Secretly by Talya Blaine

Author:Talya Blaine [Blaine, Talya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781959336013
Publisher: Talya Blaine Books

She seemed different than when he visited her at De Paris Avec L’amour, her From Paris with Love shop in New York. The hard shell of resentment had softened, replaced with nervousness and, he was sad to see, pain.

They crossed the Seine over the Pont Saint-Louis bridge, hop-scotching over the two river islands, then down a few side streets and alleys to find a café free of noisy tourists and tinny renditions of “La Vie en Rose” crackling from outdoor speakers.

Outside one café, the row of marble-topped bistro tables and woven rattan chairs was sparsely populated. He and Delphine agreed on the table at the end, beneath a tall window, its flower box filled with mums. The flowers’ plum color almost matched her lipstick.

He lifted the blanket hanging over the back of the chair before pulling it out for her. Once she took a seat, he unfolded the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders to ward off the early evening chill. He sat down across from her.

The waiter arrived, and she ordered for both of them in French: a café noisette—espresso with foamed milk—for herself and an espresso for him.

She asked about the travel convention, and soon the waiter was bringing their drinks. She held hers with both hands, but still the thermal glass cup shook slightly when she brought it to her mouth.

Something was wrong.

When she put the coffee down and rested her hands on the table, he took hold of one of them by the wrist, his palm resting on the back of her hand.

She didn’t pull it away.

Now he knew for sure; something was definitely wrong.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

She sighed, and he suspected her demeanor was about Gabriel.

“It hasn’t been so long since you and I last saw each other, but so much has changed.”

“What’s changed?” He prayed he was wrong. Gabriel may not have liked him, but he was a good man, and Delphine worshipped the ground he walked on.

The blanket around her shoulders slipped, and Jonathan let go of her hand so she could pull it back up. Underneath the wool, she hugged herself.

“He passed, my father.”

A sense of heaviness oozed into Jonathan’s gut. He hurt for her. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not telling you for sympathy’s sake. I’m telling you because, although he was sick and we knew he was going to die, and although he has been gone for weeks, still, I forget. Something happens, or I see a thing that reminds me of him, or at the vineyard I have a question about the grapes, and I think, Papa should hear about this, Papa would know the answer, Papa would love this so I have to tell him, and then . . .”

“You remember.”

Her eyes glistened, and she pulled the blanket tighter around her. “Exactly. I remember I can’t tell him anymore. It’s a shock, the finalité. A shock again and again. This is the worst part to deal with.”

“You can still tell him things. You’ll always be able to tell him things.

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