Capturing Paris Read Online Free Page A

later, she would picture moths fluttering around a porch light on a summer evening. The three men were clearly attracted to Daphne, but Céleste too appeared to make an extra effort that afternoon. Her laughter came more freely, her voice was pitched a little higher, and her generosity assumed a greater weight.
    â€œI’m going to miss the French bubbly,” Bill said.
    â€œCertainly there’s champagne in Boston,” Daphne said.
    Bill laughed with some uncertainty. Annie detected a snobbish vein in Daphne’s cultured English accent. There was a lull in the conversation. Annie wished she were in her own cozy living room curled up in her chair in the corner working on her poems, but she knew she needed to say something and not fade away from the group entirely. “When you return to Boston, will you go right back to teaching?” she asked Bill.
    â€œYes, I’m afraid my book will have to be on hold until les vacances this summer. Quel dommage !” He shrugged and rolled his eyes in an unbecoming manner. Bill routinely peppered his sentences with Frenchwords and expressions. Annie wondered what the students must think of this tiresome young man.
    â€œProfessors spend more time out of the classroom than in it, it seems to me,” Wesley said. Annie didn’t like the tone in his voice, but Bill didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œClearly, you’ve never been burdened with a full teaching load while trying to write books,” Bill said. “You can’t imagine the time constraints.”
    â€œI’m sure I can’t,” Wesley said.
    Daphne looked across at Annie. “Céleste tells me that you write poetry.” She drew her hand through her hair, lifting it away from her face.
    Annie, to her annoyance, felt herself blushing. “Yes, I do. I’m trying to get back to it, actually.” She felt uncomfortable discussing this in front of everyone. She considered her writing a private part of herself. “I wrote a lot when we were first married and living in Cambridge.”
    â€œAnnie has published two books,” Georges said, nodding with approval. “The first was when she was in college.”
    â€œNot books exactly,” Annie explained. “Chapbooks, small soft-bound collections. I wrote the second when we lived in New York. I was enrolled in an MFA program there, but it all got to be too much with a baby and then moving to Paris.” It continued to surprise Annie the way poetry had crept back into her life. She had never stopped writing, but in the last few years it had taken on a greater importance.
    â€œSo, do you write in French now?” Daphne asked.
    â€œNo. The poems are mostly about Paris, but I write only in English. It makes it hard to get published here.” Annie noticed red lipstick on the rim of Daphne’s glass. She wondered if she should try wearing a darker shade too. “I send most of my work to the States, but I’m afraid no one remembers my few successes after so many years.”
    â€œYou know, I might just be able to help you,” Daphne said. “You see, I’ve come to know this French fellow. He’s an editor or publisher, something like that.” She pushed her hair off her face again. “He’s doing some kind of project that involves poetry. He mentioned needing someone who writes in English.”
    â€œWell, I’d certainly be interested in talking to him.” Annie doubted this would go anywhere. It was too much of a coincidence. Why would a French publisher be interested in an unknown American?
    â€œAnnie’s real job is working at the Liberal Arts Abroad program,” Wesley said.
    â€œYes, I work part-time. I’m an administrator.” Annie didn’t want to talk about her job. The word administrator felt as cumbersome and boring as the job itself. She explained her work finding host families for American college students, working with the French