“Mais oui. When are you not late?” he asked in English, and finally turned to me. “You are showing your new American friend your bad American habits?” he asked her in French.
“Maybe they are French habits,” I said, and he focused fixedly on me. “She’s never lived in America.”
His smile softened. “You speak French?”
“Enough to understand enough,” I said deliberately in English.
“I told you she spoke French, Vincent.”
“You said okay French, maybe a little better than most tourists,” he reminded her. She blushed. “I have reserved a table for us. It has the best view,” he said, mostly for my benefit. “Apres vous,” he added, and stepped back.
“Merci.”
I started for the café entrance.
“She hasn’t got her diploma yet,” I heard Denise tell him.
He rushed forward to open the door for us.
“You’re going to attend school here?” he asked.
“I will, oui. The American School of Paris.”
“Ah, yes, the place for the children of expatriates, n’est-ce pas?”
“I’m not the child of an expatriate, nor am I one. Maybe you don’t understand what that means,” I said sharply.
He held his smile.
The hostess, who obviously had flirted with him before and was doing so now, came forward to show us to the table he had reserved. He thanked her with a kiss on both cheeks. I looked at Denise and saw her disapproval.
“You know she sleeps with everyone,” she muttered.
“Not everyone. Not women,” he countered. “She’s not that open-minded. She’s from Estonia, not France,” he added, and laughed.
Denise looked down. I smiled and slipped into my chair. I was happy to see him sit beside Denise, because she was hoping he would.
“I’m going to America next summer,” he declared immediately. “New York.”
“You are?” Denise asked. “You never told me.”
“Even my parents don’t know yet,” he said, “but I am. Keep it a secret, s’il vous plaît.”
“I never tell anyone what you tell me, Vincent.”
“My loyal cousin,” he said. “The snails are magnificent here.”
I looked at the menu. The waitress brought over a bottle of rosé and three glasses.
“She’s not—”
“Secrets,” he reminded her, and she pressed hard on her lips as if they might betray her.
I watched the waitress pour our wine. She smiled at Vincent and walked away.
“Bien
venue à Paris,” Vincent said, raising his glass.