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Their food arrived at their table, along with the scent of herbs and garlic. Char-grilled chicken, a salad tossed in walnut oil, a delicate potato dish.
She thought back to that night in Bistro Claude. It had been a shadow of the real thing.
She and Philippe ate, and while they ate they talked. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, but there was an edge to it. An unfamiliarity.
“I looked at your website.” Grace helped herself to more salad. “You have a manic schedule.”
“I do.” He served her some chicken. “Try this. They marinade it in herbs and lemon juice and it’s deliciously tender.”
She sliced into the chicken. “I was lucky you happened to be in Paris.”
“I’m here for two weeks, then on to Budapest, Prague and Vienna.”
“Don’t you miss home?”
“Home, for me, is a concert hall. What do you think of the chicken?”
“It’s delicious. After I left—did you find someone else? Tell me you fell in love.”
“I did, although not with a woman.” He must have seen her surprise because he laughed. “Not with a man, either. I fell in love with music. The piano. The life of a musician.”
She swallowed. “You’re saying you didn’t love anyone after me?” That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wanted to hear that he’d married the love of his life and had two adorable children.
“There are women, of course, but no one special.” He gave a half smile and raised his glass. “Once you’ve had the real thing, everything else seems fake.”
Her heart ached. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be.” He put his glass down. “You did me a favor. It’s because of you I have the life I have now.”
“What about family? Kids? A job shouldn’t be everything.”
“Music isn’t a job to me.”
She felt sick. “So you’re saying that I broke your heart and you never dared try love again? That’s terrible. I feel terrible.”
“Don’t.” His voice was soft. “You did me a favor, Grace. I was heartbroken, it’s true, but because of that I focused on my music. All the things I had enjoyed before, partying, dating, drinking, none of them could hold my interest. But the piano did. I played seven, eight hours a day, trying to fill the emptiness.”
“You always were talented.”
“Talent without hard work is like icing without cake. You need both. Because of you, I went from being a mediocre pianist to a good one.” His eyes gleamed. “You are partly responsible for this life I have, so dinner is on me.”
How could he joke about it? “You’re saying I made you miserable so you practiced for hours. How is that supposed to make me feel good?”
“It was more than hours of practice.” He leaned back. “Before you, my playing was missing something. Not technique, but passion. I was young. I had great teachers, and they all said the same thing—that my playing was technically brilliant but lacked emotional depth. Loving and losing did more for my playing than any master class.”
Grace managed a smile. “I charge by the hour for heartbreaking.”
He reached for his glass. “Don’t feel guilty, Grace. It is all part of life. Each experience teaches us something different and moves us to a different place. Nothing is wasted.”
Was that true?
“I saw the reviews of your last concert. ‘Good pianist’ wasn’t mentioned. I saw ‘electrifying,’ ‘exciting’ and ‘one of the most talented musicians of the decade.’”
“Come to a concert and you can judge for yourself.”
“Seriously?”
“Why not?” He passed her a basket of bread. “Try this.”
