Page 63 of It Happened In Paris

White umbrellas sheltered linen-covered tables adorned with floral centerpieces, champagne flutes, and bite-sized pastries. A string quartet played under a white gazebo, their melody light and fluttering in the sunny spring air. Miriam moved gracefully among her guests in a crisp ivory sheath dress, her husband Mr. Astor by her side, exuding his usual quiet authority.

Before long, Paris’ nanny and tutor swept her away to join a few other children painting in the shade of a tree. She glanced back with a fluttering wave.

Vivian watched her go before looking up at me. “She’s so happy.”

“She’s safe and healthy, too,” I said. “That’s what happiness looks like. Now, beautiful, can I show you off as we parade through?”

I offered my elbow, and she accepted it, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride with her by my side. I led her through the garden, introducing her to some of Miriam’s acquaintances—curators, patrons, and even a French senator who lingered for a bit too long kissing her hand, prompting me to step in a little closer.

Vivian exuded graciousness, poise, and effortless elegance, gaining many appreciative glances from Miriam’s friends. “DidI tell you yet how stunning you are today?” I murmured, lightly brushing my hand down her back, and resting at the lower part of it, as we savored the finest French champagne beside the ornate archway leading to Mother’s rose garden.

She looked up with a grin. “It’s because this gown is exquisite, thanks to your black card.”

“I merely provided the means—you brought the dress to life. Gave it shape. A rather pleasing to look at silhouette.”

Before she could respond, she fell quiet, her gaze drifting toward a woman approaching through the garden. “Jeanne’s here.”

Tall, poised, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back into a neat chignon, Jeanne embodied grace, accented by her pearl earrings and matching necklace—exactly as one would expect from a renowned Christian lady.

We moved closer as Adrien’s mother welcomed the various guests. At the sight of Vivian, her face lit up.

“Vivian, my dear, come here,” Jeanne called out warmly, arms open. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Hello, Jeanne. It’s wonderful to see you,” Vivian replied, and they embraced, greeting with cheek kisses while Jeanne stepped back to admire her. “You look radiant. The years have only increased your beauty.”

“You are lovely, and too kind,” Jeanne replied. “When you visited Adrien last year, Paris was five then. She showed me her drawing of a unicorn spaceship.” Jeanne recalled with a wistful nod.

Vivian grinned. “I remember. She still draws those from time to time.”

“I have missed her terribly. The divorce was such a disappointment. I did not agree with it. But Adrien has never listened to me. You were the best thing that he ever had. Is Paris here with you?”

“Yes, she’s over there painting right now. But I’d love for you two to spend some time together visiting in a little while.”

Jeanne’s eyes drifted past Vivian, searching for Paris. “Yes. I would like that very much. I regret not keeping in touch better over the years.”

Turning her attention back to us, her eyes rested on me and her smile brightened further.

“And you,” she said, stepping forward and taking my hands. “Richard Buchanan. I have not seen you since you were, what, twenty-five?”

“Something like that. How are you, Jeanne?” I gave her the customary kisses on the cheek.

“I am fine. You know my charities keep me busy. My, but you have become a remarkable man. I read the article of you in the Financial Times. Your father would be proud.”

“Thank you,” I said, a peculiar lump in my throat as I glanced at Vivian.

Miriam joined us then, drifting in on a wave of perfume and clutching champagne flutes. Cheek kisses were exchanged once more.

“Jeanne, can you believe our children are all grown?” Miriam said wistfully.

“I was so sorry to miss Rex’s wedding. As you know, every Christmas we spend with the children at our orphanage in Nepal. God bless the little ones.” Jeanne punctuated her words with a sign of the cross.

Extending her hand, Miriam said, “It’s been years since I last donated to your orphanage. I’d love to contribute again.”

“I’m seeking a particular donor for our new library. How wonderful would it be to have it named after you?”

“The Miriam Library? Yes. Let’s hit up Mr. Astor before you leave today.” And that’s how the elite got things done. Money talked.

“Very kind. Richard, your mother has always been the most generous—” Jeanne began, but halted abruptly upon spotting someone I’d been expecting from across the way.

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