and practice.
“I wonder if Philip likes art.” Cheryl dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. “Oh, who cares. We’ll have a good time tonight.”
Lena concentrates on Matisse’s sketches. “It says here that Matisse was searching for one-dimensional movement in this series. What does that mean?”
“You understand exactly what it means, Lena. Don’t change the subject, and stop frowning.” Cheryl shakes a finger at Lena. “You act like I’m forcing you to pose naked in the town square. You’re rusty at the dating game, so just follow my lead.”
“If I do that I’ll be in bed with a stranger before the night is over.”
“And, the problem with that is?” Cheryl pinches Lena’s cheek lightly and grins. Postcards line the small glass-topped counter. Lena selects postcards for Lulu, Bobbie, Camille, Kendrick, and Candace, and steps out onto the terrace of the chapel. Camille would love the art and history here; Kendrick would love the winding roads. From the terrace, old Vence is like a postcard: spires and turrets peak above slanted slate roofs clearly outlined against the darkening sky. Lena points her camera at the city and the valley below; she hopes that she has captured the setting sun’s rose-tinted cast, hopes that her tingling stomach will calm down or, better yet, that Philip has changed his mind and never wants to see the two of them again.
f f f
The restaurant is crowded. Votive candles are everywhere: on the tables, in the windowsills, and on the beam that rests a foot below the low ceiling. Candlelight intensifies the ebony wood. Each table is covered with a soft beige tablecloth and napkins folded into triangle points.
Philip’s face brightens when Cheryl and Lena walk through the door. He sits very erect at a small upright piano in the middle of the room where tables were arranged during lunch. The wide lapels of his old-fashioned tuxedo shine in the candlelight. He croons a lazy French song, somewhere between ballad and jazz, in a raspy alto.
“Bonsoir, mesdames,” he sings, and all heads in the crowded restaurant turn with his. “Mesdames et messieurs, je vous presente mes nouvelles amies de Californie.” He introduces Lena and Cheryl as if they are celebrities.
“Oh, the one on the left looks just like Diana Ross.” An elderly white woman with a distinctive Texas twang points at Cheryl and asks if they are singers, too. “Would you sing ‘Stop, in the Name of Love’? I love that song.”
Lena and Cheryl roll their eyes at one another. “And that is how you can tell they’re Americans,” Lena mutters. “We don’t sing—”
“But if you hum a few bars, I’m sure we’ll catch on.” Cheryl finishes.
Philip sings his own rendition, a muddled blend of French and English, before he joins Cheryl and Lena at their table near the piano. “Tonight you beautiful ladies will have a salad of baby butter lettuce, pork tenderloin sautéed in a reduced red wine sauce et bien sûr, fromage—that’s cheese to the two of you—for dessert.”
“Just what I love—a man who knows his fromage!” Cheryl slaps Lena’s arm for emphasis. “And soon you will, too.”
f f f
Two hours later, a dark-haired, puffy-eared man enters the restaurant just as the waiter brings a platter of hard and runny cheeses to the table. The man scans the restaurant briefly and heads for the piano. Philip motions to the man to lean down and whispers in his ear before they both turn their heads to look at Lena and Cheryl.
“I think that’s your date.” Cheryl tips her head in Philip’s direction.
“Don’t call it a date, don’t call it a date. I’m not ready for a date.” Lena glances toward Philip’s friend. The man is a parody of an absent-minded professor. His short, very ragged beard is striped with gray, and his glasses slip down his nose so that, in the short time that Lena has to inspect him before he comes to the table, he keeps adjusting them with both hands.
Philip rises from the piano, the professorial-looking man close behind him, and pulls up another chair to Lena and Cheryl’s table. He introduces his friend with a flourish as if he were a celebrity, and Lena figures that this, along with his penchant for vintage clothing, is simply Philip’s style. “Je vous presente mon ami, Jean-Pierre Dusquesne.”
“Enchanté, mesdames.” Jean-Pierre lowers his upper body in a feeble bow. His voice is deep and rich like a bassoon. He scoots his chair next to Lena, picks up her knife, and helps himself to