Marina waited outside the clothing boutique, her eyes scanning the street for a café where she could have a coffee, slip a book out of her bag, and read. She’d have to let Angie know where she was, of course. For all her friend’s strong opinions and nonstop chatter, she knew Angie was nervous about being alone on the streets of Paris.

The trip had been Angie’s idea, proposed one winter day on a hike around the lake near Angie’s new condo. Bill had been gone for three years, and Angie had sold her house, packed up the remains of their life together, and disbursed it to her four children. Angie had always wanted to go to Paris and had tried to persuade Bill many times, but the farthest they’d traveled was to Las Vegas—close enough for him since he could see the Eiffel Tower without getting a passport. Now she was alone with a comfortable income, thanks to Bill’s excellent money management. Angie wanted to go to places she’d always dreamed about: Paris first, and if that went well, London, Dublin, and Rome.

After all, life was short and could be snuffed out in a second, as she and Marina both knew very well. Angie’s Bill had suffered a massive heart attack while raking leaves on a beautiful November day and died right there on their front lawn. Just a year later Marina opened her door to two state troopers who told her that Jeff, her husband of twenty years and the father of her three stepchildren, had been killed in a crash on the Mass Pike. A late November snow squall blew through, blinding drivers and causing a twenty-car pileup.

That was two years ago. Marina, who’d traveled extensively with Jeff in their years together, hadn’t been anywhere since his death. She loved Paris, spoke French fluently, and thought that showing her old friend around might be just what she needed to get herself traveling again. But Angie wanted to shop, returning to their hotel each day with bags full of gifts for her children and grandchildren. Marina wanted to read in French, sip coffee in cafés while she watched people go by, look at paintings at the Musée d’Orsay and think about her life with Jeff. But perhaps it was time to think about her life without him. 

The women had met in kindergarten and were best friends throughout their school years. Angie had gotten married in the fall after their high school graduation and Marina came home from college to be her Maid of Honor. They grew apart as college life, followed by Marina’s teaching career, led the two women on different paths. They saw each other occasionally until Marina met and married Jeff when she was thirty-nine and became a stepmother to his three young children; then she called Angie frequently for advice.

But that was all behind them now. They were sixty-one and their kids were grown. Angie’s kids had families of their own. The women were widows, trying to find their place in the world.

Marina found a café after walking a few blocks. She ordered coffee and texted Angie directions. People passed by on the sidewalk—tourists in comfortable shoes and sun hats, well-dressed women in tight jeans and stiletto heels, young, slender dog walkers with three or four creatures on leashes. Marina enjoyed cafés on her frequent trips to Europe for many years, either with Jeff at her side or just a text or call away. Whenever she spotted something that interested her or made her laugh, her hand would automatically reach for her phone. It took her several seconds to remember that he would not respond. The finality of that still took her breath away before the sadness flooded through her. She wondered if that would ever go away.

She spotted Angie making her way down the street, anxiously looking for her. Marina stood up and waved. Her friend’s relief was visible as she smiled and joined her at the small table.

“I hardly recognized you. You look like a real parisienne sitting there.”

A waiter asked Angie if she would like anything.

“What are you having?” she asked Marina

“Café au lait.”

Angie looked at her watch. “I suppose it’s too early for wine. Café au lait it is, s’il vous plait.”

Marina noticed that Angie wasn’t carrying a shopping bag for once. “No luck in the boutique?”

“No, but I learned something interesting.” She leaned across the table toward her friend. “There was very intriguing music playing, sort of Turkish sounding but with a modern beat. I looked up on my phone how to say, ‘I like this music’ in French. The salesgirl was very nice—they’re not always nice in these shops—sometimes they’re very snooty—but this one smiled and told me the music was from Hotel Costes. She told me all about it and we simply have to go there. Have you ever been?”

Marina shook her head.

“Well, I think we should go tonight. Just for one drink. We can get all dressed up. It’s probably wildly expensive, but I’m sure we can afford one drink.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“The girl said it’s ‘très sensuelle.’ It smells wonderful, she said, and everywhere is lit by candles and decorated in red velvet.”

It sounded a little tacky to Marina, but tacky in Paris was a far cry from tacky in Albany, New York, where they lived. Marina agreed to indulge her friend, but first insisted they visit the Picasso Museum in the Marais. They had a late lunch at a little bistro near their hotel and went back to rest until Angie deemed it an appropriate time to head to the hotel. They couldn’t go before eight-thirty, otherwise they’d look like a couple of tourists.

“Aren’t we, though?” Marina asked.

“As long as you do the talking, in French, and I just smile and nod my head, no one needs to know that.”

Marina laughed.

They took a taxi to the Place Vendôme and walked a short distance to the hotel. Every aspect of it was exquisite—the ceilings painted a deep red, the woodwork dark and ornate. And just as the salesgirl had told Angie, très sensuelle, with slightly exotic music weaving its own spell.

The two women found their way to the bar and headed for a table, but suddenly that felt too painfully intimate to Marina. She wanted to be there with her husband and knowing it couldn’t be so, squeezed her friend’s arm. At nine o’clock it was not very crowded, and they found two empty stools at the long bar. Marina spoke in French to the bartender, and he responded in kind. He recommended their signature cocktails, and she ordered mojitos without asking Angie. After all, she wanted to pretend to be French tonight. Let her have her harmless deception if it made her happy.

When the bartender stepped away Angie whispered, “I’m paying for these.”

“Okay, merci,”

“Have you ever seen a more romantic setting in your life? It’s perfect for a marriage proposal. Oh, to be young again. What was I thinking, getting married at eighteen and spending vacations in the Finger Lakes or the Catskills when I could have been in Paris? What a fool I was.” Angie stopped speaking as their drinks arrived, beverages as beautiful as the room itself. She took the first sip. “Oh, my God, I could live like this for the rest of my life.”

“You’d run out of money, Angie. But you can still live well and have adventures…”

“Excusez-moi, Mesdames.” They turned to see a tall, dark-haired man with a well-trimmed, graying beard standing behind them. He wore a silk shirt under a black sports jacket with a paisley silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. “You are American?” His accent was French.

“Oui!” Angie answered with a friendly smile.

Marina only glanced at him and took a sip of her cocktail.

“Mon amie parle francais très bien,” Angie told the man, tapping lightly on Marina’s arm.

“Ah,” he said with a polite smile. “I speak English. My friend and I would be honored if you would join us at our table.” He indicated a table across the room where the friend nodded and smiled.

“Oh, merci. How nice.” Angie looked at Marina, who seemed fascinated with her cocktail napkin. “Can you give us a few moments, please?”

“Certainement.” His voice was a rumbling, sexy baritone. “Join us when you’re ready.”

“Marina, this is no time to be a stick-in-the-mud. You were just saying I should have adventures and poof—this handsome creature invites us to join him. What’s the matter with you?”

Her friend took a deep breath and exhaled with a sigh. “Angie, I didn’t come out tonight to get picked up in an overpriced hotel bar.”

“Neither did I. And really Marina, it’s not like we’re going to sleep with them, for heaven’s sake. We’ll just have one drink and then say goodnight.”

“I’m not sure it works that way, Angie.”

“Oh, come on. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m just not ready for this. I’ve been on the verge of tears since we walked in here. I want to be at one of those romantic, candlelit tables with my husband. I don’t want to make small talk with strange men.”

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. You used to do these sorts of things with Jeff. Of course it’s hard. I never did anything remotely similar with Bill so it doesn’t hurt. Going to the hardware store hurts, picking up my grandkids at the bowling alley hurts. But this, this feels good.”

Marina’s eyes glistened with tears, but she couldn’t help but chuckle. She dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “Okay, one drink. But don’t get carried away or flirt brazenly with these men. And after one drink we tell them we have to go. If you want anything more, give him your cellphone number, but keep me out of it. I’ll be civil, but I won’t be charming.”

Angie nodded and turned to lead the way to a dim corner of the room where the men stood and introduced themselves. Étienne was the handsome Frenchman, the other man, Michel, a Canadian. Both were businessmen, Étienne explained, and friends for many years.

Angie explained that she was retired, traveling with her best friend from childhood, who had visited Paris many times.

The men looked with interest at Marina and she realized she’d appear very rude if she didn’t speak.

“Yes, I taught French and Art History for many years in a private school in New York. I love the French language. I’d enjoy speaking French with you, but let’s speak English for Angie’s sake, please.”

“Of course. Michel is also fluent in both languages.”

Étienne asked her where they’d visited and Marina told him of their forays into the Musée d’Orsay, the Rodin, the Picasso. She found herself slipping into French, and Étienne followed.

Angie turned her attention to Michel, asking him where in Canada he was from. A pleasant conversation ensued between them. Michel told her his wife had died a year ago and that he had two daughters and a baby grandson. Soon they were pulling out their phones, sharing family pictures, while Étienne and Marina continued to speak quietly in French.

Somehow, another round of drinks arrived, and Angie looked worriedly at Marina, afraid she’d protest, but she only thanked Étienne and took a sip.

Halfway through the second cocktail Angie’s conversation with Michel ran out of steam. Yet the stream of French conversation between Marina and Étienne flowed with an ease that impressed, and at the same time, irked Angie. She spoke to Michel.

“Didn’t she say ‘let’s speak English for Angie’s sake’ just a few minutes ago? I do know basic French, but I can’t follow them at all.”

“Yes, they seem to have found their own rhythm. Perhaps we should leave them for a bit. I could show you other parts of the hotel. There’s a lot to see.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

“I’ll bring you back to this spot in thirty minutes, I promise. You’ve nothing to fear from me.” He reached over and spoke softly to his friend. “We’ll return at ten o’clock, d’accord?”

“Bien,” his friend said with a nod.

Marina stayed silent. Angie glared at her. What was wrong with her? For someone who’d just insisted on only one drink, promising to only be civil, she was behaving as if this Étienne was the only person in the world. Of course, lovely Marina, tall and slender, would land the sexy Frenchman while she, a short woman who might even be called “stocky”—after all, she’d given birth to four children—would end up with this skinny Canadian with pasty-looking skin.

Angie was able to let go of her resentment as Michel showed her the lobby and restaurant and translated the posted menu for her. The place was amazing, and she allowed herself to enjoy the tour.

At precisely five minutes to ten Michel told her it was time to return to the bar and her anxiety rose up again. Would Marina be there? If not, would she be able to get back to their hotel? But when they reached the bar, Marina and Étienne were waiting for them just outside the entrance.

“How was your tour?” Marina asked.

“Lovely.” Angie turned to Michel and put out her hand. “Thank you so much for showing me the around the hotel. It was everything and more than I expected.”

“And thank you for paying for the drinks,” Marina said, reaching for Étienne’s hand. “You are very generous.”

“It was a pleasure,” he said kissing her hand. Marina smiled warmly. He also kissed Angie’s hand, and she couldn’t help but be charmed by him. The evening hadn’t played out as she’d expected, but it was fine. She’d had her adventure, she supposed.

The men escorted them outside and Michel hailed a taxi, paid the driver, and held the door for Marina and Angie. The women waved as the cab pulled away from the curb.

Marina watched the lights of Paris as they sped toward their hotel, and Angie watched her friend. What on earth had happened in there? Was Marina going to spend the rest of her time here with Étienne?

They went quietly to their hotel room, Marina insisting that Angie use the bathroom first. While Marina got ready, Angie got in bed, took out a notebook, and wrote about their day.

Hôtel Costes near the Place Vendôme. Très sensuelle. Met a Frenchman named Étienne and a Canadian named Michel. Interesting evening.

She continued to write as Marina got into bed and turned off her bedside lamp.

“Tired?” Angie asked.

“Yes. Maybe it was the two drinks or maybe the effort of holding up my end of a conversation in French, but I feel totally drained.”

“Yet it looked to me like speaking with Étienne was the most natural thing in the world.”

“That wasn’t me. Not really,” Marina said.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t you?”

“It felt like someone took over my body and mind and the words just spilled out of me while I watched from above. A woman who looked just like me was conversing with a very attractive man who wasn’t Jeff. It was very strange.”

“What did you talk about? It was all too fast for me.”

Marina turned onto her side and faced Angie. “I have no idea.” She frowned. “I can’t remember what we spoke about. Isn’t that strange?” She was silent for a few minutes as Angie waited for more. “Now I remember. We spoke about grief. He just lost his elderly mother and his only sibling, his younger sister, both to cancer. I told him about being in Paris for the first time since Jeff died. We talked about reaching for our phones to call them every day. We talked about food we can no longer order, places we can’t go because it reminds us of them and the pain is so acute that we have to stop to catch our breath. I haven’t really talked to anyone about this, not even you. I’ve kept it in, which can’t be good. Speaking in another language just opened it up for me and of course, being with someone who is in the same place as I am. Maybe that’s why it didn’t feel like me sitting at that table.”

Angie thought about this before she spoke. “But it was you, Marina. It’s a facet of you that maybe didn’t exist before, but now it does. When Bill died the kids called me every day, and one of them slept over every night for weeks, never leaving me alone. I don’t know what they thought I’d do. I was grateful, but you can’t grieve like that. When I sold the house and moved to the condo, I locked myself in for a while and let myself feel it. The pain, I mean. And I got to the other side of it but at the same time I knew I’d carry it along with the memory of Bill for the rest of my life. And that’s the way I live now. I look out the windows of taxis and pretend he’s with me, seeing what I see.” She reached across the space between the beds for Marina’s hand. “But we’ll survive, my friend,” she said through her tears. “We’ll live, we’ll laugh, maybe we’ll even love again, but we’ll always remember.”

They lay silently, watching the lights from the cars on the street play across the ceiling, their hands clasped together. Finally, they fell asleep and woke to a shining morning that they greeted with hope, carrying the memory of their husbands in their hearts.