Free Paris in Love by Eloisa James Page A

day at school is Japanese curry—specifically, Golden Curry made with five onions microwaved into pale, translucent, lettucelike pieces, as taught by my Japanese sister-in-law, Chiemi. The children gobble it the way a fat Frenchman gobbles foie gras: with concentration and delight.

    At fifteen, Luca has left “Mama” behind and now calls me “Mom,” whereas Anna still howls “Mama!” across the whole apartment. It occurred to me yesterday that the day will come when no one will call me “Mama,” and I won’t realize it that day, or even the day after, just as I have no memory of Luca’s last “Mama.” There are so many Last Times in parenting—the last book read aloud, the last nursing session, the last bath.

    We have guests visiting from Florence, so parts of the family trekked to the top of Notre-Dame, about 380 steps. I stayed at ground level, tucked into a café, watching rain splash on chilled tourists. The children descended again very excited: on the very top of the cathedral the first snowflakes of the season had drifted into their hands, although down below there was nothing but rain.

    A few days ago, Anna’s Italian teacher burst into tears, which Anna credited to general class naughtiness. So today Domitilla showed up in a dress, according to Anna, and presented the teacher with a fancy notebook and three pencils “from the class” to make up for their misbehavior. Anna is very scornful of this effort.

    Window shopping today at Nina Ricci: cream-colored silk pumps, with six-inch-high cork heels, from which pearls dangled. The shoes reminded me of a Christmas ornament I once made as a child, with stick pearls and a Styrofoam ball. A Kmart special for the very rich.

    I have figured something out about living with a teenager: most conversations will not be successful, if that definition implies a meaningful exchange. If I snap, my fifteen-year-old son snarls back at me. If I’m in a good mood, I’ll coax a sentence out … though if I ask what’s happened at school, the answer is always: “Nothing.” Leonardo da Vinci High School, otherwise known as the Black Hole of Paris.

    Florent told Alessandro today that he is worried that his love for the Italian waitress will never come to anything. For one thing, he is forty-one and she is much younger, a university student when she is not waitressing. They did have a lovely evening together on his last visit. He talked most of the time, but she seemed responsive. I do not have a good feeling about this, but Alessandro says that romance writers should be more optimistic.

    Street vendors are selling Christmas trees that are flocked white—but also bright scarlet and vivid purple. The department stores are piled with ornaments separated by color: here all black ornaments, there all transparent glass, or Pepto-Bismol pink. No one seems to offer life-size Santas entrapped in huge plastic fish-bowls blowing with endless snow. Of course, there are no front yards, but I sense that’s not the reason …

    Last night Anna and her friend Nicole were building a complicated house in the living room, involving the couch, my yoga mat, a little table, a ton of blankets, et cetera. From my study, I could hear Nicole warbling on in her lovely English accent, then suddenly, “Anna, do I talk too much?” And, with the uncompromising honesty of childhood, the response: “Yes.”

    We went out for tea with Italian friends who professed themselves dazzled by the way Alessandro chatted with the waiter in French. He smiled modestly … until the orders arrived. Mycheese plate (
fromage
from the Gay Château) came as ordered, as did all other orders, except my husband’s. He had requested a
tisane du berger
(a cup of tea), and a
lasagne aux aubergines
(eggplant lasagna) arrived instead. How the mighty have fallen!

    Alessandro is making friends with the young, very conservative priest of Saint-Eugène–Sainte-Cécile. It turns out that our jewelry box of a