Capturing Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

and not stuck with Bill. Wesley was leaning forward over his soup bowl, as if he didn’t want to miss anything that Daphne said. Georges too was sitting upvery straight, and seemed engrossed in the conversation. Annie could only catch a few words. They seemed to be talking again about antiques or art. It wasn’t that Daphne didn’t speak loudly enough, but the low timber of her voice required the listener to give her full attention. Annie knew it was not just what Daphne was saying that held her listeners. Beyond her attractiveness and her sex appeal, she seemed complex, as if she was holding something back.
    The meal proceeded slowly, as it should on a leisurely Sunday afternoon. Céleste brought the platters of food into the dining room on a brass-wheeled tea trolley and passed them around the table—sliced pork with a tangy mustard sauce; roasted potatoes; and steamed carrots and parsnips, small and sweet with a bit of the green stems still attached, making them look like they came right out of the garden. Annie wondered if her own heightened state of awareness was due to Daphne’s presence. It was as if she were dining at the Verniers’ for the first time. A dazzling white linen cloth covered the table, and the fine old silverware felt heavy in her hands. The tinkling of plates and glassware added to the elegant party atmosphere. She heard herself taking part in conversations, laughing at anecdotes, complimenting her friend on the delicious meal, all with a strange sensitivity, as if she were outside of the room and looking in through tinted glass.
    After the salad course, Céleste brought out a platter of cheeses that she’d arranged artfully on a layer of overlapping green leaves. Annie recognized a chèvre, a creamy blue, and a generous wedge of Saint André. Céleste always remembered to include Wesley’s favorite. Next to it, a ripe, runny Camembert gave off an earthy, barnlike scent. Daphne chose that one.
    â€œTell me about your house in the country,” Wesley said.
    Georges had gotten up to refill the wineglasses. Enjoying the role of host, he carried a large white linen napkin over his arm like a proper sommelier. Annie felt a little warm, but she nodded when Georges reached for her glass. Thankfully, everyone now turned to Daphne.
    â€œIt’s called God House.”
    â€œWhat an auspicious name,” Bill said. “Did it used to be a convent or monastery?”
    â€œNot at all. It’s just a beautiful old house on the Seine, in a small town called Villandry. I inherited it from my French godmother. As a little girl, I called it God House, the house of my godmother. It was a silly childhood name, but we’ve called it that ever since.”
    â€œIt’s a wonderful name,” Annie said. “How did you come to have a French godmother?”
    â€œAntoinette worked in London when she was young. She went there to learn the antiques trade and stayed for nearly ten years.” Daphne’s face had taken on a dreamy expression, as if she was trying to visualize her godmother at that time in her life. “That’s where she met my mother. She came often to our house in Devon, and she and my mother became very dear friends.” Daphne lifted her hair again, a gesture that Annie would eventually associate with her.
    â€œWas God House her family home?” Georges asked. Like many traditional Frenchmen, he liked to know about one’s roots. He often spoke of his own boyhood in Burgundy, the family rituals, and of his brother, who still lived there and worked as a wine exporter. He’d never understood Wesley’s willingness to sell his parents’ home in Connecticut after their death or Annie’s reluctance to return to her small town in Vermont.
    â€œNo. Antoinette grew up in Paris, but when she moved back to France she bought the house in Villandry. She started her antiques business at God House with money she’d