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his sleeves and dig in, no matter how dirty or menial the job. But yes, she could see why Dolly had fallen for him, married or not.

Henri caught sight of her and grinned, his mustache twitching up at the corners, his broad face creasing.

“Ah, how does it go, Annie!” he called, then looking beyond her he added, “And Bernard, how is it that you do us the honor of climbing the stairs in the middle of the day?”

Annie realized with a jolt that Pompeau had followed her, coming up behind her so quietly she hadn’t heard him. Of course, the old fussbudget couldn’t resist seeing her make a fool of herself. Her cheeks burned, but she fought the urge to turn around; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how nervous she was. She made herself focus on C้cile, who had returned to her station behind the display case, where she was rearranging one of the baskets. The bell tinkled as a customer pushed her way in through the door, a heavyset woman who looked about timidly as if she didn’t dare step farther into so fancy a store. C้cile beckoned to her reassuringly.

Behind her, Annie heard Pompeau give a low, raspy chuckle. “I may be of a certain age, but I still feel strong as a Turk. And in a few weeks, when I take the baths at Baden-Baden, I will be made young again. And you?”

Henri sighed and something dark, like a cloud shutting out the sun, flitted across his face. Looking closely, Annie could see how tired he appeared to be. More than just a little run-down … he seemed … well, shrunken somehow, much older than she remembered him.

He misses Dolly, she realized. She knew, because she’d so often seen the same sad expression of longing on Dolly’s face. They only saw each other about every other month, and even the letters and phone calls in between were clearly not enough to bridge the gap.

But if Henri was sad, he seemed determined not to let it show. As Pompeau stepped past Annie, Henri strode over and clapped the old man’s stooped shoulder. Then he kissed both Annie’s cheeks, greeting her as if he had not seen her in years, instead of just months.

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“Monsieur Henri,” Pompeau asked, “did all go well in Marseilles?”

“In Marseilles, yes.” Sighing, he added, “But I have just learned of problems in Grenada, at the plantation.”

“Not serious, I hope.”

“Broken windows, a fire in one warehouse. Agitators, I am told. We have reports that they are controlled by the Communists. And the government, such as it is, also wishes only to make trouble. It appears that I must go there to see for myself the extent of the damage, and whether the political situation is as bad as they say. Monsieur Girod, he believes we must sell. Sell!” Henri shook his head, and pressed a thick finger against the bottom button of his jacket, as if to soothe some indigestion.

He seemed lost in himself; then he appeared to shrug off his gloom, and cast a bright, curious gaze upon Annie. “Forgive me, I have not even asked about you. Is there something you wish to speak with me about? Monsieur Pompeau here … he has not terrorized you, I hope, into losing your voice, hmmm?”

His gray eyes shone with kindness and good humor. Annie felt the knot of dread in her stomach loosen. Henri was no Pompeau. Even if he felt he had to let her go, he wouldn’t be cruel.

No, Henri would let her down easily. But would that be any better? Oh, she couldn’t bear it, having him feel sorry for her!

And to top it off, he obviously wasn’t feeling well. How could he enjoy any truffle now, even a good one?

“Monsieur Henri, I don’t wish to impose on your time any further,” Pompeau began, without looking at Annie. “But, Mademoiselle Cobb …”

“It’s a new flavor we came up with,” Annie abruptly interrupted. “We’d like your opinion.” If Henri hated it, she’d take the full blame, but until then … she didn’t want him to be prejudiced by her inexperience.

A crease formed between Henri’s heavy brows, and Annie’s heart sank. Suddenly, she was seeing herself through Henri’s eyes-wearing jeans and a turtleneck (why hadn’t she thought to put on a dress?), her hair damp

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and dishevelled from a morning spent over a hot stove, no makeup, not even lipstick. Why should he take her seriously?

She handed him the box, her heart pounding. Henri peered at the truffle for a long time, examining it the way a doctor might study a wart. Annie felt a cool thread of perspiration trickle between her breasts.

Emmett had said it was good … but he might have been exaggerating to be nice. And Pompeau had refused even a small taste, protesting that he wanted Henri’s opinion to be unclouded by his own.

Now Henri was nibbling at the firm outer shell of couverture with its pale dusting of bitter almond. Should she have used a different kind of nut, hazelnut or pecan? No, she had tried them … and they were both good with the Poire, but the bitter almond was better.

She watched, her every nerve strung taut, as Henri popped the truffle into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.

Just as she thought she couldn’t bear the suspense a moment longer, Henri smiled.

“Formidable!” he pronounced. “It has a marvelous texture, and the taste … sublime. Bernard, I compliment you. This is an achievement. And will do well with our customers, I am certain.”

Pompeau! He thought the old man had done it! She felt sick. What should she do now? How could it ever have turned out like this?

“I… you see … it was…” She watched Pompeau flush a brick red, and begin to sputter. She breathed a little easier. A bullying martinet he was, but not a cheat; he would tell Henri the truth.

Then something occurred to Annie. Maybe letting him take the credit could help her even more than if she took it for herself.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat, she could almost hear Dearie saying.

“Monsieur Pompeau has a gift like no one else,” she put in quickly. Not a lie exactly. “It’s such a privilege for me to be able to work with him.”

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Shovelling it on pretty thick, aren’t you?

Had she gone too far? Then she saw how the old man was puffing up with pride. The glance he shot in her direction was one of pure delight. Good, she’d made the right choice. If she had pointed out that the truffle was her creation-after Henri had mistaken it for Pompeau’s-the old man would have been embarrassed, and would probably have held it against her. It was to Pompeau that she had to answer each day, not Henri. And if Pompeau decided to like her, to take her under his wing, she could really learn from him, everything he knew, not walk away with just this one little feather in her cap.

And when this was over, she’d have something.

Annie felt a surge of happiness that seemed to fill her with bright light. An orange sun shimmering just below her breastbone, warming her insides, radiating from her fingertips, flying from her hair in sparks. She was magic. Nothing could stop her.

And, yes, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

You’re not enjoying this,” Emmett whispered in the darkness.

Annie felt a stab of guilt. Their big evening out, a chamber music concert at the Sainte Chapelle, and she was ruining it for Emmett. Above her, and surrounding her on all sides, the Gothic chapel’s famous stained glass shone in the murky light like a crown of dark rubies. And under the spotlight, in front of the double rows of folding chairs, the cellist was playing Mozart, the music resounding in this soaring space with a clarity she’d never before heard. But she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t keep her mind off Joe… .

Two months, Annie thought. Two months and

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eleven days, to be exact-it had taken him that long to answer her letter and postcards. Not even a phone call. And then finally, among this morning’s mail, which her landlady, Madame Begbeder, had left in a little pile on the rickety hall table by the front door, between letters from Laurel and Dolly, she’d spied it: a thin blue airmail envelope addressed to her in Joe’s bold scrawl.

Annie recalled how in her eagerness to open the envelope she’d ripped off one corner of the letter inside. And how her pulse had thumped as she’d scanned the page. He was happy she was getting along so well at Girod’s, he wrote, and that she was learning so much. Wasn’t Paris beautiful in May? Had she visited the Jeu de Paume yet? Had she seen the produce stalls at Les Halles?

Nothing about him missing her, or not being able to wait until she got back. Nothing about him at all, except how busy he was with the restaurant, and his catering. And, oh yes-how poor Rafael had been badly bitten by one of his dogs.

Annie had felt so disappointed, she’d wanted to cry.

Even now, with Emmett, who was so much fun, and who usually kept her from being homesick, she felt a loneliness so deep it ached in the pit of her stomach. It had to be partly this place, too, this heavenly music-too much loveliness, Annie thought, could break your heart as well as too little. Especially feeling as miserable as she did.

“It shows?” she whispered to Emmett.

“We don’t have to stay.”

“But …”

Before she could remind him how much he’d spent for the tickets, she felt him tugging her to her feet. Together, they slipped down the narrow aisle alongside their row of chairs. In the dim light, Annie stumbled on the ancient, uneven stone flooring, and would have tripped if Emmett hadn’t caught her. She felt his arm, solid and sturdy under hers, and was both steadied and reassured. Even his smell-a smell she associated with campfires and crackling autumn leaves and old leather worn smooth as glass-comforted her somehow.

Outside, in the stone courtyard abutting the entrence,

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Annie turned to him and said, “Em, there’s absolutely no reason for you to miss the concert because of me. I can make it home on my own.”

“Listen, Cobb, I’ve got an even better idea.” He winked at her, hooking an arm about her shoulders. “I know a caf้ not far from here. When you’re feeling low, a Pernod and a shoulder to cry on beats Mozart any day.”

“Stop being so nice! You’re making me feel even more guilty.”

“In that case, I’ll let you pay for the drinks.”

“Okay.” She laughed. “It’s a deal.”

As they strolled in the mild summer evening past the thick stone walls surrounding the Palais de Justice, Annie began to feel not only selfish, but slightly ridiculous. She was probably making a big deal out of nothing. Did it really matter what Joe had written? The important thing was, he’d written. And it wasn’t as if her letter to him had been so gushy either.

Annie glanced over at Emmett. He was wearing gray dress slacks, and a tan blazer over a white button-down shirt. She couldn’t help thinking how handsome he looked; he could have passed for a young lawyer or stockbroker -except for his boots. Annie had never seen him without those old cowboy boots, tanned leather rubbed smooth as driftwood, their toes scuffed almost white, heels rounded with wear. They gave him not only a quirkiness she liked, but a faint air of detachment-with those boots, he seemed to be saying, “I’m a travelling man, so don’t you get too attached.”

She felt a surge of gratitude toward Emmett, for being a friend … and at the same time not putting even the slightest romantic pressure on her. After all their weeks of working together so closely, and the meals they’d shared in smoky bistros, he’d never even kissed her good night. Was he even attracted to her? At times, she felt something between them … a kind of energy … a heat … and other times she couldn’t be sure how he felt about her, other than that he liked being with her.

Crossing the Seine at Pont St-Michel, where an old man peddling postcards blew her a kiss, Annie wondered

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what it would be like if Emmett were to kiss her. She felt suddenly, acutely conscious of the warm weight of his arm draped about her shoulders.

God, what’s wrong with me? I thought this was about Joe, not Emmett.

The sidewalk caf้ was only a pleasant walk from the bridge, on the place St-Michel, tables and chairs pushed up against one another under a scalloped greenand-pink awning, people all crowded together, chattering and gesturing, as if this was some wonderful, noisy party to which everyone was invited. Annie and Emmett waited a few minutes until they spotted a couple leaving, and then quickly slid into their still-warm seats.

“Feeling any better?” Emmett asked.

“Much,” she told him, realizing as she spoke that it was the truth.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” she said.

“That bad?”

“No, it’s … well, it’s silly. There’s really nothing to tell.”

“Let me guess-tall, dark, and handsome?”

Annie, despite a slight chill in the air, felt her face flush with warmth.

She nodded, her gaze wandering over to the couple across from her, the man leaning across their table to light the woman’s cigarette, their gazes locking. The woman put out her hand to steady his as he extended the match.

“Only two things harder than pig iron-a woman’s will, and a man’s heart,” Emmett quipped, affecting the Will Rogers drawl he used when he was trying to kid her out of a bad mood.

Annie looked at him, and saw that he was wearing a languid smile, his blue eyes flicking over her as if trying to read her. But she sensed the empathy behind that smile, and she found herself leaning toward him, drawing into his warmth as she would to a campfire’s on a cold night.

“There’s no reason … absolutely no reason at all for him to get all sentimental just because I’m here and he’s there,” she blurted, speaking in a firm voice, more to

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convince herself than Emmett. “I mean, we’re just friends, good friends. Why should he suddenly start writing me love letters when he’s not even in love with me?”

“But you’re in love with him.” Again, not a question, but a statement. Emmett’s gaze fixed on her, mildly challenging.