Free Girl in the Afternoon by Serena Burdick Page B

him?”
    Leonie’s unquestioning support made something swell in Aimée’s throat. She gripped Leonie’s hand. “I don’t know.”
    â€œYou should ask Monsieur Manet. Isn’t he on the salon committee? They’ll know where to find him.”
    Aimée shook her head. “He’d tell Papa.”
    â€œYou don’t want your parents to know?”
    â€œI don’t think Henri would want it. I’m not sure he even wants me to go digging things up.”
    â€œDigging him up, you mean. What was the falling out?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Years ago Aimée had stopped working the events over in her mind, but now she thought of how she had stopped Henri in the corridor that night before he left. In one breath she had told him she loved him, that she’d loved him for years. First a look of confusion, or disbelief, had passed over Henri’s face, and then an embarrassed smile followed by a fervent kiss. With his hand clutched over hers, Henri had leaned down, brushed his lips over her ear, and whispered, I’ve loved you for years too.
    Leonie pitched forward, her breasts bulging. “I know lots of models. One of them must have heard of this Henri Savaray. Cafés would be the best place to start, assuming he’s still a bachelor. Surely he frequents the usual ones?”
    â€œIt’s not likely,” Aimée said. “Otherwise, Papa would have heard.”
    Leonie squeezed Aimée’s hand. “If your brother’s in Paris,” she said with a determined smile, “we’ll find him.”
    *   *   *
    It was mid-May when Leonie came to the door, wet from the rain and short of breath. Aimée met her in the vestibule where they clasped hands and nearly ran down the hall and up the stairs.
    They did not notice Colette watching through the open parlor door, her white-knuckled hand latched to the doorframe. Those girls were getting much too familiar with one another. It was one thing for Leonie to model, another entirely to strike up a friendship. It would not do to have Aimée running around with a girl of that class, becoming the topic of hushed intrigue.
    Colette turned to Madame Savaray, who sat with a book splayed open in her lap. “What do you think those girls are up to?”
    The old woman’s chin was tilted so far down it looked as if her spectacles would slip right off the end of her nose.
    â€œHow should I know?” Madame Savaray turned a page, deliberate and absorbed. She had her ideas, but she wasn’t about to share them with Colette.
    Watching Madame Savaray, Colette wished her belle-mère were one of those gossiping old ladies who spoke in low, disapproving voices, inciting scandal with raised eyebrows and knowing nods. Then they could discuss what might be taking place upstairs, why those girls were so giddy and secretive.
    â€œWhat?” Madame Savaray snapped. “What are you staring at?”
    â€œNothing.” Colette sighed and left the room. Her belle-mère would never be anything but cold and pragmatic, and far too reasonable for gossip.
    *   *   *
    Upstairs, Jacques woke from his nap. Hearing Aimée, he jumped out of bed and barreled into the hall, running smack into Leonie. For a moment he clung to her. Then he realized his mistake, and darted to Aimée.
    â€œHello, dearest,” Leonie said.
    Jacques rolled himself into Aimée’s skirt and buried his face.
    â€œNot now, Jacques.” Aimée unwound him so abruptly that Jacques backed away and squeezed his eyes shut, wrinkling up his face. Worried he was going to throw a fit Aimée crouched in front of him and softened her voice. “Are you hungry?” she said, brushing sweaty strands of hair off his forehead.
    Jacques nodded and stuck his thumb in his mouth, glancing suspiciously at Leonie.
    â€œBe a good boy, and go down to the kitchen. Tell Marie I said you