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Jean-Phillipe sighed. How could he deny anything to this woman he loved most in the entire world? He got up, ruffled her hair and went to the fireplace where kindling lay neatly on the hearth.
"You know," he said, as he put a match to it, "that is the first thing I remember noticing about you, cherie, that despite your perfect schoolgirl French and your even more perfect schoolgirl clothes, you could not wait to walk around barefoot. 'The child is an American barbarian,' I said to myself, 'and her face is dirty but still, she shows promise.' "
Miranda smiled. She bent down, planted a quick kiss on the top of his head, then made her way to the wooden wine-rack built into the half-wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. "Red or white?"
"Red for me, always, but if you prefer..."
"Red's fine."
She chose a bottle, deftly uncorked it and poured two glasses. Jean-Phillipe made a face as she handed him a glass and sat down beside him on the carpet.
"This is a vintage bordeaux, Miranda. You are supposed to let it breathe."
"Really?" she said, flashing an impish grin. "Well, what do American barbarians know about letting wine breathe?" She took a slow sip. "Mmm, that's nice."
"Yes." He leaned back and smiled. "The studio sent over a case."
"Ah, the price of fame. Little girls oohing and ahhing, terrific vin rouge, an apartment fit for a king..."
"A prince, cherie. Until I succeed in my first Hollywood movie, I will not be a king."
"It's really that important to you?"
"You think I am silly, yes?"
"No. I'd never think anything about you was silly. I just don't see why it should matter so much."
"Who knows? Perhaps it is simply my actor's ego. Or perhaps I wish to prove that even one such as I can do whatever he sets his mind to."
Miranda put her hand lightly over his. "You mustn't say things like that."
"You are good for me, cherie. You always have been."
"As you have been, for me."
Jean-Phillipe smiled. "I think your fondness for me dates back to that long-ago evening when you realized your sacrifice would be unnecessary."
"You know it goes further back than that." Miranda laughed. "Was I that obvious?"
"About offering to martyr yourself by sleeping with me? Oh yes, you were as transparent as glass. Even after eight years, I can clearly recall the look of relief on your face when I turned you down."
She smiled, reached for the bottle of wine and refilled both their glasses.
"I didn't know how else to repay you. If you hadn't rescued me that night..."
"Who could have done less? There you stood, a poor waif stranded on the street-corner of life with the rain beating down on your head, soaked to the skin and looking as if you had lost your last friend."
"I'll never forget how I felt when you came up to me and said, 'Here, child, take this money and buy yourself a meal.' " She looked at him. "What made you do that? So many people had just walked by."
"Who knows? Perhaps it was that sad look in your eyes, or the way your shoulders were hunched against the chill." He chuckled. "On the other hand, it may have been that you reminded me of a half-drowned kitten I rescued when I was a boy. I have always been, how do you say, a sucker for orphaned animals."
"That was me, all right." Miranda's voice hardened. "Orphaned."
"You chose not to return home with your mother, n'est-ce pas?"
"Sure. The same way you chose to live your life the way you do." Sighing, she reached for his hand. "Never mind all that. I'm just trying to tell you what it meant to me, that you bought me supper, took me home and let me sleep on the sofa."
"Alors," he said, and shuddered, "with the mice that used to steal the stuffing from the cushions to keep you company. That apartment was not like this one, eh?"
