Page 64 of The French Kiss

I’m not surprised. Nora jokes that she and David are the oldest young people in existence. An exciting Saturday night consists of TV reruns and Sudoku for them. But I guess there’s a little something else happening on their ‘boring’ Saturday nights too.

“And tell Clay that I’m planning the baby shower.”

She holds up her hands in defeat, shaking her head. “That’s between the two of you. He’s already petitioning for Clay as a name.”

“Well, that’s okay as long as you use Autumn if it’s a girl,” I say, mostly joking.

Nora leans in to the camera, her eyes cutting left and right as though making sure she’s still alone. “No, he wants me to name the baby Clay, regardless of whether it’s a boy or girl.”

“Tell him I said over my cold, dead body,” I tease. “And then when he says that can be arranged, tell him that I’ll haunt him until he agrees that you can’t name the baby after pottery materials.”

Nora laughs, but for some reason starts crying at the same time. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too.” Molly waves at me, telling me to come over and look at something. “Nora, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“It’s okay, I understand. I just wanted you to be one of the first to know.”

I blow a kiss through the phone and she snatches it up. When we hang up, I feel a new burst of inspiration and bliss blooming in my belly.

I’m going to be an Aunt!

* * *

“I cannot believe you paid two hundred euros for a set of nearly one hundred-year-old undies,” Molly says as we unpack our finds in the workroom. “Seriously? They probably have some antibiotic resistant STDs we think have been eradicated.”

I am carefully pinning the delicate fabric to a mannequin so that it sits directly beside my worktable as inspiration.

“Hey, Jacqueline said seduction, and this is my idea of seductive,” I reply, gesturing to the 1930s silk and lace three-piece set. It’s definitely different from what the other designers found, but I think that’s a good thing, showing our different aesthetics.

The other women are already hard at work, sitting in various spaces around the workroom drawing on their tablets or down in the fabric supply room to find options. I am curious what they’re thinking, given the variety of inspiration pieces we bought, everything from hard-edged leather strapping from a horse bridle to a classic marble figurine of a nude woman.

Me? I’m flying, with a brain already so full of ideas that the designs are begging me to hurry up and bring them to fruition. I think a collection where there can be some mixing and matching among the outfits is where I want to go. I eye the inspiration set again and add some lace trim to a bustier I’m drawing.

Ready, I head to the fabric room and make my selections, then get to work.

It seems like minutes later, but judging by the progress I’ve made, it must be hours, when the door to the workroom opens. “Yes! Dinner!” Molly calls out. “I was gonna start eating Katarina’s left leg.”

“I thought the expression was ‘eat my arm’,” Yori questions.

Molly wiggles her eyebrows. “It is, but what’s the fun in that?”

Katarina kicks out said left leg, making it look extra-long and shapely as she coyly tells Molly, “My legs are not where I like to be eaten.”

“Ooh,” Beatrice sings.

Molly props her elbows on her table, her chin resting on her fists. “Do tell.”

We laughingly work our way over to the table to see what’s been provided for dinner tonight. One thing’s for sure, it’ll be something delicious. Everything I’ve had in France has been mouth-watering and memorable. Tonight, it appears we’re having salmon, asparagus, and roasted potatoes.

I pick up a plate, filling it from the family-style offerings, but then see that Yori has frozen, looking scared.

“What’s wrong? You loved the salmon last time,” I remind her.

She lifts her chin, eyes focused over my shoulder. “Bonjour, MonsieurAlbert.”

I turn around, surprised to see Jacqueline’s assistant. He’s nearly always at her side—for the fashion shows, when she tells us of the week’s theme, and when she walks around House Corbin. I’d believe it if someone told me he even presses the bidet button for her. They’re like two peas in a pod, though with a significant power dynamic difference.

Albert dips his chin at Yori’s greeting, but his eyes are locked on me.

---