fortifying sip of the champagne. It was crisp and clean on her tongue.Daria had also ordered a dish of olives; they didn’t go with the champagne but Daria loved them anyway.
“He said how could anybody fall in love with a spoiled preppie tomboy like me. Of course, this was after I’d beaten him at soft-ball, whupped him at tennis and then won the swim race across the bay he’d challenged me to. Oh, and I’d stripped him down to his undershorts at poker.”
Preshy was laughing. “So how’d you get him to stay?”
“I took one look at him in those undershorts, looking all sort of pale and professory and the tiniest bit vulnerable, but you know . . . sort of sexy at the same time and I wanted him so bad I’d have done anything to keep him. So I simply capitulated, gave in all the way. Here’s my secret to a happy marriage. Let him win. You name it . . . backgammon, chess, poker, tennis—he wins. Except for swimming. I have to allow him to think I can do one thing well, otherwise why would he still love me?”
They laughed together, sipping their champagne and nibbling on the dark green olives from Nice. Daria’s lean face, still faintly tanned from a couple of weeks on windswept Cape Cod, was animated, her eyes sparkled and she pushed her heavy hair back, sighing contentedly.
“If I weren’t missing Super-Kid so much I’d say I couldn’t be happier than at this moment, here with you in my favorite city.” She reached for Preshy’s hand. “I miss you, you know.”
“I know.” Preshy squeezed Daria’s hand tightly. “I miss you too. And anyhow, did you speak to Super-Kid today?”
“I did. And she said I needn’t hurry home, the grandparentswere taking her to Disney World. She’s too busy being spoiled rotten to miss me. Tom said he knew there was a time when all parents became redundant, he just didn’t realize it was at three years old. Now, where are we going to eat?”
“I thought La Coupole? It’s simple, easy . . .?”
“Sounds good to me.”
La Coupole was the most Parisian of brasseries. Opened in the twenties, it was large and lofty with massive pillars wonderfully painted by starving Montparnasse artists in exchange for meals. With its colorful murals, art deco light fixtures, red banquettes, a famous bar and its rows of tables with their white cloths, crammed next to each other, it was usually jammed with a hodgepodge of actors, politicians, publishing types, models and locals and tourists. Preshy said it was fun for simple food and people watching and it was just what they fancied.
It was still early for Parisians and the place was half-empty. They were shown to one of the tables lined up against the wall and so close to each other you could eavesdrop on every word spoken by your neighbors. Daria ordered fish and Preshy the
steak frites.
They were sitting contentedly sipping red wine, enjoying their catch-up conversation about life and family and friends in Boston, when Daria nudged her.
“Just look what’s coming our way,” she said under her breath.
Preshy followed her gaze, and then she saw him. Tall and dark and handsome as an Armani model, he was the man of every woman’s dreams. And at that instant he turned his head and looked at her. His dark blue eyes seemed to collide with hers. It was asthough he was absorbing her deep into their blueness, drinking her in for a long moment and not letting her go. The connection lasted only seconds but a shiver ran down Preshy’s spine as she finally dragged her eyes away.
The maître d’ was showing him to a table across from them but then she heard him say, “No, this one will do.” And he came and sat at the table next to her.
She sipped her wine, not looking at him, but little electric signals seemed to pass between them. He was so close she could have reached out and touched him.
“Bonsoir, mesdames,” he
said, acknowledging them, the way the polite French did when they were at close quarters in a restaurant, but
“He said how could anybody fall in love with a spoiled preppie tomboy like me. Of course, this was after I’d beaten him at soft-ball, whupped him at tennis and then won the swim race across the bay he’d challenged me to. Oh, and I’d stripped him down to his undershorts at poker.”
Preshy was laughing. “So how’d you get him to stay?”
“I took one look at him in those undershorts, looking all sort of pale and professory and the tiniest bit vulnerable, but you know . . . sort of sexy at the same time and I wanted him so bad I’d have done anything to keep him. So I simply capitulated, gave in all the way. Here’s my secret to a happy marriage. Let him win. You name it . . . backgammon, chess, poker, tennis—he wins. Except for swimming. I have to allow him to think I can do one thing well, otherwise why would he still love me?”
They laughed together, sipping their champagne and nibbling on the dark green olives from Nice. Daria’s lean face, still faintly tanned from a couple of weeks on windswept Cape Cod, was animated, her eyes sparkled and she pushed her heavy hair back, sighing contentedly.
“If I weren’t missing Super-Kid so much I’d say I couldn’t be happier than at this moment, here with you in my favorite city.” She reached for Preshy’s hand. “I miss you, you know.”
“I know.” Preshy squeezed Daria’s hand tightly. “I miss you too. And anyhow, did you speak to Super-Kid today?”
“I did. And she said I needn’t hurry home, the grandparentswere taking her to Disney World. She’s too busy being spoiled rotten to miss me. Tom said he knew there was a time when all parents became redundant, he just didn’t realize it was at three years old. Now, where are we going to eat?”
“I thought La Coupole? It’s simple, easy . . .?”
“Sounds good to me.”
La Coupole was the most Parisian of brasseries. Opened in the twenties, it was large and lofty with massive pillars wonderfully painted by starving Montparnasse artists in exchange for meals. With its colorful murals, art deco light fixtures, red banquettes, a famous bar and its rows of tables with their white cloths, crammed next to each other, it was usually jammed with a hodgepodge of actors, politicians, publishing types, models and locals and tourists. Preshy said it was fun for simple food and people watching and it was just what they fancied.
It was still early for Parisians and the place was half-empty. They were shown to one of the tables lined up against the wall and so close to each other you could eavesdrop on every word spoken by your neighbors. Daria ordered fish and Preshy the
steak frites.
They were sitting contentedly sipping red wine, enjoying their catch-up conversation about life and family and friends in Boston, when Daria nudged her.
“Just look what’s coming our way,” she said under her breath.
Preshy followed her gaze, and then she saw him. Tall and dark and handsome as an Armani model, he was the man of every woman’s dreams. And at that instant he turned his head and looked at her. His dark blue eyes seemed to collide with hers. It was asthough he was absorbing her deep into their blueness, drinking her in for a long moment and not letting her go. The connection lasted only seconds but a shiver ran down Preshy’s spine as she finally dragged her eyes away.
The maître d’ was showing him to a table across from them but then she heard him say, “No, this one will do.” And he came and sat at the table next to her.
She sipped her wine, not looking at him, but little electric signals seemed to pass between them. He was so close she could have reached out and touched him.
“Bonsoir, mesdames,” he
said, acknowledging them, the way the polite French did when they were at close quarters in a restaurant, but
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