She hadn’t. “What, then?”
“It is the way you walk,” he said in English, gesturing to the waiter.
“Nous pouvons parler en Français, si vous preferez,”Cady offered.
“If you don’t mind, I would rather speak in English,” he said. “It is good for me to practice. Otherwise, my English becomes, how you say it, roosty.”
“Rusty. Are you saying I walk weird?”
He looked rather alarmed at her response. “No, just in a very American way. It is hard to describe. It is... rather like a man.”
“Huh.”
“But of course, I meant this in the best possible way.”
Cady wasn’t the only one upholding cultural stereotypes. Jean-Paul was wearing a scarf and what appeared to be a cashmere jacket. He had been writing in a notebook with a fountain pen, and a beat-up leather courier bag lay at his feet. He was simultaneously scruffy and very well put together, exhibiting what Cady decided must be an innate—and unique—French talent. The only thing missing from the tableau was a cigarette.
The waiter appeared. Cady, unsure of what to order, asked for whatever Jean-Paul was having. In his glass was a pretty, bright orangey-pink liquid.
“It is Campari. Do you know it? It is an aperitif,” Jean-Paul said, holding his glass out to her. “Would you like to taste it?”
“Oh, no,” she declined. “It’s fine.”
“Les deux,”Jean-Paul said, and the waiter left.
“So, Madame Martin tells me you are an expert in early photography,” Cady said. Privately, she couldn’t help thinking that, like Mr. Scott Ripley, the expert who had destroyed her dreams of cashing in on Gus, Jean-Paul did not look the part. She had always imagined appraisers as one might see them in a Hollywood movie: old men with great shocks of white hair, beetled brows, and thick spectacles, harboring a lifetime of accumulated knowledge.
Instead, Jean-Paul looked more like a poet—aEuropeanpoet—who spent his days drinking coffee, chain-smoking, and writing in his journal until the sun went down and it was time to move onto drinking absinthe.
“I am no expert.”
“But Madame Martin said—”
He waved it off and gave her a half-smile. “Madame Martin likes to play—what is the word?Matchmaker.”
The waiter arrived and set a glass of Campari garnished with a wedge of lime in front of her. Cady feared her cheeks were as pink as the aperitif.
“Um... then why did you agree to meet with me?”
Jean-Paul grinned. “Perhaps I was looking for a date.”
“That’s... that makes no sense.” As an adult, Cady had come to peace with her features. She had pronounced cheekbones, demanding dark brown eyes, and straight nearly black hair. Though she had always yearned to be lithe and delicate like the heroines in the books she devoured, she was anything but; she had wide shoulders and broad, capable hands. Olivia had once described her as having a “strong” look, “more Meryl Streep than ingénue.” All Cady knew was that she was not the type to bowl men over.
“Anyway,” Jean-Paul continued, his gaze not leaving hers, “Madame Martin is like my mother. And one must do as one’s mother asks, yes? Do you like the Campari?”
Cady took a sip, holding the liquid in her mouth for a moment. Itwas surprising: from its color she had expected the drink to be sweet, but it was bitter at the same time. She looked up to find Jean-Paul watching her carefully.
“What?” she asked, running a finger across her lips in case she had something on her mouth.
“Nothing,” he said with a slight smile, his gaze not moving from her face. “You like it?”
She nodded.
“So,” said Jean-Paul, “Madame Martin mentioned you are interested in my great-uncle’s photographs.”
“Wait—Yves Clement was your great-uncle?”
“He was the brother of my grandfather’s grandfather—I am not a genealogist, so I’m not sure of the exact term. Does it matter?”
