A Summer in Paris by Cynthia Baxter

grandfather were not a very good match, I am afraid.”
    “Really?” Nina’s face registered her surprise.
    “Nina! Do not move!” Pierre cried, having noticed her change of expression. “How can you expect to be the subject of a beautiful drawing if you keep moving your face?”
    “How can you expect me not to react when you tell me something like that? What do you mean, your grandmother and your grandfather weren’t a very good match?”
    “Nina, do you want to talk or pose?”
    “Do you really want to know?”
    Pierre sighed and put down his piece of charcoal. His fingers were covered with black smudges.
    “Perhaps we have done enough for now,” he said. “I must admit that you have been a very patient model. We both need a break. And to show you that this temperamental artist is not such a terrible person, I will take you out to lunch and tell you all about my grandparents and their marriage.”
    * * * *
    Sitting outside in front of a sidewalk cafe, opposite Pierre at a tiny round table, Nina realized that whenever she had fantasized about what it would be like to be in Paris, this was precisely the scene that she had imagined. The Café des Papillons—“The Butterflies”—was tiny, with red-and-white checkered cloth tablecloths on its dozen or so round tables. The curtains on the windows were made of lace. Even the proprietor of the café was exactly what she would have expected. He was short and chubby with a black mustache, round red cheeks, and a warm, wide smile.
    On the sidewalk, Nina could see all of Paris passing by. Fascinated, she watched the parade of people strolling by: women so fashionably dressed they looked as if they had just stepped out of the pages of a magazine; intense young students in jeans engaged in earnest conversations; businessmen and -women hurrying by on their way to a meeting or in search of a quick lunch.
    As for the young man with whom she was sitting, the two of them so close that they were almost touching ... well, Nina had to admit that he was part of her dream, too. But as much as she delighted in his company, she was still not sure what to make of her relationship with Pierre.
    He was charming, handsome, and fun to be with. On those points, she was perfectly clear. And it was similarly clear that he liked her. But something was getting in the way of allowing her simply to sit back and let whatever may happen to happen. She was holding back, afraid of admitting her true feelings, feelings that seemed to be growing stronger with each passing minute. But despite her desire to keep her emotions in check, she still had the feeling that she was heading in a direction that was going to make things very, very complicated.
    At the moment, however, she was not about to let herself be distracted by either the charm of her surroundings or the charm of her luncheon companion.
    “Go on, Pierre,” she said impatiently, right after she had ordered a sandwich on a baguette, the long loaf of crusty bread that had already become her passion. “Tell me about your grandmother.”
    “Ah, yes. Grandmère.” He was wearing a devilish grin as he added, “And here I’ve been hoping you would rather talk about the romance of the city—or the delights of having lunch with me.”
    Nina laughed. “I’m not saying that Paris isn’t wonderful. And I’m not saying that my lunch companion isn’t ... well, let’s just say that he isn’t without a certain charm.” Suddenly she grew serious. “But I really am eager to hear about your grandparents’ marriage. Your grandfather is such a sweet man. For years I’ve wanted to know more about him. This is my chance.”
    Pierre was silent while their waiter, the plump proprietor of the cafe, poured them each a glass of mineral water. When he began speaking again, his tone was serious.
    “Nina, it is a very sad story. One that my father told me many times.” He drew in a deep breath. “After your grandmother left Paris, disappearing without