Seven Letters from Paris by Samantha Vérant Page B

graceful fingers pointing out the emergency exits, the bathrooms. She was perfectly coiffed, wearing the newest shade of red Chanel lipstick. Pretty. Taking the comfort route in yoga pants and a T-shirt, I wasn’t exactly the epitome of style. And I was headed for the fashion capital of the world.
    The woman seated next to me shot me a concerned look. “Afraid to fly, huh?”
    Her voice was smooth, calm.
    Mine, when it squeaked out, was not.
    â€œNo, I fly all the time.” I immediately read the confusion on her face and decided to share my dilemma. “You see, I’m about to meet up with this guy I haven’t seen in a while—a long, long while. He’s, uh, err, French. I met him in Paris.” Her mouth twisted. I thought it was my cue to carry on. “I met him twenty years ago. We’re both divorced now. Well, not exactly. Mine just went through a few days ago. He’s still working on his…”
    And why was I telling her all this? I needed diarrhea medication. For my mouth. Although I’d been living in Malibu where the crazed blond, blue-eyed look was all the rage, I was certain I’d scared her to death when she leaned as far away from me as humanly possible. The focus needed to switch from me to her fast. “Paris is a really romantic city, don’t you think? I’ve been there three times. Have you?”
    â€œOf course we’ve been to Paris, but we’re on our way to visit family in Armenia. We only have a layover at Charles de Gaulle.” She went back to reading her gossip rag. “Good luck.”
    Under normal circumstances, I’d find her behavior rude, but I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t press me for more information. Had our situations been reversed, I would have wanted all the juicy details. I’m built that way—an American woman who can’t help but glance at the tabloid headlines in the supermarket or over the shoulder of the person seated next to me.
    My stomach nearly dropped into my uterus as the plane lifted off. I leaned toward the window and pressed my forehead to the glass, taking slow, deep, purposeful breaths. Below, Los Angeles became a tiny speck, the Pacific Ocean glimmering like a beautiful blue velvet dress worthy of the red carpet. Once we were in the air, an overwhelming rush of freedom surged through me. My hands released the armrests and my lips curved into a smile. If Jean-Luc was as amazing in person as he was on paper, and if we connected the way we had the first time twenty years ago, then this love adventure was worth the risk.
    The long flight gave me plenty of time to “Play it again, Sam,” to think about the first time I’d met Jean-Luc in 1989, to think about the man whose letters inspired seven blog posts and a two-decades-late apology, the man who now inspired me. Soon, instead of being seated on a plane, my thoughts gravitated to Paris, to that hot summer’s night in 1989, right to the very first time I’d met Jean-Luc, the memory playing in my head like a movie.

Two American Tartes at Dame Tartine
    The second night of my two-week European adventure way back in 1989 had all the ingredients for a clichéd romance. A crowded café? In Paris? A handsome Frenchman? Check, check, and, considering there was not one but two Frenchmen, double check.
    Tracey had a much better view of their table. I had to crane my neck and peer over my right shoulder, making an effort not to be too obvious. But I was. My eyes locked onto a sexy man’s eyes across the crowded restaurant. It was love at first sight, or, as the French would say, un coup de foudre —a bolt of lightning, a shock to the system. Before I tipped over in my chair, I pretended to grab something out of my purse, a blush prickling my cheeks.
    â€œSo, which one do you want?” asked Tracey, as if we could just order the two Frenchmen right off the menu.
    â€œThat depends. Should I ask the waiter