Letter from Paris Read Online Free Page A

store.
    How wonderful, India thought. She must have assumed I was French. Her phone rang as she was leaving the store.
    “Bonjour,” she said. “C’est moi, India.”
    “Bonjour ma petite.” Adam laughed. “Je suis desole. Je ne pouvais pas etre a Paris.”
    “Desole?” She laughed. “You feel desolate? Sorry always sounds much more extreme in French don’t you think? Do they have a word for when they are feeling REALLY bad?”
    “Not sure, but I AM pretty cut up about it,” he said. “Where are you right now?”
    India looked around at the crowded street, unsure of her bearings.
    “Not far from the hotel. You?”
    “Don’t ask. I’m by a miniature Arc de Triomphe in ninety-degree heat and it’s still early. I can only stay on for a minute. I just wanted to check in, make sure we’re okay.”
    “We are. I’m sorry I lost it the other day. I was so disappointed.”
    “I’ll make it up to you, Indie. We’ll do Cannes together. You’ll love it.”
    “Great. Okay. Great,” she said. And this really was great, wasn’t it? She could relax and enjoy the trip now that they had cleared the air properly. She must learn not to overreact if she saw tabloid pictures of him. It was as Annie said, just par for the course when someone was famous.
    “A bientot,” he said.
    “A bientot,” she chirped.
    I will practice my French – impress him with my fluency in Cannes. What a beautiful day, she thought, walking in the direction of what she guessed was Rue Bonaparte.
    India spent the next several hours striding the streets at rapid Parisian speed, stopping occasionally to browse in bookshops or to step inside the doorways of the many delicatessens to savor the sugary aroma of bonbons and artisan chocolate. By the time she arrived back at the Hotel de l’Abbaye she was on a high, greeting the doorman with a cheery “Bonsoir Monsieur” and adding “D’accord” for good measure. Then sweeping through the foyer, she allowed herself the thought that if she were any more ‘almost’ French, she would be French.

    “Susie, I’m completely thrown. How can I have lived with a man for all these years and not have had the slightest inkling he was gay?” Luella said with a deep sigh, pushing away the over-spilling ashtray and her coffee cup. “Tell me. How can this have happened? How?”
    “Luella,” her friend said, “I’m not sure what to say. I’ve known you both since forever and I’m totally shocked too.”
    “Thing is… it’s challenged everything I thought I knew about myself. I hate to admit it, but I’m wrestling with all these emotions. At first I thought the letter was from another woman, the handwriting was so delicate.” She paused. “I mean, why should it make any difference? A love letter’s a love letter, right? An affair’s an affair, but the thought of him with a man makes me feel nauseous. I’m hoping I haven’t discovered some deep-seated prejudice in myself. I thought I was more broad-minded than this.”
    “I’m sure it’s just shock, Luella. I mean you weren’t even expecting him to be having an affair at all, let alone having one with a man.”
    Luella rolled the edge of the sepia paper placemat in front of her.
    “Well, if I’m honest with myself I chose not to ask too many questions. I always allowed for the possibility; he’s away from home so much. But this is different. It means that I never really knew him. It’s torturing me.”
    “Lu, are you sure you don’t want to tell him you found the letters?”
    “Certain. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. I can’t. I just can’t deal with that right now.”
    A group of tourists scraped out chairs and sat down next to her.
    “Susie, this is impossible to discuss in public. I’m at Café de Flore and it’s getting busy. I’ll call you back from the hotel tonight.”
    “I’ll be here for you whenever you want to talk, day or night. I can only imagine what you must be going through.”
    “Thanks, it means a