Public Secrets

both tourists and locals would sit over red wine or café au lait and watch the world strut by.
Marianne looked more like a native in her lacy white tights and slim short skirt. Gone was the spiky hairdo. The bright red hair was worn sleek and short, and very French. But her voice was pure American as she squealed Emma’s name and jumped up to embrace her.
“You’re here, I can’t believe you’re here. It seems like years. Let me look at you. Christ, you’re beautiful. I hate you.”
With a laugh, Emma swung her hair behind her shoulders. “You look precisely the way a French art student should look. Très chic et sensual .”
“Over here that’s as important as eating. You must be Drew.” Marianne kept an arm around Emma’s waist and extended her hand to him.
“It’s nice to meet you. Emma’s told me all about you.”

“Uh-oh. Well, sit down anyway. You know, Picasso used to drink here. I come all the time, and try a different table. I know if I ever find his chair I’ll go into a trance.” She picked up her glass. “Would you like wine?” she asked Drew. At his nod she signaled the waiter. “Un vin rouge et un café, s’il vous plaît . “She sent a wink to Emma. “Who’d have thought Sister Magdelina’s boring French lessons would have come in handy?”
“Your accent’s still a C minus.”
“I know. I’m working on it. So how’s the tour?”
“Devastation’s never been better.” Emma smiled at Drew. “And their opening act’s creating quite a sensation.”
He laid a hand over hers. “The response has been great.” He shifted his gaze from Marianne to Emma. “Everything’s been great.”
Marianne sipped her wine, measuring him. If she had been into religious art, she would have painted him as John the Apostle. He had that dreamy, dedicated look. Or skipping a few centuries, Hamlet. The young prince shadowed by tragedy. She smiled as the waiter served the fresh drinks. Then again, she could have dipped back only a few years and used him as a model for the young Brian McAvoy. She wondered if Emma saw the resemblance.
“Where to from here?” she asked.
“Nice.” Drew stretched out his legs. “But I’m not in any hurry to leave Paris.” He glanced toward the street where cars and bicycles whizzed by with careless disregard for life and limb. “What’s it like to live here?”
“Noisy. Exciting.” She laughed. “Wonderful. I have this little apartment right over a bakery. There is nothing, believe me nothing, that smells like a French bakery first thing in the morning.”
They spent an hour loitering over their drinks before Drew leaned over to kiss Emma. “Look, I’ve got to get to rehearsal and I know you want to talk. I’ll see you tonight. You too, Marianne.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She, along with half the women around the café, watched him walk away. “I believe he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
“He is, isn’t he?” She leaned over to grip Marianne’s hands. “You do like him, don’t you?”
“What’s hot to like? He’s gorgeous, talented, smart, funny.” She grinned. “Maybe he’ll dump you for me.”
“I’d really hate to have to murder my best friend, but …”

“I figure I’m safe. He doesn’t look at anyone but you. Why, I don’t know; just because you’ve got those incredible cheekbones and big blue eyes a yard of blond hair and no hips. Some guys have no taste.” She leaned back. “You look ridiculously happy.”
“I am.” She took a deep breath, drawing in the scents of wine and flowers. Of Paris. “I think I’m in love with him.”
“No kidding? I’d never have guessed.” With a laugh she patted Emma’s cheeks. “Pal, it’s all over your race. If I were to paint you right now, I’d call it Infatuated . What does your dad think of him?”
Emma picked up her cold coffee and sipped. “He has a lot of respect for Drew’s talent both as a musician and as a songwriter.”
“I meant what does he think of Drew as the man his daughter’s in love with.”
“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”
Marianne’s brows disappeared under her sharply cut bangs. “You mean you haven’t told him that you’re involved?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Emma shoved the coffee aside. “I guess I just want to keep it to myself. I want it to belong to me for a while. He still thinks of me as a child.”
“All fathers think of their daughters that way. Mine calls me