I swallow. “We’re…it’s….” Not serious. Not permanent. I sigh. “You should talk to your father about this.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I certainly will,” he replies cockily. “Does my mother know about you?”
I close my eyes. “Ah…look….”
“Aubert,” Gustave interrupts.
“Quoi?*?” Aubert looks at his father with all innocence.
“Ça suffit?*.”
His son waves a hand and focuses on me. “I’ve been trying to convince Papa to find someone. Honestly, I didn’t think he had enough game to get a woman like you.”
Gustave sits across from us in an armchair and scoffs at his son.
“Like me?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Beautiful, artist, smart, and a good cook.” Aubert shakes his head in mock disbelief. “Papa, good work.”
“Absolument?*,” his father agrees, his eyes on me.
* I’m in the kitchen, my boy (French)
* Hello, my name is Aubert—Gustave’s son (French)
* What (French)
* That’s enough (French)
* Absolutely (French)
CHAPTER 18
Gustave
She wants to leave right after we eat, but Aubert, who can read a room better than most politicians, doesn’t let her. “You’re not leaving yet, are you?”
Tara blinks. “I wasn’t planning to stay?—”
“You should,” he cuts in, already rising. “It’s raining. You can’t leave in Paris in the rain. It’s against the law.”
I glance out of the windows. Sure enough, the city is cloaked in gray, rain droplets streaking down the glass in lazy trails.
She hesitates. Looks at me. I nod.
We sit in the living room and talk—well, Aubert and Tara talk, I watch them, mesmerized. I’ve never seen Aubert interact with Simone this way…but then it’s a nonsense comparison. Tara is only a decade older than Aubert, and they have LA in common.
They start talking about music, and discover a shared love for Los Fabulosos Cadillacs, an Argentinian ska band. Clearly, my son and woman have questionable taste in music.
That leads to other music they both like, which results in Aubert raiding my vinyl collection. “Let’s pick a soundtrack for the afternoon.”
Tara grins, relaxing. “I do love a good soundtrack.”
We spend the next hour sprawled across the large velvet rug in the salon, flipping through my old records and the ones Aubert’s collected from flea markets and dealers.
Tara pulls out a Françoise Hardy and immediately declares it perfect. Aubert puts it on.
We sit on the floor, drinking more coffee. Tara sways slightly to the music, humming along, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, wild and soft.
