“If your friend doesn’t mind,” the woman said in English, with barely the trace of an accent. “I would love to join you.”
“Please, do sit,” I said, noticing her frail hand gripping the back of the chair, the way the skin on her slender fingers appeared nearly transparent.
A waiter approached with a new place setting and a menu as I half stood, prepared to help the woman should she require assistance. She glanced at me again with those dark eyes and it was very clear that she would not welcome any help from me or anyone else.
When she was settled, Precious said, “Barbara, I’d like you to meet my dearest and oldest friend, Margot Lemouron. We have known each other for a very long time, haven’t we?”
Margot smiled and nodded. “We have. Since the war, no?”
“That’s about right. I try not to count the exact number of years,” Precious said. “Because then I’m reminded how old I am.”
“Ah, age. What is it but a number?” Margot’s voice was unexpectedly deep. She looked at me expectantly.
Precious placed a hand over her heart. “Dear me—where are my manners? Margot, please meet my new friend, Barbara, or Babs as she likes to be called. Barbara Langford.”
Margot simply looked at me, her eyes missing nothing. “Langford?”
“Yes. My husband’s family name. Do you know any Langfords? They’re from Devonshire.”
Margot took a moment before responding, and I thought that perhaps her English might not be as fluent as I’d assumed. Her shoulders lifted in a small Gallic shrug. “Perhaps. During and after the war, Paris was so full of nationalities—Germans, Americans, English. I met so many. And I’ve forgotten most of them, sadly.” She smiled. “So many people passing in and out of our lives.”
Her haunted eyes turned toward the window and the garden beyond, at the garish reds and blush pinks of the roses in brash contrast with the pallor of her skin. Precious beckoned for a waiter, who quickly brought a glass of water to the Frenchwoman. Margot nodded gratefully and took a sip.
“Is your husband traveling with you, Mrs. Langford?” she asked.
The question was so unexpected it was as if a small fist had made direct contact with my heart. “No. I’m afraid not.” I took a deep breath, my gaze focused on the condensation dripping down the stem of her water glass. Feeling both pairs of eyes on me, I said, “I’m a widow. My husband died a little over a year ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Her smile wobbled a bit as if she understood that sort of loss. She cleared her throat. “But how wonderful that you are here now, at the Paris Ritz, to enjoy a bit of life again, yes?”
I almost told her that I wasn’t here on holiday, but on a fool’s errand in search of my husband’s lover. But I couldn’t, of course. How could I explain something that even I didn’t completely understand?
“Yes, it is,” I said, picking up my menu and pretending to be hungry. “Shall we order?”
We ordered our food and when it arrived Precious was the only one who gave it justice, happily spearing a bite of quiche paysanne au jambon onto her fork. Madame Lemouron and I simply picked at our plates like little birds hunting for hidden seeds. I felt the woman’s dark gaze on me, making me wonder if I reminded her of someone. I looked up and met her eyes only once. I smiled, wanting to banish the ghosts that seemed to surround her.
“Excusez-moi?” The terrible American-accented French startled me, causing me to drop my fork onto the floor. My cheeks heated as I looked up at Drew, those ridiculous words somehow finding their way into my memory at just that moment. Rumpy—pumpy. Oh, the indignity. Perhaps if I simply pretended that I didn’t recall anything from the night before I might be able to meet his gaze again.
“I’ll get that,” he said as he bent to retrieve my fork at the exact same time I did so that our heads collided.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Are you all right?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
He nodded a greeting to my dining companions as I made introductions. “Would you care to join us?” I asked, not sure what I wished his answer might be.
“Thank you—but just for the company.” He sat down in the chair next to me, his broad-shouldered form filling the chair and radiating heat. “I’ve already eaten both breakfast and lunch—I’m an early riser, preferring a little exercise before the sun.” He grinned, showing his perfect American teeth, then placed something on the table next to me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to return this to Mrs. Langford. You left it on the table at the bar last night.”