The French Connection

“Another coffee?” he asked.

She brought her gaze back to him. “No. No, thank you. I think I need to moderate my mix of uppers and downers if I’m going to stay awake this evening.” She rubbed her finger on the Teflon-coated tablecloth, with its flower-print pattern. “Not to change the subject too abruptly, but I wanted to tell you how sad I was to hear of the death of your grandmother, Madame la Comtesse.”

“That’s very kind.” A note of formality descended over the conversation. “In point of fact, she wasn’t my actual grandmother since she was my grandfather’s third wife. My real grandmother, along with my parents, died while strolling along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice many years ago when I was quite young. A Milanese banker, distraught at his mistress leaving him for the center-forward of the Forza Napoli soccer team, lost control of his Lamborghini, which jumped the sidewalk and struck them.”

“How—” melodramatic seemed too insensitive “—tragic.” There were worse things after all than having a father run off to the circus.

“Yes, well, they had just finished having aperitifs at the Hôtel Negresco, so I think they were feeling no pain.” The way he worked his jaw belied the flippancy of his remark.

“At least you had your grandfather.” Who later also died on him, Shelley realized. The layers of tragedy were beginning to rival Les Misérables.

Edmond signaled to the waiter and pointed one finger toward his empty cup. The man reluctantly put down his racing form and went inside to make another espresso. “Yes, I was very lucky. And then there were my aunts, of course.”