Why does naming a thing give it so much power? Jeremy wonders.
Chantal glances at her watch. “It is almost eleven-thirty. I am the only person in Paris who is always on time. Let’s not ruin my good record.”
That, too, pleases Jeremy. Of course, Dana is always late-the meeting ran over, the photographer didn’t show up, the director demanded twenty takes of the same damn scene. He brings a book with him whenever he sets out to meet her. And he expects to wait. When she finally arrives, he usually forgets any annoyance as soon as she begins to tell him about her day. Her days are filled with stories. He works quietly with his wood and his tools and his silence. At the end of his day, it’s as if Dana opens the window and lets the world in.
They walk quickly through the gardens. Jeremy feels breathless, as if the storm might reappear at any moment. But no, the sky is light, the clouds gone. Chantal has shifted the bags on her shoulders and now, instead of feeling her body brush against his, it is only her tote bag that bumps his hip as they hurry along.
“Jeremy!” Lindy shouts when they reach the gates of the Jardin des Plantes. She dashes across the street and throws herself in his arms before he even gets a good look at the girl. She squeezes tight and he finds himself laughing. His child. There is no question she is his, even though she has only spent half her life with him. She has chosen him, which is even better than what most dads get.
“You’re beautiful,” he says when words come. He holds her out in front of him. It is still true: the shockingly bald head makes her green eyes even more luminous. Her smile is radiant.
“En français!” she scolds. And then she turns to Chantal and offers her hand. “Je m’appelle Lindy.”
“Chantal. Enchantée.”
“Does he really speak French?” she asks conspiratorially, in French, as if Jeremy is not there.
“Very well,” Chantal says. “As do you.”
“Bof. I’ve forgotten my French. I need practice-I need a French boyfriend. That would help.”
“You can have mine,” Chantal says.
Jeremy looks at her-she is smiling effortlessly. Jeremy feels as if he’s lost control of this conversation. He doesn’t speak girl talk in any language.
“Shall we find the tearoom?” he asks in French.
“Oh, you sound different in French!” Lindy exclaims.
“How so?” he asks.
“I don’t know. You’re so-sexy.”
“Apparently I’m not sexy in English,” Jeremy explains to Chantal.
“No, not that,” Lindy says. “You’re like someone I don’t know. You could be anyone.”
“Not your stepfather.”
“My stepfather wouldn’t be out on the town with a beautiful young Frenchwoman.”
Chantal looks away quickly.
“Lindy,” Jeremy says, then stops. The girl’s smile looks devious. But Lindy is never devious. She is so truly an unaffected girl, even with all the flash and glamour of her mother’s life thrust upon her. She is always unfailingly honest.
“This is a French lesson,” he explains, his voice low and serious.
“Well, of course it is,” Lindy says.
They cross the street and enter the mosque. It’s a Moorish building with an impressive minaret, all white on the outside, coolly inviting. They pass through the outside café and enter the inner courtyard. It’s beautifully tiled, with tables set around fig trees and fountains. Arabic music plays in the background; Jeremy can smell incense. He feels transported to Morocco and remembers a trip with Dana to shoot a movie in Marrakesh. One evening they walked through the medina, and even though Dana wore jeans and a tunic, every man turned his head to watch her pass. Jeremy never relaxed his guard, watching and waiting for trouble while Dana shopped for trinkets, oblivious to the stir of male attention around her. By the end of the evening he was exhausted but oddly pleased. It was his job; she needed him there.
“Une table pour trois, monsieur?” the waiter asks. Jeremy looks up, surprised. The young man seems inordinately pleased with the sight of these two young women at Jeremy’s side.
“Oui. S’il vous plaît.”
The man ushers them to a table at the edge of the courtyard. They’re next to a fountain, and suddenly the noise-of the cascade of water, the incantatory music, and, oddly, the squawk of a bird trapped inside the room-makes Jeremy feel claustrophobic. He should have chosen to sit outside.
The waiter says something in rapid-fire French and Jeremy looks at Chantal, completely lost.
“No,” she tells the waiter. “We’ll only be having drinks.”
They settle into their chairs and tuck their bags of cheese and fruit and meat under the table. Jeremy notices that the baguette is soggy from the rain. He looks up and sees Lindy, eyes on him.
“Tell me about your adventures,” he says to her.
“Well,” she begins, but then the waiter is there, speaking too quickly for him to understand. Is it the Arabic accent? Too much noise? There’s a pause. Chantal orders tea. He does the same. Lindy orders a citron pressé.
“Spain? Portugal?” he prompts when the waiter is gone.
“Tell me about your French lessons,” Lindy says. “What are you learning? French conjugations? The imperfect tense?”
She’s looking back and forth between Chantal and him. She’s got a mischievous gleam in her eyes, as if she’s taunting him.
“Lindy,” he says, his voice low.
“Jeremy and I have conversations about the things we see as we walk around Paris. I teach him new vocabulary. I correct his mistakes. I encourage him to practice what he already knows.”
Chantal is remarkably calm, as if she is often confronted by irrational twenty-year-old bald daughters. Jeremy begins to relax.
“What fun,” Lindy says, as if it’s not fun at all.
“Your mother set up these lessons for me,” Jeremy explains. He doesn’t mention that it’s an anniversary gift.
“How gallant of her.”
Gallant, Jeremy thinks. Lindy’s French surprises him. She, too, sounds like someone else, someone more sophisticated. Someone with an edge.
“Tell us about your travels,” Jeremy urges.
“Well, here I am,” Lindy says. “All roads lead home.”
“But you’re not home,” Jeremy says.
“I’m with you,” Lindy tells him. “That’s home.”
He reaches out and places his hand over hers. She flinches but doesn’t take her hand away. He sees her glance at Chantal and back again, quickly.
The waiter arrives and sets tea in front of them, lemonade in front of Lindy. He makes a grand gesture of pouring tea for Chantal but leaves Jeremy to serve himself.
“Did you see your mother this morning?” Jeremy asks.
Dana was still sleeping when he left for his French lesson. Her filming doesn’t begin until late this afternoon-they’re shooting evening scenes on the Pont des Arts. He has promised to come watch tonight, something he doesn’t often do. But tomorrow is their anniversary and he needs to make up for last night’s fight. Before Lindy called to say she would arrive in the middle of the night, they had thought they would take a train to Chantilly and explore the château. But now Dana wants to stay in Paris, just the three of them, roaming the city. “I haven’t had a chance to walk the streets of Paris,” she had said last night. “You’re the one who’s having all the fun.”
“Mom was sleeping,” Lindy says. “My mother is an actress,” she tells Chantal.
“So I’ve heard,” Chantal says.
“You’ve mentioned her?” Lindy asks Jeremy.
“Chantal taught me the words for director and cinematographer and film editor,” Jeremy tells her. “Apparently I know more words about food than I do about film.”