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“He's French,” Laura says. “They have romance oozing out their pores. It doesn't necessarily mean anything.”
“Ouch.” Gina cringes. “Go easy on her.”
“It's okay,” I reply. “I need a reality check. As it is, his fiancée is coming to dinner.”
“His fiancée?” they all say in unison, and I nod my head.
“Oh dear.” Laura shakes her head. “Best you mind your manners.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I reply. “Only the best Southern hospitality around here.”
“That a girl.” She nods in approval. “I miss you. How many more days left?”
I've been trying not to keep count. There are moments when it feels like it's going by so quickly and others where it feels like I've already lived half my life here.
“Six days,” I reply. My phone alarm buzzes. “Twenty minutes to dinner. I've got to go. Grandmama will need me, and I want to spruce up a bit.”
“Mm-hmm,” Laura mutters at me.
“Just in the normal way,” I insist, but I know she sees right through me.
“Bon appétit.” She winks and hangs up.
That was only a gentle fib. I can doll up in five minutes flat. The truth is I need to go back over my rule book before dinner with Simone. How embarrassing would it be if I let something horrible slip? Imagine a total French faux pas in front of both her and Grandmama? I banish the thought and flip through the pages for relevant rules.
Rule number forty-eight. Do not talk about politics and religion at the dinner table. If the subjects must be approached, it should be after all food is served and a digestive drink is in hand.
I can handle that one.
Rule number sixty-three. When toasting, look the person in the eye, do not speak, and do not cross your arms with others. Do not put the glass down until you have toasted with every other member at the table, or at least raised your glass while making eye contact. Putting the glass down is a sign of great disrespect, both for the individual and for the wine. Of utmost importance, you must take a drink after all toasting is complete and not before, or else you are not only insulting the company and the wine, but the host as well.
Note to self: Follow what everybody else does when the wine is being served.
“Natalie.”
I hear Olivier's voice only moments before he opens the door.
"Really, Olivier, you’ve got to put locks on these doors. What if I wasn't dressed yet?”
“It's ten minutes to dinner, of course you'd be dressed.”
He's not wrong. “I'm ready.”
“What are you reading?”
I speedily slam the book shut, the breeze of it fluffing my bangs into the air.
“Nothing.” I stuff the book under my pillow.
“Nothing? Nothing that you have to hide?”
“It's just that it's very American.” That's kind of true, only an American would be reading a rule book on French culture rules.
“You know that I love many American writers. You can show it to me.”
“No, I can't.”
“Yes, you can.”
