Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin Page A

Angelica on his hip and started folding up the playpen with his free hand. “We’re clear.”
     
    “V ivi was unhappy. Not only had her conversation with Anthony put her in a sour mood, but the DiDinato brothers were well over an hour late, as was Natalie. Natalie had promised to be on hand when the work started so that everyone would be on the same page. But in typical Natalie fashion, the appointed time came and went. Vivi knew she would be here eventually, but the DiDinato brothers were another story. She hoped their tardiness wasn’t symptomatic of a lackadaisical attitude toward work in general. They were paying them a small fortune. The least they could do was try to be punctual.
    She peered out the window of the candy store, watching pedestrians hurry down the wide concrete sidewalks, while in the street, a large panel truck sat idling at a red light, its exhaust belching sooty smoke. She felt homesick. She missed Paris’s small winding streets, and the way the sunshine caressed the Seine, making it shimmer like a mirage. She longed to tarry in the open-air markets, squeezing fruit, selecting the freshest ingredients for that night’s meal. Paris wasn’t her hometown, it was true, but she’d grown to love it almost as much as Avignon. Strolling briskly from her apartment that morning, she’d noticed a cyber café on Seventh Avenue. Perhaps when she was done here, she would go there and e-mail friends back home, filling them in on her progress. Then, later in the day, she would treat herself and call maman.
    “Bonjour!” Natalie’s voice was cheerful as she entered the candy store, clutching two cups from Starbuck’s in one hand and a large shopping bag in the other. “I thought we’d see what the fuss was all about with this coffee.”
    Vivi took the paper cup proffered by Natalie, trying not to feel injured, or worse, paranoid. Suppose her coffee was substandard, and Natalie had purchased this coffee so she wouldn’t have to drink Vivi’s?
    Natalie put the shopping bag down and raised her own coffee cup to her lips for a good long taste. “Nowhere near as good as yours.”
    Vivi gave a small curtsy. “Thank you.”
    As always, Natalie was stylishly dressed in an outfit Vivi had never seen before: tailored black trousers, a lovely gray silk blouse, a red scarf knotted expertly at her throat. “You look lovely,” Vivi murmured.
    “All Tahari,” Natalie confided.
    The name meant nothing to Vivi, but she guessed it was a big-name designer. Not for the first time, Vivi found herself wondering what Natalie did all day in Manhattan. Shop?
    Natalie dipped into the large shopping bag at her feet, pulling out a box from Saks Fifth Avenue. “I have a surprise for you.”
    “Natalie!”
    “Oh, Natalie, nothing,” Natalie pooh-poohed, handing Vivi the box. “As far as I can tell, you haven’t bought yourself one new thing to wear since we’ve been here. What kind of French woman are you? Don’t you know we have an image to uphold?”
    Do I look that bad? Vivi wondered, feeling inadequate for the second time. Like most French women, Vivi was careful with her appearance. She might not dress fancily, but the pieces in her small but simple wardrobe were well tailored, and she never, ever left her apartment without putting on at least one coating of mascara and a touch of lipstick. The American women she saw who went out in public in sweatpants—or worse, sneakers—stunned her. That was one of the easiest ways to spot a tourist in Paris: Their sensible shoes gave them away every time!
    “Open it,” Natalie urged.
    Vivi tore the lid off the box, pulling out a beautiful, velvet blazer in chocolate brown.
    “Now you can enter the fall in style,” Natalie declared.
    Vivi held the jacket up against her, stunned. “How much did this cost?”
    “That’s not your concern. Do you like it?”
    “I love it, but—”
    “Non,” said Natalie, wagging a warning finger in her face. “Not another word, apart