Page 59 of Our Strange Duet

“I just wanted to do something special for you,” he said. “Something fun.” He glanced up, taking in the lights and performers and the elephant that towered over it all.

A familiar-looking woman with flaming red hair danced by, her movements erratic and frenzied. She seemed all angles—pointed elbows and knobbed knees.

Meg let out a shallow gasp. “That’s Jane Avril!”

“Who?” I asked, taking a second look.

“La Mélinite. The girl on all the posters out front. She’s their star performer.”

I could see why. We watched her spin about, gliding through the crowd with an undeniable presence and a strange grace. Even when she was joined by another dancer, an impossibly tall and slender man dressed all in black and just as agile as Jane, it seemed as if she were performing on a stage completely alone. She was wholly absorbed in each movement, every flex of muscle, every lift of leg. It was marvelous to watch.

“This is certainly a far cry from our strolls along the boardwalk in Deauville, isn’t it?” Raoul said, his voice warm and low in my ear. I turned toward him and was surprised by how close he was, leaning in as if he couldn’t bear to have a single bit of space wasted between us.

“I loved those strolls,” I said, and dared to slip a hand along his forearm. It was hardly a bold act, certainly not in a place such as this, but it gave me a thrill to so openly show proof of my affection.

The line of lights hanging above us reflected in the blue of his eyes, making it look like the entire night sky was caught in his stare. “Do you remember the picnic we had in the attic?” he asked. “That afternoon when…Oh, what was it?”

“It stormed,” I said, remembering it all. “You’d come by to pick me up, but there was all that rain and those horrible gale winds. The one spot of bad weather during your whole holiday.”

“Funny, I don’t remember it being bad at all.” Raoul’s gaze flitted from mine, as if he were watching the memory play out before him like one of the acts onstage. “I remember we snuck up that loaf of bread and those thick cuts of cheese your father had just brought back from the market.”

“And we spread a blanket in front of the garret window and feasted while sprawled on a mound of pillows,” I added, drawing out the story with him as the flood of memories rushed over me. I could smell the dust of the floorboards and the ocean’s salt. Everywhere in Deauville smelled like the sea. I remembered the way the hairs on my arms rose when our fingers brushed, accidentally or not, and the exquisite ache of being sixteen and alone with a gorgeously handsome suitor.

“We were quite the bohemians,” he mused fondly. “Do you recall the game we played?”

I paused, thinking. There’d been the picnic and the pillows. We’d watched the rain lash at the windows, and I’d cried out in exaggerated alarm each time lightning shot across the sky, using it as an excuse to shiver closer to Raoul and his warm arms. We’d told silly stories, embellishing moments of no importance into acts of heroism or great comedy. And then there’d been…

“Little White Lies!”

Raoul smiled, looking pleased. “I thought myself so clever for coming up with it.”

“I don’t remember how it started.”

“You begin with a lie. A little, tiny thing that might go completely unnoticed. You speak it like a truth and then add on another and another, until the person you’re talking with calls one out. Whoever gets in the most lies wins.”

I snapped my fingers. “That’s right!”

The waitress arrived with her tray full of drinks. She handed coupes of champagne to Meg and me, then began passing out the tall absinthe glasses to the men. Each came with a flat spoon resting across the rim and a single cube of sugar. She offered a pack of matches, but Marcel pulled out a silver lighter and flicked it open with a practiced hand. The waitress set a carafe of spring water in the middle of the cups and, after giving the table a knowing grin, sauntered away.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” Narcisse offered, leaning in toward Frederick and Jean-Luc.

“Do you want to play again?” Raoul asked, drawing my attention to him.

“Don’t you want to…” I gestured to the production going on before us: the sugar cube’s inferno and subsequent dousing, the mixing in of the burnt granules so that the bright-green liquor turned as stormy as our attic afternoon.

He shrugged. “I’ve never really cared for absinthe.”

“Good heavens, how can you say that, man? It’s the nectar of the gods!” Philippe cried, overhearing him, then let out a loud hoot of laughter as Meg raised her coupe to his. “Santé!”

“Santé!” the rest of our group shouted back.

Raoul ignored them, keeping his eyes trained squarely on mine. “Do you?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, Christine.”

“I…” A delicious shiver of anticipation shot through me. I knew it was nothing but a silly little game, something that children would play, but each of his words fell with a strange weight, making it seem as if the stakes were somehow higher than before. “I do.”