, a new moment, a new love affair.

Amanda wished Pascal would find someone with more substance, and truly fall in love one day.

But she was no longer sure it would happen.

He was too afraid to bare his soul and give his heart away, so he was content with his beauty pageant of plastic dollies.

It made her sad for him sometimes, but it didn't seem to bother him as much as it did her on his behalf.

He didn't seem to notice that time was slipping by, that the game changed as you got older, and that one day he would feel foolish with the kind of girls he went out with.

It was like living on snacks all his life, and never a real meal to fulfill him.

But Amanda was no better in some way.

She was in love with a toy poodle she had convinced herself was a person.

And every few years a man she thought she loved, who always disappointed her, or fell short in some way.

Pascal had thought that the man she'd met at the de Beaumonts' dinner party sounded hopeful, and like a good match for Amanda.

But he never called her, which surprised Pascal, he decided he must have had a girlfriend tucked away somewhere, or even a wife, despite her being convinced that he wasn't married.

Women like Amanda didn't come along every day, and he must have seen that.

Pascal had a hard time believing Olivier hadn't called her, and was sorry he hadn't.

Amanda never mentioned Olivier Saint Albin again, and Pascal stopped asking.

He didn't want to make her feel bad.

But Amanda seemed happy with her life.

Business was good at the gallery.

She had found two new artists she was excited about.

And eventually the model Pascal had taken out the night Amanda met Olivier went back to her old boyfriend, and they were both single again.

He met a young actress shortly afterward.

She eclipsed all the women who had come before her, as always happened with him.

Olivier Saint Albin faded into the mists, and Amanda seemed to have forgotten him.

She never said his name to Pascal again.

Only Lulu knew the truth, that she had waited for weeks, hoping he would call, and he didn't.

Her heart had ached for a while, as hope died, and she told herself it didn't matter.

She had Lulu to console her.

She told herself she was too old for romance now anyway.

It would seem ridiculous at her age.

She knew better than to fall in love with a stranger.

She was almost forty, which felt like a major milestone to her.

And there were countless younger women to keep handsome men in their forties entertained.

Even when beautiful and successful, it was hard to compete at thirty-nine.

She tried not to think about it, and if she was meant to fall in love again, one day she would.

She was happy in her life, but she thought of him from time to time.

It wasn't an easy face to forget.