face appeared to be female, though it was hard to tell absolutely, what with the vines and that old-fashioned style of carving in which everyone, men and women alike, looked somehow like self-possessed, slightly overweight young girls.
The restaurant, which stood at the corner and bore its name in discreet gold letters on its window, was the sort of little cafe Mary imagined in Paris: dusky but clean, dark-paneled, with snowy tablecloths that put out more light than did the amber wall sconces. As she paused at the door she knew an unexpected pang of regret: Now this lovely, mysterious street and this charming restaurant would remember her as someone who had business with someone like Cassandra. Someone whose life had gone this far. She told herself she'd fly to Paris; she'd put aside a little money every week.
Cassandra waved to her from a table near the window. Mary was relieved to see he'd chosen men's clothes, just a black turde-neck sweater and jeans. As Cassandra rose and extended his hand Mary was taken all over again by how undistinguished he looked, this thin, jug-eared specimen with patchy reddish hair and small, watery eyes. He might have been an aging salesclerk or waiter, one of the people you hardly noticed because they were neither succeeding nor spectacularly failing. They were just living lives of quiet service.
“Lovely to see you, Mary,” Cassandra said.
“I'm happy to be here,” she answered. She gave him her hand and he squeezed it with more power than she'd expected.
“Please. Sit down.”
“Thank you.”
She sat, and immediately took her napkin from the table and spread it on her lap.
“This is an adorable place,” she added. It was easiest to be gracious. It was easiest to treat this as lunch, just lunch with a friend. If she abandoned courtesy she had no idea what she would say or do.
“It is, isn't it?” Cassandra said. “Very soothing. I come over here sometimes when my nerves can't take another moment of joie de vivre. You can sit by the window with a cup of tea for an hour if you want to.”
“It makes me think of Paris, a little bit,” Mary said.
“Oui. Ca pourrait être un bistro en plein Marais.”
“You speak French?”
“God, that was unspeakably pretentious, wasn't it? Sorry, hon, it's just nerves. I'm not ordinarily a lady who lunches.”
“Do you really speak French?” Mary asked.
“Oh, sure, I don't spend all my time trying out eye shadow. I've picked up French and Spanish and I can get by in German, but then all you can do with that is talk to Germans.”
“Where did you learn your French?”
“In Paris, about a hundred and fifty years ago. I lived there for a while, this old scow has been to any number of ports. Cheesy little studio down by the Beaubourg, believe me, America is not the sole repository of the tacky or the vulgar.”
“My husband and I were always meaning to go to Paris,” Mary said.
“Oh, well, it's beautiful in spots, just like they say, but I don't know. Lately I've let my passport lapse. Travel started to seem . . . slightly pathetic, or something. You went someplace and then you went someplace else and then you went someplace else, and I know it was supposed to be marvelous, but frankly it was starting to make my teeth ache a little. I kept seeing people buying souvenirs and I kept thinking about how they'd turn up at rummage sales in the year 2000, how those Hermes scarves would outlast the people who bought them, and, well, never mind. Suffice to say that these days my idea of travel is going up to Central Park.”
Briefly, Mary lost track of herself. She smoothed the napkin in her lap. Just say what you'd say to anyone, she thought.
“We always meant to travel,” she offered. “But what with the kids and the business and everything—”
“So do it now,” Cassandra said. “Believe me, if I was a stunning divorcee like you, I'd be on the next boat. Though frankly, honey, the men in France are pigs.”
“I'm not thinking much about men these days.”
“Well, whenever you're ready to start thinking about them, skip the French. Trust me.”
“And I'm hardly a stunning divorcee,” Mary said. “I'm a fifty-five-year-old woman and, honestly, I'm a little tired these days. I'm just, well, a little tired.”
“Ridiculous,” Cassandra said. “You're a great beauty, you know you are. You're only now coming into your mystery.”
“That's sweet. But really.”
“Don't but really me. How long's it been