Secrets of Paris by Luanne Rice Page B

of trying to draw her out.
    “What are you working on?” Michael asked when he saw her watching him. He spoke in a loud voice, to be heard.
    “My linen project. For that catalogue—remember I told you about it?”
    Michael nodded, and Lydie realized that he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking over her head, across the crowded room. She followed his gaze to the doorway where a couple stood talking to the waiter.
    “Do you know them?” Lydie asked.
    “I know her from the Louvre,” Michael said.
    Lydie looked again. The woman had close-cropped dark hair and eyes black as a raccoon’s, and she was so small she had to stand on her toes to whisper something to her escort.
    “Should we ask them to join us?” Lydie asked in one of those quick and urgent moments of marital consultation. The table to her right was just being vacated by an elderly man and a small blond boy.
    “No, let’s not,” Michael said. But the woman had seen them and was making her way toward their table.
    “Michael,” the woman said, shaking his hand. Her French accent made the name sound like “Michel.”
    “What happened to your eyes?” Michael asked.
    “I fell down some stairs,” she said. A waiter hurrying past bumped her, making her grab the back of Michael’s chair to steady herself. A different waiter, also hurrying, told them to take the empty table beside the McBrides’.
    “But we don’t want to intrude,” the woman said to Michael.
    “Please,” Lydie said. “You won’t be intruding.”
    Introductions were made. The woman was Anne Dumas. The man was Jean Tavanier. Lydie regarded Anne Dumas and guessed her age at thirty-three. The raccoon eyes were no illusion; not the product of kohl and mascara, they were bruised.
    “I haven’t seen you around the Louvre for a while,” Michael said. “Were you badly hurt?”
    “No, not too badly. I was visiting the cathedral at Aix-en-Provence, Saint-Sauveur, and I wanted to examine the baptistry. It’s ancient, you know, dating back to the Romans, and the steps are crumbling a little. So my foot went down wrong, and—pow!”
    “She has a bruise of the brain,” said Jean.
    “A concussion,” Anne said. “But not serious. However, no wine for me tonight.”
    “A concussion!” Michael said. “How high were the steps?”
    “Oh, just over a meter, which is the part that makes it so embarrassing.”
    “You fell four feet?” Lydie asked.
    “Concussions can be really dangerous,” Michael said. Lydie stared at him across the table and felt annoyed by his furrowed brow, which seemed to express excessive concern.
    “I’m sure you’ve seen a doctor,” Lydie said.
    “Naturally. There was a doctor two streets away. My guide knew him well.” She laughed. “We had to bump through a crowd of monks on a pilgrimage from Greece, with my head bleedinglike mad. You think working at the Louvre with all the tourists is bad. I’m telling you, it’s nothing compared to working in a dry temple bath full of monks.”
    “What work were you doing there?” Lydie asked. “I’ve always wanted to go to Aix-en-Provence.”
    “Aix is very lovely,” Anne said. “Of course the south of France is hot this time of year, but the cathedral was cool.”
    “Did your research take you there?” Michael asked.
    “Yes,” she said. Anne smiled, and her eyes crinkled. She raised one delicate hand to her bruised cheek and her mouth made an “O.”
    “Hurts?” Lydie said. Anne nodded. She smiled at Lydie again. “I am not an expert on structures,” she said. “Not the way your husband is. I am interested in the cultural story, you know? And my interest happens to lie in the past. Mainly in the person.”
    “She is a historian,” Jean said slowly, enunciating each word carefully.
    Lydie and Michael had finished their meal, but they waited for Anne and Jean to eat before ordering coffee. Lydie had to marvel that a woman as dainty and bruised as Anne could eat with such gusto, using her bread