Lauren got into bed and began tapping away on her Mac. Arthur came out of the bathroom ten minutes later and climbed between the sheets.
“You’re checking your email at this time of night?” he asked, surprised.
She placed the laptop on his knees. When Arthur realized what she was up to, she laughed out loud at his dumbfounded look.
He had to reread the first lines of what Lauren had written:
Novelist, single, hedonist, often works nights, loves humor, life, and serendipity . . .
“I think you drank too much wine tonight.”
As he closed the screen, he accidentally clicked the “Confirm Registration” button.
“He’d never forgive you, even for just messing around with something like this.”
“Me? You’d better start thinking of your own apologies—and fast—’cause I think you just hit the wrong button, sweetheart . . .”
Arthur hurriedly reopened the laptop, mortified at his blunder.
“Relax! We’re the only ones who have access to his account, and even you admit his life needs a bit of a shake-up.”
“I’m telling you—this is a hell of a risk,” Arthur replied.
“And what about the risks he took for us? Remember that?” she said, turning off the light.
Arthur lay in the dark with his eyes open for a long while. Hundreds of memories came flooding back to him—mad escapades and dirty tricks. Paul had even risked jail for him. Arthur owed his present happiness to his friend’s courage.
Paris reminded him of sad times, years of great solitude. Now Paul was going through something similar, and Arthur knew how heavy it could be to bear that weight. But there had to be better ways of helping him than a dating site.
“Go to sleep,” Lauren whispered to him. “We’ll see if anything interesting happens.”
Arthur snuggled against his wife and shut his eyes.
Mia tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep, the joyless events of the last few weeks going around and around in her head. Today had been by far the happiest day she could think of in a long time, even if she still missed David.
She got dressed and crept out of the apartment.
Outside, the dark streets were wet with drizzle. She walked up the hill until she reached Place du Tertre. The caricaturist was putting away his easel. He looked up as she sat down on a bench.
“Tough night?” he asked, coming to sit next to her.
“Insomnia,” she said.
“I know the feeling. I can never fall asleep before two in the morning.”
“What about your wife? Does she wait up for you every night?”
“Whatever time of day, all I can do is hope she’s waiting,” he replied in his gravelly voice.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you give your friend the portrait?”
“I haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll give it to her tomorrow.”
“Can I ask you a favor? Don’t tell her it’s from me. I like eating lunch at her place, and I don’t know—somehow I’d feel embarrassed if she knew.”
“Why?”
