The Paris Connection. Cerella Sechrist
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Emma called as she picked a pillow up off the floor.
“We’re in here!” Melanie called from down the hall.
Emma entered her daughter’s bedroom to more chaos—scarves looped around the bedposts, their ends trailing down to the mattress, where the sheets had been stripped from the bed and a picnic blanket spread out instead, along with Avery’s tea party set.
To her credit, Melanie looked up with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the mess. Avery said she’d never made a pillow fort before.”
Emma waved this apology away. Avery was five years old and extremely well-mannered—at times, frighteningly so—but children were children, and playtime should be a happy mix of wonder and chaos.
“We’ll get it cleaned up before dinner,” Emma said. “Now...where is my daughter?”
A tiny, dark head could be glimpsed from the other side of the bed.
“Have you given her to Madame Bernadette in the apartment downstairs?” Emma asked Melanie with a wink. “Madame likes her, but Avery talks so much, Bernadette may not want her and might try to give her back.”
A muffled giggle could be heard across the room, and Melanie grinned at Emma’s acting.
She sighed dramatically. “Well, I hope Bernadette is nice to her. It is a shame you gave her away because I was going to make cheese omelets for dinner, and they’re her favorite.”
The tiny figure suddenly popped up from the side of the bed, her hair fluttering in strands across her face and her lips wide in a smile. “Melanie wouldn’t do that, Maman!”
“Ah.” Emma raised a finger, and Avery quickly corrected herself.
“I meant, Mom.”
Emma moved toward her daughter as Avery came around the bed and waited for her greeting. Emma leaned down, brushed her nose against her daughter’s and then kissed the top of her head—their standard homecoming exchange.
“Did you two have a good day?”
Avery nodded, but Emma looked to Melanie for confirmation.
“We did,” Melanie agreed. “Except that Avery insisted we have a tea party before cleaning up our fort in the living area.”
“Well, she’ll have to clean it up before dinner.”
Avery looked up at her with pleading eyes, but Emma shook her head. “You should be full of tea and cakes, so surely you can’t be hungry,” she teased.
Avery smiled and swayed back and forth. “They weren’t real tea and cakes,” she reminded. “It was make-believe.”
Emma tapped her nose affectionately. “Oh, okay. In that case, I’ll begin the omelets right away while you put away your toys.” She turned to Melanie. “You’re joining us for dinner, right?”
Melanie shook her head. “I’m meeting some other au pairs, if that’s all right. We’re taking the train to the Loire Valley next weekend, and we’re working on our itinerary.”
“Of course. You’ll love the Loire Valley. It’s beautiful.”
The two chatted about Melanie’s upcoming trip as Emma began to make dinner. Then Melanie helped Avery finish cleaning up the living room before she went to her room to get ready for her evening out. She let Avery watch her apply her makeup as Emma finished up dinner.
Emma was just plating the omelets when the phone rang. Setting aside the skillet, she went to answer.
“Hello,” she greeted the caller. “This is Emma speaking.”
“Allô,” came the reply, and Emma felt herself tense as the familiar voice of her ex-husband sounded over the line.
“Brice,” she said, making an effort to keep her tone reasonably pleasant.
“How are you?”
“I just finished making dinner for Avery. Would you like to speak with her?” She knew the answer before she even asked, but she was forever hoping Brice would take more notice of his daughter.
“Ah, yes, well, that’s what I’m calling about, chérie.”
She gritted her teeth against his persistent use of the endearment. They had been divorced for five years, and he still, out of either habit or more likely to irritate her, insisted on tossing the word into every other sentence.
“I am not your amour,” she reminded him for the countless time and wished he would get on with it.
He ignored her tone and forged ahead. “Yes, well, I just wanted to say that I will be unable to spend next weekend with Avery as I said I would. Other plans have come up.”
Emma leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Brice had begun seeing someone new in recent months—Christine—and it seemed his time with her always superseded any plans with his daughter.
“And what if I should need to reach you?”
He chuckled, the tone faintly bitter. “Why should you need to reach me, hmm? We never speak unless it concerns our daughter.”
“And even then, the conversations are rare.”
She could tell her goading had annoyed him because his voice was clipped when he replied.
“You were the one who wanted to have the child, Emma. I told you we were too busy for such commitments.”
The words pierced far more deeply than she would have admitted. “I don’t regret my choice,” she murmured in reply. “Avery is a greater blessing than I might have imagined.”
“Oui,” Brice sneered, his disdain leaking through the phone line. “And it’s why you chose her over me.”
Emma’s shoulders sagged with weariness. “It was never a competition, Brice. I could have loved you both.”
“But you didn’t.”
His resentment was clear, and she didn’t have the energy nor the desire to argue with him. Brice had chosen to believe her love for him should outweigh her love for their child. He wanted to be the center of her attention. She had fought with him to keep the baby once she learned of her pregnancy, but after Avery was born, things changed. Her entire world had homed in on that single, delicate life she held in her arms. Brice had seen motherhood dawn upon her...and he had never forgiven her for it.
“Very well. I will tell her you send your love.”
“If you wish.”
In truth, she had not even said anything to Avery about spending a weekend with her father. She had long ago learned not to get her daughter’s hopes up where Brice was concerned.
She had been about to ask if Brice wished to reschedule when she realized his end of the line had gone dead. Releasing a sigh, she returned the phone to its cradle and went to tell Avery it was time for dinner.
* * *
COLE DORSET SAT across from Julien Arnaud and watched in awe as the man attacked his dinner with a Frenchman’s gusto. Steamed mussels dredged in a butter, garlic and lemon sauce; sautéed sweetbreads with a spicy tomato ragout; a salad of crisp apples, fennel and walnuts; and pommes frites.
Cole found dinner with Julien as much entertainment as sustenance. After several moments of being watched, the other man finally seemed to realize he was an object of attention. He raised his head and dabbed at a drop of butter on his chin.
“Is something the matter with your meal?” He gestured toward Cole’s partially eaten entrée of stuffed ravioli with broad beans and white asparagus. It was the only vegetarian dish on the restaurant’s menu.
“Not at all. It’s delicious.” And it was, but Cole found his appetite lacking after his first day at the Aquitaine offices. He was tired and a tad homesick, as well, but he would