Page 46 of One of Them

M uch as she missed Drew, Anne was relieved to be back in Paris.

The city was still cold. Still gray. But what had seemed dirty and slightly seedy when she’d first arrived now, after Palestine, seemed unbelievably luxurious.

Her classes resumed, and she threw herself into them—French poetry from the fifteenth through the nineteenth century, French classical drama, Greco-Roman art.

And Drew wrote to her, the thin blue onionskin envelopes filling her mail cubby, sometimes two on the same day. She answered the letters immediately and brought them, along with the letters she wrote to Delia, to the bureau de poste near the dormitory.

“He must be crazy about you,” Nancy said.

“It’s mutual,” Anne said. “We’re crazy about each other.”

“So it’s serious?”

Anne looked down, not sure how much to reveal. But her happiness must have been painted on her face, because Nancy said, “Anne Bishop, are you engaged to my brother?”

“No.” Anne felt a little deflated by the admission. “But he did give me this.” She showed Nancy the silver ring.

“Oh, I’d say that’s a major sign,” said Nancy.

“A major sign.” She sighed. “I’m happy for you both.

And my mother—she’s going to be happy too.

She’s going to adore you—just wait until you two meet!

” And then Anne learned she wouldn’t have to wait long to meet Mrs. Gilchrist, who had planned a trip to Paris in time for Easter.

Spring began to make its first fitful overtures.

One day the temperature climbed and the sun shone brightly, but the next day was gray again, with a wind that whipped around Anne’s face, making her eyes tear and nose run.

Yet even when it was chilly, she could see the tender green buds on the shrubs, and the early flowers—crocuses, snowdrops—starting to peek out.

Most days, Anne still needed her fur coat, though sometimes she left it open, or even wriggled her arms out of the sleeves and wore it on her shoulders.

That was how Delia had worn her coat when Anne first noticed her.

It seemed such a long time ago. She’d written to Delia, but had not heard back. Maybe she ought to write again.

But she didn’t. She had reached out to Delia so many times, apologized, tried to help her, and yet she always felt rebuffed.

Maybe it was time to accept that this friendship, unlike the spring flowers, would never blossom.

It looked as if Anne had squandered her chance with this interesting, intriguing person, and she wasn’t going to get another.

So she threw herself into her schoolwork and spent time with the new friends she’d made in Paris.

Some, like Rosalie, were from the United States, but there were others who came from different places—England, Scotland, Hong Kong, and even Australia.

Anne felt like her view of the world—and of herself—was being pried wide open.

Still, she somehow missed Delia—her sense of independence, her courage.

Anne still had the address of the kibbutz; she would write to her mother and see if she was still there.

One night she walked to Le Petit Saint Ben?it for an early dinner with Drew.

Ever since his return to Paris he’d been so busy; there hadn’t been much opportunity to get together.

The restaurant was nearly empty when she walked in.

She spotted him right away, sitting at a table near the window.

He got up from the table and kissed her on both cheeks, adopting the French custom she liked so much.

When they were seated, the waiter brought a carafe of wine and two glasses before whisking off to another table.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Hectic. And things are only going to get worse.” He poured the wine and took a long drink before she’d even raised her glass to her lips. “In fact, I just found out my trip’s been moved up. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” The word felt like a punch.

He nodded. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Palestine. Things are really heating up again.”

“More fighting?”

“More fighting.”

Anne didn’t reply, and she was glad when Drew changed the subject.

“I was hoping I would be here when my mother arrived,” he said. “But that’s not going to be possible, so Nancy will introduce you. She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

“What have you told her about me?”

“That you’re uncommonly pretty, extremely smart, and—”

“But not that I’m Jewish.”

“It didn’t exactly come up, no.”

“Drew—” Anne reached across the table to put a hand on his arm. “It’s not going to come up unless you tell her. Your mother is not going to ask about my religion, is she?”

“Well, no. She’ll just assume that you’re Christian.” He finished the wine in his glass and poured himself another. “That you go to church. Regular observance is pretty important to her.”

“But not to you.” She knew this because he’d told her so.

Back in February, on Ash Wednesday, Nancy’s forehead was smudged with ash but his had not been.

Also, he was having sex outside of marriage and using rubbers when he did, both things the church frowned upon.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling apprehensive about how Mrs. Gilchrist would take the news that she wasn’t Christian at all.

“No, you know that. We’ve been through it already.” Did she detect a touch of... asperity? Annoyance? Then his tone grew gentler. “I just wanted her to meet you first, to see how wonderful you are, before I brought it up. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“I suppose not.” She had a sip of wine and then another.

“You’re getting all upset for nothing. But there’s no reason for it.” He leaned across the table and took her hand. “Everything will work out. You’ll see. I just need to be careful with my mother. Ever since my dad left, it’s the role I’ve had to step into, like it or not.”

Anne knew about how Drew’s father had deserted them when he was ten and Nancy was four and how he’d become the man of the family, and felt the need to act strong for his mother and sister.

She also knew how he’d not seen his father again until he was eighteen; they had run into each other on the street, and he had found out that his father had made another life for himself—new wife, new kids.

He never told Nancy or his mother about that meeting; he bore the burden of that secret all alone.

And when he later learned that his father had died and left them nothing, he was glad he’d not brought it up.

It would only have hurt them all over again.

He’d been a good son, a good brother. A good person.

Anne felt the tension of the last few minutes ebbing away.

He was right. This divide between them—call it culture, call it religion—didn’t have to be a major issue for them.

The next day, Anne was with him as he moved briskly around his hotel room, stuffing clothes into his valise.

“I’ll miss you.” Her eyes strayed to the bed, where they’d made love several times now. She and Drew were lovers, a word that thrilled yet frightened her. It meant she had crossed into new territory; there were no signposts, no familiar landmarks to guide her.

“I’ll miss you too.” Drew was standing in front of her now, stroking her hair, her face.

His hand moved to the buttons on her blouse and undid the top one.

“Anne...” he said softly as he kissed her neck.

She shuddered in pleasurable anticipation.

Would they go to bed now, in the middle of the day?

They’d only been together at night before, and somehow this seemed even more illicit and compromising.

Then he stopped. “I wish we could. But there isn’t time,” he said. Within the hour, he was gone.

Evelyn Gilchrist arrived several days later, and the next evening Anne and Nancy met her for dinner at La Coupole.

She was a diminutive, subdued wren of a woman—dark gray coat, gray hat with a bit of a veil at the front, dark brown suit.

The only bright thing about her was the gold crucifix that sat snugly above the suit’s top button.

It was small, but it shone brightly, and Anne found her eyes drawn to it, making it hard for her to focus on their conversation.

But Mrs. Gilchrist was tired from her trip and needed to end the evening early.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more. Might we have lunch tomorrow?” They were out on the street again, standing in a pool of lamplight.

“Yes, I’m free,” said Anne. She had only one class in the morning, and it would be over before noon. “How about you?” She looked at Nancy.

“Oh, I wish I could! But I’ve got classes all day.”

“That’s all right, dear,” Mrs. Gilchrist said.

“It will give Anne and me a chance to get to know each other. Anne, let’s meet at the hotel.

I’m staying where Andrew is—he got me a room on his floor.

And Nancy, I’ll see you for dinner instead.

” She hugged her daughter but shook Anne’s hand—no embrace for her.

The next day Anne arrived a few minutes early and stood waiting for Mrs. Gilchrist in the lobby.

When she appeared, Anne noticed that she wore the same dark coat—the cross presumably tucked inside—and hat.

When Mrs. Gilchrist unbuttoned her coat at the restaurant, Anne saw she was right.

Once again the cross, tiny as it was, commanded her attention.

She kept looking at it and then away; she hoped Mrs. Gilchrist didn’t notice.

“So how are you liking your classes here in Paris?” Mrs. Gilchrist asked when they were seated.

“I’m really enjoying them.” Willing herself to look down, Anne took a bite of the asparagus on her plate; the vinaigrette with which it had been drizzled formed a pool around the stalks.

“And Drew says you’re majoring in art history?”

“I am. But after the time I’ve spent here, I’ve decided I’m going to do a double major—art history and French.”