Second Chance - Danielle Steel

[Dalyia]

“I couldn't do that to my friends. I'm writing a novel, and there's nothing about the fashion industry in it, or the publishing world. Your secrets are safe with me.” The editor in question rolled her eyes and looked relieved. And then Fiona turned to Adrian with a grin after the woman left. “Writing a book about fashion would bore the hell out of me.” They both laughed, and splurged on a gigantic plate of profiteroles for both of them for dessert. He was relieved to see her eating well, although she had smoked intermittently throughout the meal.
“What about getting another dog one of these days?” Adrian had been meaning to suggest it to her for a long time, but he had been waiting for the wound of losing Sir Winston to heal. It had been long enough now for him to risk suggesting it to her, but she lit another cigarette and shook her head.
“Remember me? I'm back to my old self again. No responsibilities, no attachments, no encumbrances. I don't want to own anything, love anyone, or get too attached to people, places, or things. It's a rule that seems to work well for me.” It told him that she was still wounded, and perhaps always would be. And the wound John had left, for however short a time he had been in her life, had been the worst of all. But Adrian had the sense that she had at least begun to forgive herself, for whatever mistakes she'd made, and whatever she had been unable to give him. In her months of solitude, she had fought hard for deeper insights into herself. For the first time since she had left the magazine and moved to Paris, Adrian felt she had done the right thing. She was deeper and wiser, and more profound than she had been. Her life was less frivolous, there were no strange house men running around in harem pants. She was less fashionable, and less interested in fashion and the clothes she wore. She seemed less perfectionistic, and not as hard on herself. She seemed a lot more relaxed and more philosophical in many ways, and she said she enjoyed cleaning the apartment herself. But the one thing that worried him was that she was leading a lonely life, and she had isolated herself. At forty-four, she was still too young to shut herself out of the world. She said she had no interest in dating, and she didn't want a social life. All she wanted was to finish her book. She had set a goal to complete it by the end of the summer, and then she was going to come to New York briefly to find an agent, to sell it for her. She was staying in Paris for the summer so she could work, seemed to have no interest in going to the South of France, and almost recoiled when Adrian asked her if she was going to St. Tropez. It was obvious that he had hit a nerve. There were a lot of places she didn't want to go, or be anymore. She said she had no interest in them. But they both knew they just hurt too much.
He lingered for a few days after the couture shows to visit with her, and when he left Paris in early July, she got back to work. But it had been a nice interlude for her, seeing Adrian. They talked on the phone frequently, but it was better being face-to-face, and they had lunch at Le Voltaire almost every day. She cooked dinner for him in her apartment once, and they sat on her terrace eating cheese and drinking wine. He had to admit, she hadn't chosen a bad life, and in a way he envied her. Still, he was having a ball in her old job, and had made a number of dramatic changes since she left.
“Maybe I'll come to Paris and write a book when I grow up,” he said as he stretched his legs. He was wearing a fabulous pair of new Manolo python shoes.
“You should write the one I didn't write,” Fiona said with a smile. “About the fashion world. You know more secrets than I do.” Everyone confided in Adrian, and he was as silent as a tomb. She always knew her own secrets were safe with him.
“They'd all put contracts out on me. Although if they haven't yet, maybe they never will.” He liked her idea, but in his life, it was still years away. He was in the same place she had been at his age.
Once he was gone, her book started to pick up speed, and she rarely took a break from it after that. She got up at dawn, made coffee, lit a cigarette, and sat down to work. And most of the time, she didn't look up from her computer till noon. She ate some fruit, stretched, and got back to work. She sat there day and night for two months. Paris was deserted in the summer, even the tourists seemed to go somewhere else, to Brittany or the South, or Italy or Spain. And she never left her apartment, except to buy food.
It was a brilliantly sunny day at the end of August when she wrote a sentence, and sat staring at it with tears in her eyes, realizing what had just happened. She had finished the book.
“Oh my God,” she said softly, and then gave a wild whoop of glee and started laughing and crying. “Oh my God… I did it!!” She sat staring at it, and read the line over and over and over again. She had done it. The book she had put her heart and soul into was complete. It had taken her almost exactly eight months.
She called Adrian, it was morning for him, and he had just come to work. As soon as he heard it was Fiona, he picked up the phone.
“You can have your job back now,” he said, sounding exasperated. “They're driving me nuts. Three of my best editors just quit.”
“You'll find others. They're all replaceable, including me. Guess what?” she said, chortling with excitement.
“You're pregnant. It's the immaculate conception. Or you've met a cute boy. You're moving back to New York, please God, and you want to work for me.”
“Not on your life. None of the above. I just finished the book!” Her excitement flew right through the phone.
“Holy SHIT! I don't believe it! Already? You're a genius!” He was excited for her. He knew how much it meant to her. And as always, he was proud of her. They were each the brother and sister the other had never had. “Are you coming home now?” he asked hopefully.
“This is home now. But I'll come to New York in a few weeks. I want to talk to some agents. I have to clean up the manuscript first. I want to make some changes and corrections.” And in the end, it took longer than she thought.
It was October before she was ready to come to New York. She had three agents to see, and she was going to stay with Adrian. She still had tenants at her place, and she had decided to sell her house. She was going to put it on the market while she was in town, and she was going to offer it to her tenants first. If they could make a deal, it would save them both real estate agents’ fees, which might be good for both of them, and they loved the house. She had made a decision not to come back to New York to live. She was happy in Paris, and she had nothing in New York anymore. Except Adrian, and he didn't mind coming to Paris to see her. And as soon as she got back, she was going to start another book. She had already started the outline, and she worked on it some more on the plane.
Fiona met Adrian at the magazine, and it felt strange to her, like visiting a childhood home where other people now lived. And it was even stranger, visiting her house. They had painted the rooms other colors, and filled it with furniture she thought was hideous, but it was theirs now, and no longer hers. And they were thrilled at the prospect of buying it. They settled on a mutually agreeable price within two days, avoided the agents’ fees, and the trip had been worthwhile if only for that.
She and Adrian spent nights in his apartment, and she went to meet the literary agents she'd lined up. She strongly disliked two of them, but the third one she saw seemed just right. He was intelligent and ambitious, interesting to talk to, knew his business backward and forward, and was roughly her own age. She told him what the book was about, and he liked it. She left a manuscript with him, and she felt as though she were leaving her baby with strangers. She was a nervous wreck when she went back to Adrian's apartment that night. She had stayed with the agent for hours, and Adrian had dinner waiting for her. He knew how stressful it was for her meeting with agents about her book.
“What if he hates it?” she said, looking anxious. She had worn a white turtleneck and gray slacks, with gray satin loafers and her signature turquoise bracelet on her wrist. She hadn't even noticed it, but the agent had been very taken with her. All Fiona cared about was her book. She hadn't even worn makeup, she rarely did anymore, but her skin was so exquisite, and her eyes so huge, that Adrian thought she was actually prettier that way.
“He's not going to hate it. You write beautifully, Fiona. And the story is solid.” She had read him passages, faxed him pages, and gone over the outline with him, in its many mutations, a million times.
“He'll hate it. I know he will,” she said, emptying a glass of wine. She got a little drunk as they sat there, which was rare for her. And by the next morning, she had convinced herself that the agent would reject it, and was steeling herself to stick the manuscript in a drawer somewhere. She was already concentrating on the new book.
The phone rang at Adrian's late that afternoon. Fiona usually let the machine pick it up, but for some reason she answered it, thinking it might be Adrian. They were trying to connect for dinner that night, although he was even busier than she had been when she had his job. The only difference was that he didn't give parties, and never let photographers or models stay with him. But he had admitted to her a year before, when she left, that he had hired Jamal. And Fiona had been happy to see him when she arrived. Adrian had put him in a uniform, black pants and a white shirt, with a little white jacket he wore and a tie on the rare times when Adrian entertained. And Adrian said Jamal wasn't nearly as happy with him, because he couldn't get castoffs from him, his shoes were too big. But Jamal seemed very happy in his new job.
“Hello?” Fiona said cautiously when she picked up the phone. The voice on the other end was unfamiliar. It wasn't Adrian, and she was sorry she had answered it. But much to her surprise, the voice asked for her. It was Andrew Page, the literary agent she had seen the day before.
He gave her the news fast and quick. He knew how anxious new authors were, and he told her almost instantly that he loved the book, it was one of the best first novels he had read in years. He thought she should do a little more editing, but not much, and he thought he already had a publisher for it. He was having lunch with a senior editor the next day on her behalf. If she was willing to sign with him, of course. He asked her to come in and sign a contract with him the next morning.
“Are you serious?” she almost screamed at him. “Are you kidding?”
“Of course I'm not kidding,” he laughed. For a woman of such power and capability, she was amazingly humble about her writing, and most other things, and he liked that about her. “It's a terrific book.”
“And you are a fabulous agent!” she said, laughing. They made an appointment for the next day, and she hung up, and two minutes later, she called Adrian on his cell phone. “Guess what?”
“Not that again.” He laughed at her. She loved making him guess whatever fantastic thing had just happened, just like a little kid. And she sounded like one on the phone. He knew it had to be good.
“Andrew Page loved my book! I'm signing with him tomorrow. And he's having lunch with a senior editor about it.” She sounded as if she had just given birth to twins, and in a way she had. She had also told him about the new book, and he was going to try and get her a two- or three-book contract. Publishers liked knowing it wasn't going to be a book from a onetime author. And that she clearly wasn't.
“Am I supposed to be surprised?” Adrian asked, sounding blasé. “I told you he'd love the book.” She had started on a whole new career. “Next, he's going to be selling it for a movie, and we'll all go to Hollywood for the premiere. And if you write the screenplay, I want to be your escort when you accept the Oscar.”
“I love you, and thank you for the vote of confidence, but you're nuts. Now you have to have dinner with me tonight so we can celebrate. Can you do it?” He was still trying to get out of a previous engagement, but he promised her he would. He wanted to take her out and fuss over her a bit. They agreed to meet at eight o'clock at La Goulue, which was still her favorite restaurant in New York.
And when she got in a cab to meet him, she was wearing the only slightly dressy dress she had brought with her. It was a little vintage black cocktail dress by Dior that she had bought at Didier Ludot in the Palais Royal. It looked spectacular on her. She was wearing her hair down, and it shone like burnished copper, and in honor of her new career as a soon-to-be author, she had even deigned to wear makeup. The dress was short and showed off her legs, and she was wearing astonishingly high Manolo Blahnik sandals with ankle straps that nearly made Jamal drool. She looked more than a little bit like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, except for the bright red hair.
The headwaiter at La Goulue was thrilled to see her, they spoke in French and he complained that he hadn't seen her in a year. She explained that she had moved to Paris, and as he led her to a corner table on the banquette, heads turned. Fiona looked more spectacular than ever. She was about to sit down, when a familiar face caught her eye. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have said hello to him, it seemed easier not to. But as he was only two tables away from hers, it was just too rude. It was John.
She stopped and smiled at him, but it was not a greeting of seduction, it was a bittersweet one in recognition of old times. She noticed that the woman with him was very respectable looking and very blond. She looked almost as though she could have been his late wife's twin. And she was the head of the local Junior League. They had been dating for six months, and had the comfortable air of people who knew each other well.
John looked more than a little startled for a moment, in fact he looked thunderstruck and uncomfortable, and then graciously stood up, acknowledged Fiona, and politely introduced her to his date. He looked supremely ill at ease as the two women shook hands.
“Elizabeth Williams, Fiona Monaghan.” The two women checked each other out, and there was instant recognition in the eyes of the blonde. She had obviously heard about Fiona, and she looked slightly discomfited by the long red hair and good legs. Fiona looked like a model, and ten years younger than she was. She was the kind of woman who would have made any other woman nervous, knowing the man she was involved with had slept with her, or worse yet been in love with her. But John had left her after all, not the reverse. So he was not carrying a torch for her, as far as Fiona was concerned.
“Nice to see you, John,” Fiona said pleasantly, after acknowledging the woman he was having dinner with. She hadn't paid much attention to her name. More than anything, she was a type, and exactly whom Fiona would have expected to see with John. She was precisely who and what Fiona had predicted he would end up with, and apparently he had. And he looked well. She suddenly wanted to tell him about her book and her new agent, but it seemed a little foolish doing so, so she refrained.
“How've you been?” he asked, as though they had been old tennis partners that had drifted out of sight in the last year, or as though the only contact they had ever had was through their work.
“Wonderful. I'm living in Paris,” she said, but even after not seeing him for a year, or being in his life for longer than that, she could feel her heart begin to pound. Much to her chagrin, even after all this time, the magic wasn't gone. She wasn't healed. But he clearly was. He knew she had left the magazine, and thought she had gone to Paris for a few months, he didn't realize she had actually moved. “I just sold my house,” and wrote a book! she nearly screamed. But she was demure and reserved. He nodded, and without saying more, she moved on and sat down. She hoped Adrian would come soon.
As luck would have it, it took him another half an hour to get there, and she was ready to have a nervous breakdown by the time he arrived, although she looked sophisticated, poised, and cool, as she made some notes on a pad, and never even glanced at John. She forced herself to look at ease and unconcerned.
“Did you see who's sitting there?” she whispered to Adrian through clenched teeth, as he sat across from her, with his back to John.
“Is it someone fabulous?” he asked, as she warned him not to turn around and look.
“Used to be,” she whispered. “It's John. He's with some blond debutante, who looked like she wanted to kill me.”
“He's with a young girl?” Adrian looked surprised, that had never seemed to be John's thing.
“No, she's older than I am, I think. Just that type.”
“Are you okay?” he asked solicitously.
“No.” She felt as if she were about to cry, but she would have died first, and she felt sick. “This is hard.” She had used every ounce of control and discipline she had to maintain the charade of indifference until Adrian arrived.
“I know it is.” She had given up a life, a job, a city, a house, and a country over him, just to get over him. Seeing him again was bound to be a bitch. “Do you want to leave?” Adrian whispered sympathetically. He wouldn't blame her if she did.
“I'll look like a fool… or a wimp.…” She foughtback tears, but no one would have guessed it in a million years.
“Okay. Then sit there and smile. Laugh your ass off. Pretend I'm amusing you to death. Come on… that's it… give me some teeth, Fiona… more… I want you to pretend that you've never been happier in your life.” He was right.
“What if I throw up?”
“I'll kill you if you do. Where did you get that dress, by the way? It's to die for.” Leave it to Adrian to notice her dress at a time like this. She smiled genuinely as she answered.
“Didier Ludot. It's vintage Dior couture, from the sixties. It barely covers my ass.”
“Good. I hope he got a good look, and feels as sick as you do, over what he gave up.” As he said it, Fiona looked surprised.
“I thought you thought it was all my fault, because of the compromises and adjustments I didn't make.”
“I never said that,” Adrian corrected her, and she looked incensed.
“Yes, you did.”
“I'm your friend, Fiona. I tell you when I think you're wrong. That's what friends do. I'm always honest with you. So I told you I thought you should adjust to him. But I think he is a chickenshit sonofabitch for throwing in the towel and walking out in a matter of months. You should have done a lot of things differently, and could have if you wanted to, like empty your closets for him, and keep the chaos to a minimum. But he should have kicked his kids’ asses, fired his housekeeper, and killed his dog, and stuck with the greatest woman that ever lived. He was a damn fool.” Fiona looked stunned and pleased. He had never told her how sorry he felt for her, or how angry he was at John. She had been in such bad shape, he had tried to underplay the damage to her, and minimize it, so she would have the guts to get back on her feet. He had always feared that too much sympathy would give her permission to fall apart and stay that way. Instead, she pulled herself together remarkably.

[Dalyia]

“You really think so?” She felt vindicated finally, and wished he had told her before. His respect made a huge difference to her, as much as his empathy.
“Of course I do. You weren't the only one to blame. You were silly, and even stupid at times, and you should have given me Jamal then. A guy like John can't deal with eccentric bullshit like that. You needed to be less Holly Golightly and more Audrey Hepburn, and you look like her in that dress by the way.” He could afford to be honest with her now. She was fine. Better than fine. She was great, even if the wounds still hurt. But she had survived.
“Which one do I look like?” she teased, but she liked what he had just said.
“Miss Hepburn, of course.”
“I always thought that you thought it was all my fault.”
“Of course not. He damn near destroyed your life, for chrissake. First he talks you into marrying him, and then he dumps you, because you have a crazy house man, too many clothes in your closets, and his kids are two raving bitches. A lot of that, maybe even most of it, wasn't your fault. I think you were just too much for him, Fiona. You scared him to death.” They both knew that was true.
“Yeah, I think I did. And he made a deal with his girls.”
“That sucks. You can't let kids blackmail you into giving up someone you love. He fell in love with who you are, in all your glory, and then he ran like a scared rabbit because you weren't Heidi. Please. The guy has no balls.” Adrian looked annoyed, and Fiona laughed.
“I guess that tells it like it is.” He was making this chance meeting with John much easier for her. And she was looking more relaxed by the minute. She was almost glowing. And John saw it. Or at least Adrian hoped so.
“He should have stuck it out and worked it out. Speaking of which, now that you're about to become a famous author, what are you going to do about your life?”
“What life?” She looked blank. She had almost forgotten that John was sitting two tables away with the WASP of his dreams.
“That's exactly my point. You don't have a life. You're too young to give it all up. Look at you, you're the best-looking woman in this restaurant. You don't need to be the editor of Chic magazine to have a life. You have to start getting out.”
“You mean like dating? No way.” She looked horrified at the thought.
“Don't give me that,” Adrian scolded her. “You need to meet people in Paris. Go to dinner. Have lunch. Never mind dating, if you're not ready. But for chrissake, once in a while at least, leave your house.”
“Why? I'm happy writing.” And she was about to start another book.
“You're wasting your life, and you'll be sorry when you get old. You're not going to look like that forever. Go out and have some fun. Otherwise, why live in Paris?”
“I can smoke.”
“I'm going to come over and drag you out, if you don't do something about it soon. You're becoming a recluse.”
“No, I already am one,” she said, looking confident and incredibly glamorous. There was something about Fiona that no other woman had, and from where he sat two tables away, John had seen it too. She had guts, panache, and style, along with looks that took his breath away. And Elizabeth Williams was not pleased. John had been trying not to look at Fiona since she sat down, but her pull was more powerful than he was, he kept glancing at her. She looked like she was having a terrific time. She had never looked at him once since she sat down.
“You never told me she was that beautiful,” Elizabeth said plaintively, “and so young. I thought you said she was in her forties.”
“She is. She just looks good for her age. Looking good is her business. She runs a fashion magazine, or she used to.” He had always wondered why she quit. He had heard rumors of health problems, and had no idea if it was true. She looked healthy enough to him. He wondered if she just got bored with her job. The coincidence of timing had never occurred to him. Sometimes men just weren't very smart about things like that. It never dawned on John that she had quit her job because of him.
“She's a very pretty girl,” Elizabeth conceded through clenched teeth, and then went on to complain about all the problems she was having with the Junior League fashion show. Anyone but Elizabeth would have realized that John looked bored. She loved to hear herself talk.
Much to Fiona's relief, as the food she and Adrian had ordered was set down in front of them, John paid for the dinner he and Elizabeth had eaten, and without looking at her, they got up and left. It was only once they were on the sidewalk, trying to decide whether to go to her place or his, that he glanced back into the restaurant through the open picture windows and saw Fiona laughing and talking to Adrian. And just as Adrian had, he noticed the striking resemblance to Audrey Hepburn. His eyes were riveted to her, but Elizabeth didn't notice. She was complaining about her twenty-year-old daughter and fourteen-year-old son. She was a widow, and had been nagging John to spend time with them, and he was hesitant to do so. He didn't want to mislead her kids, and he was not yet sure how committed he was to their mother. It had taken him time to get over Fiona. And he was sure he had. Until tonight. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, and how just seeing her could turn him upside down. Without meaning to, or knowing it, she was doing it to him again.
“You're not listening to me,” Elizabeth complained, as John dragged his attention back to her. “You haven't listened to me all night.” He hadn't heard a word she said since Fiona walked into the restaurant.
“I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
“I said, why don't we go to your place? My kids are at mine.”
“I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I've had an incredible headache all day. Would you mind terribly if I drop you off at home?” He wanted to go home and be alone with his thoughts. He wasn't in the mood to make love to her tonight. Sometimes just being with her was an incredible drain. And there wasn't anything she could say about it if he wasn't feeling well. She couldn't insist that he take her to bed. He dropped her off at her place a few minutes later, and went back to his own apartment in a cab.
Fiona and Adrian were finishing dinner by then, and they went back to his apartment, and talked about Andrew Page. She couldn't wait to hear how his lunch with the editor went the next day. If nothing else, thinking about her book kept her mind off John.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 14





Fiona signed the contract with Andrew Page the next day, and in the late afternoon he called her on her cell phone. The lunch had gone well, and the editor had agreed to read her book. She'd been excited about it when Andrew described it to her, and she was impressed that Fiona was the author. She knew who she was. She thought Fiona would be fabulous to publicize a book, and there was no question that that was part of the package they had to sell. Looks and style weren't everything, but they certainly helped.
By the end of the week, Fiona had accomplished all she'd gone to New York to do. She had sold her house, spent time with Adrian, found an agent, and a major publishing house was considering her book. Andrew had sent the manuscript to the editor the next day. Fiona had even run into John. It hadn't been easy for her, but she had dealt with it. It was bound to happen one day. She wasn't entirely over him, but she had made progress and was on her way. Now she was anxious to get back to Paris and start her new book. She was going to do some more work on the outline on the plane.
Adrian had promised to spend Christmas in Paris with her that year. And when she went back she was going to make a serious effort to find a house she could buy. Fiona had left her things in storage in New York, but she was getting anxious to see them again. The apartment she was in suited her, but she wanted something permanent. Fiona knew for sure now that she was not moving back to New York. It was hard to believe she had been gone a year. And she was relieved to find that she no longer missed her job. She had at first, but she was feeling encouraged about her writing. It was fulfilling a dream for her. Even though other dreams had died.
Within a week of her return, Fiona had seen two houses she didn't like, and started her new book. She was off and running, and by Thanksgiving, she had made a good start. They had heard from the editor by then, who had declined her book. She felt it was too serious for them, and somewhat cumbersome. But Andrew wasn't discouraged, and told her not to be. He had already sent it to someone else.
On Thanksgiving morning, Adrian called. He was up at five A.M., starting to stuff and cook his turkeys. He was having thirty people over for dinner, and said he was going insane.
“I feel like a gynecologist. I just stuffed five birds.”
“You're disgusting.” She laughed at him.
“And what are you doing today?”
“Nothing. It isn't a holiday here. I'm working on my book.”
“That's sacrilegious,” he chided her. “Then what are you grateful for?” It was a good question, and good to be reminded that she had much to be grateful for, even if things hadn't worked out as she'd planned.
“You,” she said without hesitating. “And my work.” She was grateful that she had finished one book and started a second.
“And that's it? That's a pathetic list.”
“It's enough,” she said peacefully. She still hadn't done anything about her social life, and she didn't really care. “I can't wait to see you in a few weeks,” she said happily. He was coming over for Christmas, and they were busy making plans. He was going to stay with her, as she had with him in New York. He was going to stay in her guest room, and they had agreed to go to Chartres, since he'd never been. And he'd be back again in January for the haute couture. She loved knowing she was going to see him twice in the next two months. He was still the best friend she had.
She wished him luck with his dinner, wished him a Happy Thanksgiving, got nostalgic for a minute, and then reminded herself that there was no point. She had better things to do than feel sorry for herself, although she felt homesick when she thought of the dinner he was giving and wished she could be there.
She had just started writing again, when the telephone rang. She thought it might be Adrian again, asking her advice about his birds. It was rare for anyone to call her, sometimes she didn't speak to anyone for days. And she had spoken to Andrew Page the day before. No one other than Andrew and Adrian ever called her, and her agent wouldn't call her on Thanksgiving.
“Why are you calling me? I can't cook,” she said, expecting to hear Adrian's voice, and was startled when it wasn't. It was a familiar voice, but she couldn't place it for a moment. And then her heart gave a lurch as she did. It was John.
“That's quite an admission. The truth comes out. You always told me you could.”
“Sorry,” she said skittishly, “I thought it was Adrian. He's cooking Thanksgiving dinner in New York.” She had no idea where John was calling her from, and wasn't sure she cared. She did, of course, but she wasn't going to let herself care anymore. She had promised herself that again in New York. It was strange that he had called. He had never called her since he left. All their communications, what there were of them, had been through their lawyers. She lapsed into silence while she waited to hear why he'd called.
“I was just doing some business in London, and I stopped in Paris on the way home,” he explained. “I just had a crazy thought. It's Thanksgiving, and I wondered if you wanted to have lunch or dinner with me at Le Voltaire.” He knew it was her favorite restaurant, and he had liked it too when they'd been there together. He sounded awkward as he asked. And there was a long, long pause at her end of the phone.
“Why?” She said the single word. What was the point?
“Old times’ sake, or something like that. Maybe we can be friends.” But she didn't want to be his friend. She had been in love with him, and still was. She knew that when she saw him in New York. And he had found a woman who looked just like Ann.
“I'm not sure I need a friend,” Fiona said bluntly. “I don't know how these things work. I've never been divorced before. I'm an amateur at all this. Are we supposed to be friends?”
“If we want to be,” he said cautiously, although he felt awkward answering her. “I'd like to be your friend, Fiona. I thought what we had was special. It just didn't work out.” Apparently not, since he had left her in less than six months and he was still trying to justify it to her. She remembered what Adrian had said, that he thought it was lousy of him to walk out on her, and it hadn't all been her fault. She had felt better about herself after Adrian said it.
“I'm not mad at you,” she said honestly. “I think I'm just hurt.” Very, very, very hurt. It was a mild understatement. In the early months, she had thought about whether she could go on living, instead she had quit her job, given up her career, and her house, and moved to Paris. Hurt didn't even begin to describe it. But in the end, things had worked out. She had a new career, and with luck, she would sell a book.

[Dalyia]

“I know,” John said sadly, in response to Fiona saying she'd been hurt. “I feel very guilty about it.” As well he should.
“That's appropriate.” She didn't tell him that Adrian thought so too.
“I just didn't know how to deal with your life. We were so different. Too different.” He tried to explain, and she cut him off. She didn't want to hear it again. It was all done.
“I think we've covered all that. How's your friend?”
“What friend?” He was drawing a blank.
“The Junior League lady I saw you with at La Goulue.”
He sounded stunned. “How did you know she's with the Junior League? Do you know each other?” Elizabeth hadn't said they did, and he sounded surprised.
“No. She just looks it. It's written all over her. She looks like Ann.”
“Yes, she does.” And then he laughed and decided to be honest with her. It was a small step toward friendship, which was what he had told himself he wanted when he called her. “To tell the truth, she bores me.”
“Oh. I'm sorry.” Fiona hated herself for it, but she was glad to hear it. “She's nice looking.”
“So are you. You looked fabulous at La Goulue. Paris agrees with you. What are you doing here?”
“Writing. Novels. I finished a book this summer, and I just started another. It's fun. I like it. I was in New York to find an agent.”
“And did you?” He was interested. Everything about her had always intrigued him. He still thought she was amazing, and this proved it. She had given up one of the most successful careers in New York, moved to Paris, and started another. And he was sure, knowing her, that her book would be a best-seller.
“I signed with Andrew Page.”
“That's impressive. Has he sold anything yet?”
“No, but I got my first rejection. So I guess now I'm officially a writer.” She suspected there would be lots more of them, but Andrew seemed confident that he could sell her work, so she wasn't worried.
“Why don't we talk about it at lunch? If we stay on the phone long enough, there won't be anything left to say.” She wasn't sure there was anyway. “Will you meet me at Le Voltaire, or somewhere else if you prefer?” He sounded more confident than he felt, and she was annoyed. Why was he calling her? What was the point? It was over. And she didn't need or want his friendship. She hesitated for a long time as she mulled it over, and he got worried. “Come on, Fiona. Please. I miss talking to you. I'm not going to hurt you.” He didn't have to. He already had. Far too much. She thought she had forgiven him, but now she was beginning to wonder.
“I can't stay long,” she said finally, and he exhaled slowly at his end. “I have to get back to work. It's hard to start again once I'm interrupted.”
“It's Thanksgiving. We can order turkey or chicken or something. Or profiteroles.” He had remembered her fatal weakness for them. There was a lot he remembered about her. Most of it good. It was only rarely now that he remembered the bad. And it no longer seemed quite so important. A lot of it seemed silly to him. Like the closets. The crazy people she knew and loved. And Jamal, running around in sarongs and her gold sandals. “What time will you meet me?”
“One o'clock,” she said in a flat voice, feeling foolish for letting him talk her into it. There was something very persuasive about him. And she had always loved his voice.
“Should I pick you up? I'm at the Crillon, and I have a car.” She didn't, but it was none of his business. She could walk from where she was.
“I'll meet you there.”
“I'll have the concierge reserve a table. Thanks for coming to lunch. It'll be good to see you.” He still had the vision of her he had had ever since he'd seen her at La Goulue. And Elizabeth had mentioned her several times. She was a fearsome opponent, and a tough act to follow.
Fiona stood staring at herself in the mirror after she hung up. She was sorry she had agreed to meet him. She was tired, her hair was dirty, and she had dark circles under her eyes from writing into the wee hours. But no matter how she looked, she didn't want to see him, she told herself, and then groaned, as she realized she did. She flew into action then, washed her hair, took a bath, shaved her legs for no particular reason, and dug through her closet for a decent dress. In the end, she settled on black leather pants, a white T-shirt, and a mink sweater that Adrian loved. She had gotten the sweater at Didier Ludot too, it was the most famous vintage store in Paris, and she shopped there regularly, and had bought a collection of vintage Hermès bags. She pulled out one of them, a large red crocodile Kelly bag, and pulled out flats to match.
By the time she got to Le Voltaire, she was a nervous wreck. She didn't know why she'd agreed to meet him. She had worn her hair in a single long braid down her back. She had no idea how beautiful she looked when she walked in, slightly breathless, with a halo of soft hair that had gotten loose and framed her face, and the big green eyes he still thought of often. The black leather pants molded her body and reminded him of everything he'd missed. All he could think of now, as he looked at her, was what a fool he had been.

[Dalyia]

“Sorry I'm late,” she apologized. “I walked.”
“You're not,” he reassured her. “Where do you live?” he asked as the maître d' led them to the corner booth that she and Adrian loved. John had gotten her number from information, but he didn't have her address.
“In the Seventh,” she said vaguely. “I found a great apartment. Now I'm looking to buy a house.”
“You're staying?” he asked with a look of interest. She nodded as they sat down. And then he looked across the table at her and smiled. She looked as beautiful as he remembered, but more vulnerable and more accessible than she had in New York. She looked more glamorous there in her sexy black cocktail dress. Here she somehow looked younger and more real. “So how does Sir Winston like Paris?” he asked with a gentle smile, as Fiona looked away.
“He died a year ago,” she said bluntly, and picked up the menu to distract herself so she didn't cry.
“Oh my God.” John looked crushed. He wanted to ask her what had happened, but he didn't dare. “I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you.” She had had him for fifteen years when he died. “Did you get another dog?”
“Nope,” she said simply, looking at him again. “I get too attached. It's not a good idea.” He sensed correctly that she was referring to him too. Their brief marriage had cost her a great deal, even more than it had him. He could see it in her eyes. The pain he still saw there went straight to his heart.
“You should get a French bulldog. It would suit you.”
“I don't want one. No more dogs. Besides, they're too much work.” She tried to sound hard about it, but only succeeded in sounding sad. And he continued to have the impression they were really talking about him. “So what are we going to eat?”
“Do they have a Thanksgiving menu?” he teased her, but he still felt terrible about the dog. Sir Winston must have died shortly after he left her. And he knew it must have been a terrible blow added to his own.
They settled on the shaved mushroom salad she always had, and she was torn between liver and blood sausage as he made a terrible face and she laughed.
“That's a hell of a thing to eat on Thanksgiving. You should at least have some kind of bird.” In the end she decided on veal, and he had the steak tartare. They agreed to share pommes frites, which he knew were delicious there. And then he asked her about her book.
They talked about it for an hour, and it sounded fascinating to him. “May I borrow a manuscript? I'd really love to read it.”
“I don't have any spares.” She was still being cautious about him, but she had opened up a lot about the book. He could hear from her description of it how deeply she had delved into herself to do it and how painful it must have been. “I'll give you a copy of it when it comes out, if it ever does.”
“What's the new one about?” They spent another hour talking about that. And by then they were sharing profiteroles.
“How long are you here?” she asked, as she ate the last of the delicious chocolate confection, looking like a little kid. He knew how she loved chocolate, and she ate more when the waiter brought them the little chocolate-covered coffee beans they always served at the end of the meal.
“Just two days. I spent a few days in London, and I have business here tomorrow. I'm going home on Saturday. My offer for dinner still stands if I behaved myself at lunch to your satisfaction.” She smiled at what he said.
“You did okay,” she conceded. “I didn't want to come.”
“I know. I figured that out on the phone. I'm glad you did,” he said gently. “I'm sorry about what happened. I was a real shit.” She was amazed by his honesty. It vindicated her in a way.
“Yes, you were a shit. But I did a lot of stupid stuff too. The photographer having an orgy with his drug dealer in the living room was definitely a low point in my career. I'm sorry that happened, and a lot of other dumb things. You'll be happy to know I gave away most of my clothes when I moved. I don't know why I was so possessive about my closets. I think I was obsessed with my wardrobe. It's a lot simpler here. I brought almost nothing.” Although she had bought quite a bit, mostly at Didier Ludot. “My life is a lot simpler these days in a lot of ways. I want to keep it that way.” She sounded firm.
“Like what?” He was curious about her now. She seemed different somehow. Both more fragile and stronger, and deeper, and quieter. As though she had suffered a lot and come out the other end. Most of it thanks to him, he knew. But she had faced some old demons too, like her father's abandonment, her mother's death, the agonies of her childhood, and a stepfather who had raped her, although she had never told anyone except her therapist, not even John. It was all in the book. She had spent a number of years in therapy over the incident with her stepfather and made her peace with it long ago.
“I stripped a lot of deadwood out of my life,” she said simply. “People, clothes, objects, possessions. A lot of stuff I didn't care about, or didn't need, and thought I did. It makes life a lot simpler. And cleaner somehow.” And then she looked at him. “I'm sorry I did such a lousy job with your kids.”
“You didn't do anything wrong, Fiona. They were awful to you. I should have handled it better than I did. I didn't know what to do, so I ran.”
“I should have tried harder with them. I didn't know how either. I'm not very good with kids. It's a good thing I never had any of my own.”
“Do you regret that?”
“No, I don't. I think I would have been lousy at it. My own childhood was too screwed up. The only thing I regret is not making it work with you. It's probably the most glaring failure of my life. I was too wrapped up in a lot of meaningless bullshit, like my own importance, and how I wanted to do things, and my job. I guess I was riding high on a wave, and thought I was hot shit. And then I got cut down to size.” He liked the size she was now. In a lot of ways. But he had liked her then too. She had knocked him right off his feet, and still could with very little effort. But she was being careful not to do that. She had no concept of the effect she had on him. She was too busy resisting what she still felt for him.
“Do you miss your job?” He was curious about that.
“No, I don't. I think I had pretty much done it. It was time to move on. And Adrian is doing a fabulous job.” But so had she. “I had a good run. And now I love writing my books.” There was nothing she couldn't do, or so he thought.
“I'd love to see your apartment,” John said out of the blue as he paid the check, and Fiona looked up at him as though she had been struck by lightning.
“Why?” She looked terrified.
“Relax. Just curiosity. You have great taste. It's probably terrific, knowing you.”
“It's very small,” she said, looking guarded. She had let him in far enough. “But I like it. It suits me. I'm not even sure I want to move, but I think I do. I wish the owners would sell me the whole house. They live in Hong Kong and they're never here.” She was trying to get her realtor to look into it, and they had written them a letter, but she hadn't heard anything yet. The location was perfect and the house was adorable. She was willing to buy it if she could.
He had a car and driver outside, and the afternoon had gotten cold. She shivered in the wind despite her mink sweater, and he turned to her with a cautious smile. He had loved having lunch with her. And in some ways, she was glad she had. It had been nice to apologize to each other, and admit how wrong they had each been about some things. Maybe he was right, and they could be friends, although she wasn't entirely sure yet. She wanted to think about it.
“Can I give you a lift?” he offered, and she hesitated, and then nodded. She got in next to him and gave the driver her address.
He was impressed when he saw the building on the street. It was an imposing eighteenth-century hôtel particulier, but the real gem was in the courtyard behind it, where she lived. She explained it to him as she pointed to the rooftop. You could just barely see her house in the back. And then with a cautious look she asked him if he wanted to come up.
“Just for a minute. I have to get back to work,” she said precisely. And he nodded.
He followed her through the huge door in the front building, through which horse-drawn carriages had once passed, and walked into a courtyard that seemed magical to him. It was so typical of Fiona to have found it. And the house she lived in was as cute as she had said. She used her key and the code, turned off the alarm, and he followed her up the slightly crooked stairs, and a moment later they were in her apartment, and as he had suspected, it was lovely, and beautifully decorated. She had filled it with orchids, hung some paintings, and bought a few pieces of furniture herself. The entire effect was one of coziness and warmth, with her own inimitable brand of exotic chic. It was totally Fiona. She walked him up another flight of stairs to the studio with the roof garden where she worked, and he grinned broadly when he saw it.
“This is so you. I love it.” He would have loved to sit down and have a cup of tea, but she didn't invite him to. She seemed anxious for him to go. They had been together long enough. She needed to catch her breath. And sensing that, a moment later he left.

[Dalyia]

It took her hours to get back into her work. She was haunted by their lunch at Le Voltaire. And thinking of it kept distracting her. She kept hearing the things he had said. Walking along the Seine, and then later down the Faubourg St. Honoré, he was doing the same. He could see her face, hear her voice, and smell her perfume. She still dazzled him in just the way she once had, perhaps more so now that she seemed to have grown up. He liked who she had become, although at great price. But he felt less guilty now than he had before. He somehow felt as though they had both landed in a better place. And he loved the apartment where she lived.
He called her that night, but she didn't answer her phone. He suspected she was there, when he spoke to the machine. She was listening to him, and wondering why he had called. He thanked her for letting him come up to see her place. And the next day, wanting only to be polite, she called and thanked him for lunch.
“What about dinner tonight?” he suggested, as he had the day before, and she looked unhappy as she shook her head.
“I don't think it's a good idea.” She sounded stiff.
“Why not?” he asked sadly. He wanted to see her. He suddenly missed her more than he had in the past year, and he had the ghastly feeling that he had let a priceless diamond slip through his fingers. He had, and in her own way so had she. But she was willing to live with the loss. She had adjusted to it, and she had no desire to reopen old wounds. One thing she knew, and had always believed, no matter how many regrets you had, you could never go back. And she said as much to him. “I wasn't suggesting we go back. I was suggesting that we move forward. If nothing else, we can be friends.”
“I'm not sure I can. It makes me too sad. It's like looking at pictures of Sir Winston. I can't do that either. It hurts too much.”
“I'm sorry to hear it,” he said regretfully. He had a business meeting to go to then, and couldn't linger on the phone with her. He promised to call her later, but before he did, an enormous bouquet arrived for her from Lachaume. It was the most spectacular thing she had ever seen, and it embarrassed and worried her. She didn't want to start something with him. She left him a voice message thanking him at the hotel, knowing he was out, so she didn't have to speak to him again. And when he called her, she didn't pick up the phone. She let him talk to her machine. He was asking about dinner again that night. He suggested Alain Ducasse, or something comparable, or something simpler if she preferred. She never called him back, and stayed at her desk until late that night. She was still at her desk, in blue jeans and an old sweater, when she heard the bell. She couldn't imagine who it was, and she answered the intercom from her studio.
“Qui est-ce?” she asked in French.
“Moi,” said a familiar voice. It was eleven o'clock.
“What are you doing here?” It was John.
“I brought you dinner. I figured you didn't eat. Can I bring it up?” She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Reluctantly, she buzzed him in and went to open her front door. He was standing there with some kind of box in a paper bag.
“You shouldn't be doing this,” she said, frowning at him, and trying to look stern. It was a look that had terrified junior editors for years, but he knew her better, and it didn't scare him. She took the bag into the kitchen, and when she opened it, she saw that it was profiteroles from Le Voltaire, and she turned to him with a smile. “This is like my drug dealer showing up at the door.”
“I figured you needed the energy, or the calories, or something.” It was nice of him, but she didn't want to be tempted by him again. Profiteroles. Flowers. Lunch. He was like a man on a mission, or a quest. And she didn't want to be his prize.
“Do you want some?” she asked, putting the profiteroles on a plate. In spite of her reservations, she couldn't resist what he'd brought, and handed him a spoon as she sat down at her kitchen table, and he sat down next to her. And he ate one of them too. “I don't want to get in a mess with you,” she said honestly. “You broke my heart once. That was enough.” It was a calm clear statement that struck him like a blow.
“I know. I go a little nuts every time I'm around you, Fiona.” It was a classic understatement. He had been more than nuts when he left.
“I've been trying to stay away from you. It's better for both of us.”
“I'm not sure it is,” he said, equally honest with her. They always had been with each other, and she liked that about them. Or she had. “Maybe we need to get this out of our system.”
She shook her head, with chocolate on her upper lip, which made him smile. He wished he could lick it off. “We already did. It's out of our system. Let's keep it that way. For both our sakes. We don't need to destroy each other's lives again. We did that once.”
“What if it worked this time?” he said hopefully, wanting to convince her, and at the same time scared to death himself.
“What if it didn't? We'd both get hurt. Way too much.” It was like her decision about dogs. She didn't want one anymore. She didn't want to care that much. And she didn't want him either. She did, of course, but she didn't want the pain that would inevitably go with it, or his kids, or his housekeeper, or his insanely aggressive dog. But she didn't say all that to him. “Besides, your kids would go nuts again.”
“They're a little older now. And I know better. Mrs. Westerman retired to North Dakota. She was a huge influence on them. And we could always put Fifi down. How's your ankle, by the way? No permanent damage, I hope.” Fiona laughed at the thought.
“She's one hell of a dog.”
“The dog from hell,” he corrected her, and she laughed again. “She's living with Hilary at Brown. They let them have dogs. Maybe Fifi will get an education and shape up.”
“Do you want a glass of wine or something?” she offered, and he hesitated, looking apologetic. He had intruded on her and he knew it, but he didn't want to miss this opportunity, as long as he was in Paris.
“Am I keeping you from your work?”
“Yes, but you've already done it. I'm too tired now anyway. And the profiteroles make me lazy. Do you want a glass of port?” She still remembered how much he liked it, but he decided this time on a glass of white wine, and she poured one for him, and another for herself.
They settled in her small living room, John lit a fire in the fireplace, and they talked again about her book, his work, the new apartment he wanted to buy in New York, they rolled from one subject to another, and the companionship they shared warmed both their hearts. He was still talking about a house he had seen and fallen in love with on Cape Cod, when she leaned over to pour him another glass of wine, and he gently reached out and touched her face.
“I love you, Fiona,” he whispered in the light from the fire. She was more beautiful than ever in her old sweater, with her hair in an unruly braid.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back, “but it doesn't matter anymore.” The moment had passed for them. But just as she thought it, he kissed her, and pulled her down next to him, and before she could object or even think about it, she was kissing him. It was just what she hadn't wanted to do, but she no longer remembered that, as a year's hunger for each other overtook them both, and it seemed like only moments later when they wound up in her bed. And they were both overwhelmed by such passion for each other that it was hours later when they stopped and caught their breath. She was half asleep by then.
“This was a terrible idea,” she whispered into his chest as she drifted off to sleep in his arms and he smiled down at her.

[Dalyia]

“No, it wasn't, it was the best idea we ever had,” he said, drifting off to sleep himself.
And when she awoke in the morning, wondering if it had been a dream, she stared at him in disbelief. “Oh my God,” she said, looking at him. He was already awake, lying there holding her, and looking very pleased with himself. “I can't believe we did that,” she said, looking mortified. “We must be insane.”
“I'm glad we did,” he said happily, rolling over to look at her, and he smiled when he saw her face. “Leaving you was the dumbest thing I ever did. And all I've wanted for the last year was a second chance. I never thought it was possible, or I'd have approached you sooner. I thought you hated me. You have every right to. I'm amazed you don't. I think I would have just let this go, no matter how much I still loved you. But when I saw you at La Goulue in New York, I just couldn't. I knew I had to at least see you and talk to you. I've been crazed over you since that night.”
“You wanted a second chance to do what?” She sat up and stared at him, looking angry finally. “Leave me again? I'm not coming back to you,” she said with a look of fierce determination, as she sprang out of bed, and he admired her long graceful limbs. She had an exquisite body that belied her age. “We don't even live in the same country anymore,” she said as though that were the only reason not to start their relationship again. “I don't believe in long-distance romances. And I'm not coming back to New York either. I'm happy here.”
“Well, now that we got all that out of the way, why don't I make us breakfast? And may I point out to you that if you don't come back to me, Fiona Monaghan, that makes you nothing more than a one-night stand, and you're not that kind of woman. Nor am I that kind of man.”
“Then I'll learn to be. I will never marry you again.”
“I don't recall asking you,” he said as he got out of bed, and stood next to her with his arms around her. “I love you, and I think you love me. What we decide to do about it remains a matter for some discussion.”
“I won't discuss it with you,” she said stubbornly, still standing naked next to him, but she didn't resist his embraces. She had enjoyed the night before as much as he did. “I thought you were leaving.”
“My plane isn't till four o'clock. I don't have to leave for the airport till one.” The clock on her bed table said it was nine o'clock. That gave them exactly four hours to solve the problem. “We can discuss it over breakfast.”
“There's nothing to discuss,” she said as she stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door, and he climbed into his trousers and went to make breakfast. She joined him ten minutes later after brushing her teeth and combing her hair, wearing a pink bathrobe.
“Did you steal that from the Ritz?” he asked with interest. He was scrambling eggs and frying bacon, and looked perfectly happy.
“No,” she growled at him, “I bought it. I can't believe I slept with you. That's the dumbest thing I've ever done. I don't do retreads.”
“That's a charming thing to call me.”
“I could call you a lot worse, and should have,” she said, sticking a baguette in the oven to heat it up, and putting on a pot of coffee. “This was just plain stupid.”
“Why? We love each other.” He looked calm as he glanced at her. He hadn't been this happy since he left her.
“Would it be tasteless to remind you that you divorced me? And for all I know, you were right. Our lives were just too different.”
“Everything's different now. You're a starving writer, living in a garret in Paris. You could marry me for my money.”
“I have my own money, I don't need yours.”
“That's a shame. If you were after me for my money, everything would be perfect.”
“You're not taking this seriously,” she scolded him, as she took the baguette out, and poured them both coffee. She put the correct amount of sugar in it, and handed him the cup.
“I'm taking it very seriously. You're the one who's not serious. It's totally immoral to sleep with a guy and tell him to get lost in the morning. Particularly if he says he loves you.”
“I don't want a relationship, I don't want a boyfriend, and I don't want a husband. I just want to be left alone to write my book. Look, we did a stupid thing. We went to bed, lots of ex-wives and ex-husbands do that. It's called a lapse of judgment. We did it. It's over. You go back to New York. I'll stay here. We forget we ever did it.”
“I refuse to forget it. I'm addicted to your body,” he said, teasing her as he put the scrambled eggs on plates, added the bacon, and sat down at the kitchen table.
“You've done fine without my body for the last year. Join a twelve-step program.”
“You're not funny,” he said seriously.
“Neither are you. Neither was what we did last night. It was just plain stupid.”
“Stop saying that. It's insulting. It was wonderful and you know it. And do you know why? Because we love each other.”
“We used to love each other. We don't even know each other now. We're practically strangers again.”
“Then get to know me.”
“I can't. You're geographically undesirable. And I know better. John,” she said seriously, holding a forkful of eggs, which were delicious, “be reasonable. I drove you crazy. You hated being married to me. You said so. You left me.”
“I was scared. I didn't know what I was doing. Your whole life and world were unfamiliar to me. Now I miss them. I miss you. I think about you all the time. I don't want some boring blonde from the Junior League. I want my crazy redhead.”
“I'm not crazy,” she said, looking miffed.
“No, but your life was, a little. Or eccentric at least.”
“Maybe you'd be bored now. I've become very reclusive.”
“At least you're not frigid,” he teased her.
“I could learn to be, if that would convince you to stay away from me. Just take last night as a memory, kind of a good-bye gift we gave each other. Leave it at that. We'll laugh at it twenty years from now.”
“Only if we're still together,” he said firmly.
“I can promise you we won't be. I'm not coming back to you. And you don't really want me, any more than you did before. You just think you do, because you can't have me.”
“Fiona, I love you,” he said, sounding desperate.
“I love you too. But I'm not going to see you again. Ever. If this is how we behave when we're together, it proves we can't be friends, which was what I thought anyway.”
“Then let's be lovers.”
“We live in different cities.”
“I'll fly here on weekends.”
“Don't be silly, that's crazy.”
“So is not being with someone you love whom you once loved enough to marry.”
“And hated enough to divorce,” she reminded him again, and he rolled his eyes, chewing on a piece of bacon. The coffee had been delicious. She always had made great coffee.
“I didn't hate you,” he corrected her, looking mortally embarrassed.
“Yes, you did. You divorced me,” she said primly, finishing her eggs, and looking at him.
“I was an asshole. I admit it. I was stupid.”
“No, you weren't,” she said gently. “You were wonderful, that's why I loved you. I just don't want to do it again. We did it. It's over. Why screw up the good memories with more bad ones? I had almost forgotten the bad part, and now you come along and want to do it all again. Well, I just don't want to.”
“Good. Let's not. Let's just do the good part.”
“We did that last night. Now you can go back to New York to your friend from the Junior League and get on with your life without me.”
“You just ruined that for me. Now you owe me something,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking at her smugly. “You can't just sleep with me and turn my life upside down and then toss me aside like so much trash. What if I get pregnant?” he asked, looking outraged, and she laughed at him and then leaned over and kissed him.
“You truly are crazy,” she said happily.
“I caught it from you,” he said, and kissed her back, as he glanced past her at the clock and then smiled at her. “And as long as you're going to just use me and throw me away and forget me, what do you say we give each other a little more to forget before I have to catch the plane to New York? I've got a couple of free hours, if you'll stop talking.” She was about to tell him it was a ridiculous idea, but when he kissed her again, she decided it wasn't. Five minutes later, they were back in her bed again and stayed there for the next two hours.
He got out of bed at noon regretfully. He had to shower, shave, dress, and pick his things up at the Crillon. He had sent his driver away the night before, and told him he would take a cab back to the hotel. He didn't want to keep him waiting. And he had arranged to meet him at the hotel the next day at one o'clock to take him to the airport. He had wanted to walk around Paris in the morning, but liked what he had done with Fiona much better.
“I hate to leave you,” he said sadly, as he put his jacket on. He had no idea when he would see her again, or if she would let him. She was incredibly stubborn, and she seemed absolutely determined to end it. Or not even start it.

[Dalyia]

“You'll forget me before you land in New York,” she reassured him.
“And you'll forget me even sooner?” he asked, looking tragic.
She smiled at him them, and put her arms around him. “I will never forget you. I will always love you,” she said, and meant it, and he nearly cried when he kissed her this time.
“Fiona, marry me… please… I love you…. I swear, I'll never leave you again. Please help me fix this. I made a terrible mistake when I left you. Don't punish both of us because I was so stupid.”
“You weren't stupid. You were right. And I can't do it. I love you too much. I don't want to get hurt again, or hurt you. It's better this way.”
“No, it isn't.” But he couldn't stay and argue with her. He had to catch a plane. He kissed her one last time before he left, and then hurried down the stairs and across the courtyard, while she stood watching him for the last time. And after he left, she crawled into her bed again, and stayed there all day. At nightfall, she was still lying there, crying, and thinking about him. He called her from the airport, and she didn't answer the phone. She heard him talking to the machine, telling her how much he loved her, and she just closed her eyes and cried harder.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 15





Fiona didn't tell Adrian what she'd done when he called the next day to tell her about his Thanksgiving dinner. She listened and pretended to be interested, but all she could think of was John. He had called her a dozen times since he'd left. But she didn't take the calls, nor return them. She wasn't going to speak to him again. She had meant what she told him. It was over. Their night together had been a brief reprieve from a life separate from each other. And in every possible way, it had made it harder. Which made her all the more determined not to speak to him, or see him. She had never loved anyone as she had him, and she didn't want to go through the pain again, especially with him. She loved him too much to try again. And she knew that eventually he'd stop calling.
It took her nearly a week to get back to work. She walked, she smoked. She talked to herself. She tried to work, and couldn't. It was like detoxing from a highly addictive drug. She not only pined for him and longed for him, she craved him. All of which proved to her how dangerous he was for her.
John had been gone for a week when Andrew Page called and told her the second publisher wanted to buy her book. Not only that, they were offering her a three-book contract. It was the first and only good news she'd had since John left, and after she hung up, she realized that even that hadn't cheered her. She felt almost as miserable as she had when he divorced her. And in the last two days, he had finally stopped calling.
She went out to buy groceries that afternoon, which seemed stupid to her since she wasn't eating anyway, but she needed cigarettes and coffee. And as she walked into her courtyard carrying the bags, she heard a footstep behind her. She turned to see who had followed her, and saw John standing there, looking at her. He looked ravaged. He didn't say a word to her, he just walked toward her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a flat voice. She didn't have the energy to fight him. But she felt no differently than she had when he left. She had meant everything she said to him, and her agony in the past week confirmed it. He was dangerous for her. She was not going to sleep with him this time, for whatever reason he had come to Paris.
“I can't live without you.” He looked as though he meant it.
“You have for a year and a half,” she reminded him, and set down the bags next to her. They were heavy. He picked them up for her, and stood looking down at her.
“I love you. I don't know what else to say to you. I made a terrible mistake. You have to forgive me.”
“I did that a long time ago.” She looked sad and defeated.
“Then why won't you try again? I know it would work this time.”
“I trusted you. And you betrayed me,” she said simply.
“I would rip my heart out before I would do that to you again.”
“I don't know if I would ever trust you again.”
“Then don't. Let me earn it.” She stood looking at him for a long time, hearing the things Adrian had said to her long before, about compromise and adjustment. She hadn't done it perfectly either. And he was willing to trust her. The only thing she was sure of now was that she loved him.
She didn't say a word to him, she just turned and walked up the steps and unlocked her door, and he followed her in, carrying the two bags of groceries, and he closed the door behind him.

[Dalyia]

Chapter 16





The snow was falling on Christmas Eve, and Adrian had come to Paris that morning. He had brought presents for her, and she had a stack of brightly wrapped packages for him, which were piled up under the tree she had decorated the day before. Her apartment looked warm and cozy and festive. And Fiona looked more serious than he had ever seen her.
She was wearing a white velvet dress she'd bought at Didier Ludot, with a little ermine-trimmed jacket. It had been made by Balenciaga in the forties, and Adrian thought he had never seen her look more exquisite. They had booked a table at Le Voltaire for later that night, and they were going to mass at St. Germain d'Auxerrois before that. It was a small, dark Gothic church made of stone, and when they got there, it was entirely lit with candles. She said almost nothing on the ride there, and Adrian didn't press her. She sat staring silently out the window. He took her hand in his and held it.
When they got to the church, John was waiting for her there. He smiled the moment he saw her. It had been complicated to arrange, but John had handled all the details. All their papers were in order. They had been married in a Protestant church before, so they were able to do it in a Catholic church now, which made it feel more official to her. She had told Adrian before he'd come, in case he wanted to cancel his trip, but he insisted he wanted to be there. He was going to visit friends in Morocco when she and John left for Italy on their honeymoon. They were going to spend Christmas together, as planned, and take off on their respective travels the day after. And she had wanted Adrian to be there, as their witness. It still seemed slightly insane to her, and she was amazed at herself that she was willing to do it. She hadn't thought she could trust him again, but she knew she did. And in the end, what they owed each other as much as love was forgiveness.
The priest did the ceremony in French, but he had them say their vows in English, so they knew what they were saying. And as John held her hand in his, and then slipped on the ring, she felt more married to him than ever. There were tears in his eyes when he answered her, and tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she made her vows to him. It was an unforgettable moment. And when the priest declared them man and wife, John stood for a long moment before he kissed her and just held her. And then he smiled at her with a look she knew she would never forget. When they left, the church was all lit up behind them, and they stood for a moment looking out at the snow, and then dashed to the car, laughing, with Adrian right behind them throwing snow at them instead of rice.
They celebrated at Le Voltaire that night, and at ten o'clock they were home. Adrian was staying at the Ritz, and John said something to him before he left, and the doorbell rang when they were in bed at midnight. John and Fiona were both still awake, and just lying there talking. They had a lot to think about, and plans to make. He was going to commute from New York on weekends for two months, and he had somehow managed to convince the agency to open a Paris office, and he was going to run it. They had to find a house, and he had to sell his New York apartment. She was still trying to convince the owners to sell her the house she lived in, but they were dragging their feet about it. And John had had a serious talk with his daughters just before he flew back to Paris to marry her. He had told them in no uncertain terms what the boundaries were. They didn't have to love Fiona, he couldn't force them to do that. But they had to be respectful, civilized, and polite to her. Or else. It was what he should have said to them two years before.
“Who do you think that is?” Fiona asked, looking worried, when the bell rang. She didn't know a soul in Paris who would ring her doorbell at midnight.
“It must be Santa Claus,” John said with a smile. He looked peaceful and happy as he went to open the door, and a bellboy from the Ritz handed him something. Adrian had kept it in his room for him, and John walked back into the bedroom to Fiona with it.
“What was it?” She was looking at him strangely.
“I was right. It was Santa. He said to say hi to you, and ho ho ho and all that stuff,” and as he said it, he placed the bundle in her arms, and watched her as she opened a small blue blanket and a small black face emerged and looked at her. It looked like a cross between a bat and a rabbit, and she held it to her face with wide eyes and stared at John. It was an eight-week-old French bulldog.
“Oh my God, you didn't…” she said as tears leaped to her eyes, and she looked from the puppy to her husband. She set it down on the bed, and saw that it was a little female. “I can't believe you did that!”
“Do you like her?” he asked, as he sat down on the bed next to her. It wasn't Sir Winston, but it was a distant French relation, and yet another bond between them. He knew how much she must have missed him.
“I love her,” Fiona said with wide eyes, looking just like a child on Christmas. She had bought him a beautiful painting by an artist he loved, but nothing so wonderful as this puppy. And as she held the puppy in her arms, she leaned over and kissed him. She knew as she looked at him that things were going to be better this time. In the ways that were good and right, still the same, and in new and better ways, they would be different. She trusted him again, which was a miracle in itself. And she had always loved him.
“Thank you for giving us a second chance,” John whispered to her, as the puppy licked his face and then nibbled his finger, and he looked lovingly at his wife. The vows meant more to both of them this time, as did the love that bound them.