A Summer in Paris by Cynthia Baxter Page B

weather, the differences between living in America and in France. But Nina could not forget the look she had seen in Pierre’s eyes. Even more important, she could not ignore the way that being with him made her feel.
    * * * *
    “Taking a walk was a lovely idea, Pierre. And I appreciate your agreeing to act as my tour guide, showing me around this section of the city. But it’s starting to look as if we might get rained out.”
    Nervously Nina glanced at the sky. What had begun as a beautiful July day was now clouding over. The temperature was dropping, and from somewhere far in the distance came the rumble of thunder.
    “Do you want to head back?” Pierre asked. “The studio is only a few blocks away from here. We could probably beat the rain, if we hurried.”
    “No, I don’t want to go in yet, not until we really have to.” With a sigh, she added, “I love this city so much that I want to enjoy it every second I can. I adore walking around. Oh, I know it sounds silly, but with every street I turn onto, every building I pass, I can’t help wondering whether my grandmother saw that same building or walked down that same street when she was here.”
    “I think we’re going to have to cut our walk short,” Pierre suddenly cried. “It’s starting to pour. Here, let’s duck into this doorway.”
    They raced toward the closest shelter, the entry-way to a bookstore. And they reached it just in time. Nina and Pierre stood huddled together, gazing out at the sheeting downpour that had seemingly come out of nowhere. He pulled off the light cotton sweater he had been wearing and draped it gently over her shoulders.
    “Just look. It’s like ... it’s like an Impressionist painting.” Nina’s voice was almost a whisper. “How lovely the city looks in the rain. I wonder if my grandmother ever stood in a doorway on a day like this, looking out at the gray city....”
    “Nina, you are so serious,” Pierre interrupted. “You are so concerned with your grandmother, but what about you?”
    “Me?” Nina turned to face him, blinking. “What about me?”
    “What happened between your grandmother and my grandfather happened a long, long time ago. It is part of the past.”
    “Yes, but ...”
    Pierre’s voice sounded oddly husky as he said, “And what about the present?”
    “What about the present?” Nina asked, not understanding the point he was trying to make.
    “The present,” he said, “belongs to you and me.”
    With that, he placed his finger under Nina’s chin and drew her face upward toward his. And then his lips were upon hers, kissing her lightly, almost as if he were asking her a question.
    Nina was surprised at how urgently she kissed him back. For the moment, all of Paris vanished. The rain, the gray buildings ... she was aware of none of it. For the moment, only Pierre existed.
    All of a sudden, the romance of the city, the promise that seemed to hang in the air, had been realized.
     

Chapter 6
     
    “Oh, my gosh,” Kristy cried.
    She had just opened the envelope containing her newly developed photographs, the very first roll of pictures she had taken with the camera her parents had sent. She hadn’t been expecting anything beyond the usual mishmash of snapshots: Alain in his silly poses, of course, but also some pretentious-looking close-ups of flowers and benches and rocks, all of them out of focus and either underexposed or overexposed.
    Instead, she was pleasantly surprised.
    “Wow,” she muttered, standing on the street corner in front of the photography shop. “I may not know much about photography, but from what I can tell, these aren’t half bad.”
    “Half bad? On the contrary.” A familiar male voice interrupted her. “If anything, I would say these are half good.”
    Kristy looked up, chuckling.
    “Alain, you have a real knack for the English language.”
    “Knack? What is this ‘knack’?” As usual, he was frowning in confusion over the new expression that had just