Free Pictures of the Past by Deby Eisenberg Page A

daughter earlier in the evening; even a married man with three small children would have found that introduction pleasing.
    “Yes, Taylor. Please, do what you need to do. We will have plenty of time to talk.” Taylor patted his shoulder, moving past him with the jaunty initial step and stride that football players take when called from the bench by the coach.
    Taylor stopped first at the table where there were still unused wine glasses and open bottles from the toast. The waiters having moved on, he poured two fresh glasses himself. He needed a reason to approach her.
    “Miss Berger,” he called, catching her attention, as she came back inside.
    “Please call me Sarah,” she answered, accepting the wine he offered and then clinking glasses with him in a mock toast.
    “I was thinking you were avoiding me,” he said.
    She gave him a doubtful look. “Well, no, just being friendly. I am substituting for my mother, you must understand. She was too busy at home with a charity event to accompany Papa—and she knows how I love Paris.” She paused before continuing. “Nevertheless, I am sure you are teasing me. You have been quite occupied, yourself, Mr. Woodmere.” She smirked when she said it, knowing what he would want her to call him, and so she added, “Taylor,” without his needing to ask.
    “Well, perhaps, but…”
    “And anyway didn’t I just meet you? …And didn’t I just meet, for instance, Monsieur Lester, your manager? And yet he is not chasing me to ask if I am ignoring him.”
    She had the most intoxicating, naturally flirtatious manner, he thought. “You’re funny.”
    “You think so?”
    “Yes—and that is a gift. Funny in a foreign language, even. And, by the way, Monsieur Lester seemed very sympathetic to my cause.”
    “And what cause is that, Mr. Taylor Woodmere?”
    He had been standing at least two feet from her as they conversed, but now he moved closer, establishing a greater intimacy. “What cause? At the very least to capture your interest,” he said, taking her wine glass and placing it with his on a nearby table, so that he might be able to hold both of her hands as he continued to repeat his words. “At the very least, to capture your interest…at the very most, to win your affection.” He continued bringing her hands to his lips for a cursory kiss.
    “Well, you are quite forward.”
    “But it’s the French custom, isn’t it? I have seen it in the movies. I am just being polite.” Reluctantly, he let go of her hands.
    She was trying to remain cool and composed, but the feel of his kiss on her hand had sent a warm shiver through her body. She tried to play with him to cover her reaction, cautious not to read too much into it. “So I am still wondering was there something specific that you wanted to discuss with me?”
    “Well, I just wanted to tell you that…I love…” He had been drinking in the deep water-blue of her eyes and wasn’t even cognizant that he had begun saying those words, “I love,” aloud. He didn’t know where the sentence would go when the words were released. He understood it was premature to say “I love you,” but it was the only way to express what he felt. And now those two words, “I love,” were hanging there with no immediate object. It was too late to sweep them back out of the air and into his private consciousness and so he let them land on her attire. “I just wanted to tell you that I love your dress.”
    “Why thank you. It is by Chanel. Do you know her in America? Coco Chanel. Very expensive, tres cher. Papa has allowed me this special treat because he knows that once we are back in Berlin, it will be a part of my mother’s wardrobe. I am lucky; we wear the same size.”
    He said nothing and just looked at the way the black and cream gown followed the contours of her body, unaware that the colors and textures of the dress were the signature of the Chanel line. She held her dress out to the sides, grasping the fabric with