Danielle Steel: Second Chance

“One o'clock,” she said in a flat voice, feeling foolish for letting him talk her into it. There was something very persuasive about him. And she had always loved his voice.

“Should I pick you up? I'm at the Crillon, and I have a car.” She didn't, but it was none of his business. She could walk from where she was.

“I'll meet you there.”

“I'll have the concierge reserve a table. Thanks for coming to lunch. It'll be good to see you.” He still had the vision of her he had had ever since he'd seen her at La Goulue. And Elizabeth had mentioned her several times. She was a fearsome opponent, and a tough act to follow.

Fiona stood staring at herself in the mirror after she hung up. She was sorry she had agreed to meet him. She was tired, her hair was dirty, and she had dark circles under her eyes from writing into the wee hours. But no matter how she looked, she didn't want to see him, she told herself, and then groaned, as she realized she did. She flew into action then, washed her hair, took a bath, shaved her legs for no particular reason, and dug through her closet for a decent dress. In the end, she settled on black leather pants, a white T-shirt, and a mink sweater that Adrian loved. She had gotten the sweater at Didier Ludot too, it was the most famous vintage store in Paris, and she shopped there regularly, and had bought a collection of vintage Hermès bags. She pulled out one of them, a large red crocodile Kelly bag, and pulled out flats to match.

By the time she got to Le Voltaire, she was a nervous wreck. She didn't know why she'd agreed to meet him. She had worn her hair in a single long braid down her back. She had no idea how beautiful she looked when she walked in, slightly breathless, with a halo of soft hair that had gotten loose and framed her face, and the big green eyes he still thought of often. The black leather pants molded her body and reminded him of everything he'd missed. All he could think of now, as he looked at her, was what a fool he had been.

“Sorry I'm late,” she apologized. “I walked.”

“You're not,” he reassured her. “Where do you live?” he asked as the maître d' led them to the corner booth that she and Adrian loved. John had gotten her number from information, but he didn't have her address.

“In the Seventh,” she said vaguely. “I found a great apartment. Now I'm looking to buy a house.”

“You're staying?” he asked with a look of interest. She nodded as they sat down. And then he looked across the table at her and smiled. She looked as beautiful as he remembered, but more vulnerable and more accessible than she had in New York. She looked more glamorous there in her sexy black cocktail dress. Here she somehow looked younger and more real. “So how does Sir Winston like Paris?” he asked with a gentle smile, as Fiona looked away.

“He died a year ago,” she said bluntly, and picked up the menu to distract herself so she didn't cry.

“Oh my God.” John looked crushed. He wanted to ask her what had happened, but he didn't dare. “I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you.” She had had him for fifteen years when he died. “Did you get another dog?”

“Nope,” she said simply, looking at him again. “I get too attached. It's not a good idea.” He sensed correctly that she was referring to him too. Their brief marriage had cost her a great deal, even more than it had him. He could see it in her eyes. The pain he still saw there went straight to his heart.

“You should get a French bulldog. It would suit you.”

“I don't want one. No more dogs. Besides, they're too much work.” She tried to sound hard about it, but only succeeded in sounding sad. And he continued to have the impression they were really talking about him. “So what are we going to eat?”

“Do they have a Thanksgiving menu?” he teased her, but he still felt terrible about the dog. Sir Winston must have died shortly after he left her. And he knew it must have been a terrible blow added to his own.

They settled on the shaved mushroom salad she always had, and she was torn between liver and blood sausage as he made a terrible face and she laughed.

“That's a hell of a thing to eat on Thanksgiving. You should at least have some kind of bird.” In the end she decided on veal, and he had the steak tartare. They agreed to share pommes frites, which he knew were delicious there. And then he asked her about her book.

They talked about it for an hour, and it sounded fascinating to him. “May I borrow a manuscript? I'd really love to read it.”

“I don't have any spares.” She was still being cautious about him, but she had opened up a lot about the book. He could hear from her description of it how deeply she had delved into herself to do it and how painful it must have been. “I'll give you a copy of it when it comes out, if it ever does.”

“What's the new one about?” They spent another hour talking about that. And by then they were sharing profiteroles.

“How long are you here?” she asked, as she ate the last of the delicious chocolate confection, looking like a little kid. He knew how she loved chocolate, and she ate more when the waiter brought them the little chocolate-covered coffee beans they always served at the end of the meal.

“Just two days. I spent a few days in London, and I have business here tomorrow. I'm going home on Saturday. My offer for dinner still stands if I behaved myself at lunch to your satisfaction.” She smiled at what he said.

“You did okay,” she conceded. “I didn't want to come.”

“I know. I figured that out on the phone. I'm glad you did,” he said gently. “I'm sorry about what happened. I was a real shit.” She was amazed by his honesty. It vindicated her in a way.

“Yes, you were a shit. But I did a lot of stupid stuff too. The photographer having an orgy with his drug dealer in the living room was definitely a low point in my career. I'm sorry that happened, and a lot of other dumb things. You'll be happy to know I gave away most of my clothes when I moved. I don't know why I was so possessive about my closets. I think I was obsessed with my wardrobe. It's a lot simpler here. I brought almost nothing.” Although she had bought quite a bit, mostly at Didier Ludot. “My life is a lot simpler these days in a lot of ways. I want to keep it that way.” She sounded firm.

“Like what?” He was curious about her now. She seemed different somehow. Both more fragile and stronger, and deeper, and quieter. As though she had suffered a lot and come out the other end. Most of it thanks to him, he knew. But she had faced some old demons too, like her father's abandonment, her mother's death, the agonies of her childhood, and a stepfather who had raped her, although she had never told anyone except her therapist, not even John. It was all in the book. She had spent a number of years in therapy over the incident with her stepfather and made her peace with it long ago.

“I stripped a lot of deadwood out of my life,” she said simply. “People, clothes, objects, possessions. A lot of stuff I didn't care about, or didn't need, and thought I did. It makes life a lot simpler. And cleaner somehow.” And then she looked at him. “I'm sorry I did such a lousy job with your kids.”

“You didn't do anything wrong, Fiona. They were awful to you. I should have handled it better than I did. I didn't know what to do, so I ran.”

“I should have tried harder with them. I didn't know how either. I'm not very good with kids. It's a good thing I never had any of my own.”

“Do you regret that?”

“No, I don't. I think I would have been lousy at it. My own childhood was too screwed up. The only thing I regret is not making it work with you. It's probably the most glaring failure of my life. I was too wrapped up in a lot of meaningless bullshit, like my own importance, and how I wanted to do things, and my job. I guess I was riding high on a wave, and thought I was hot shit. And then I got cut down to size.” He liked the size she was now. In a lot of ways. But he had liked her then too. She had knocked him right off his feet, and still could with very little effort. But she was being careful not to do that. She had no concept of the effect she had on him. She was too busy resisting what she still felt for him.