Three Weeks in Paris Read Online Free Page A

Tuesday actually. Yesterday I saw blowups of them all at the photographic studio, and they’re great, Mom, even if I do say so myself.”
    “I’ve told you many times, don’t hide your light under a bushel, darling. It doesn’t do to brag, of course, but there’s nothing wrong in knowing that you’re good at what you do. You’re very talented, and personally I was bowled over by the panels I saw.” Diane’s pale blue eyes, always so expressive, rested on her daughter thoughtfully. After a moment she said, “And so … what’s next for you?”
    “I have one small set to do for this play, and after that my contract’s fulfilled.” Alexa laughed a little hollowly and added, “Then I’ll be out of work, I guess.”
    “I doubt that,” Diane shot back, the expression on her face reflecting her pride in her only daughter. “Not you.”
    “To be honest, I’m not worried. Something’ll turn up. It always does.”
    Diane nodded, and then her eyes narrowed slightly. “You said on the phone that you wanted to talk to me. What—”
    “Can we do that later, over coffee?” Alexa cut in swiftly.
    “Yes, of course, but is there something wrong? You sounded worried earlier.”
    “Honestly, there’s nothing wrong. I just need … a sounding board, a really good one, and you’re the very best I know.”
    “Is this about Jack?”
    “No, and now you’re sounding like all those other mothers, which most of the time you don’t, thank God. And
no
, it’s not about Jack.”
    “Don’t be so impatient with me, Alexa, and by the way, Jack Wilton is awfully nice.”
    “I
know
he is, and he feels the same way about you. And Dad.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. But how does he feel about
you?
That’s much more important.”
    “He cares.”
    “Your father and I think he would make a good—a very nice son-in-law.”
    Alexa did not respond.
    ————
    HALF AN HOUR LATER Alexandra sat opposite her mother in the living room, watching her as she poured coffee into fine bone-china cups. She was studying Diane through objective eyes, endeavoring to see her as clearly as possible. It suddenly struck her what a unique person she was, a woman who was savvy, smart, successful, and highly intelligent as well. And she really did understand human frailties and foibles, because her perception and insight were well honed, and she was compassionate. But would she comprehend
her
dilemma, a dilemma centered on two men?
    After all, there had been only one man in her mother’s life, as far as she knew, and that man was her father, who Diane Carlson had met at twenty-four and married within the year; they had been utterly devoted to each other ever since. I know she’ll understand, Alexandra reassured herself. She’s not prudish or narrow-minded, and she never passes judgment on anybody. But how to tell her my story? Where do I begin?
    It was as though Diane had read her daughter’s mindwhen she announced, “I’m ready to listen, Alexa, whenever you want to start. And whatever it’s about, you’ll have all my attention and the best advice I can give.”
    “I know that, Mom,” Alexa answered, adding “Thanks” as she accepted the cup her mother was passing to her. She put it down on the low antique table between them and settled back against the Venetian velvet cushions on the cream sofa. After a second or two, she explained, “Late yesterday afternoon I got an invitation to go to a party in Paris. For Anya. She’s going to be eighty-five.”
    A huge smile spread across Diane’s face, and she exclaimed, “Good Lord, I can’t believe it! She’s a miracle, that woman.”
    “Oh, I know she is, and aside from looking so much younger than her age, she’s full of energy and vitality. Whenever I speak to her on the phone she sounds as busy as ever, running the school, entertaining, and traveling. Only last month she told me she’s started writing another book, one on the Art Deco period of design. She’s just so