The Forbidden Heart Read Online Free Page B

like an outsider looking in. Perhaps I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get
     through it, that I would break into uncontrolled sobbing. I didn’t go into any detail
     about Roxy, basically describing her as an independent businesswoman who had left
     home early. When she started to ask more questions about her, I looked at my watch
     and suggested we get to the café.
    “Don’t worry. Vincent will wait for us if we’re late,” she said, but agreed we should
     move on.
    “Do you have other relatives in Paris?”
    “Distant cousins. My mother’s brother lives in Lyon, and her younger sister lives
     in Aix-en-Provence. I rarely see either of them or their children.”
    “You’ve never heard from your father since he left?” I asked as we continued walking.
    “No. But I don’t care. To me, he’s as dead as your father is to you,” she said, clenching
     her teeth.
    “He wasn’t a good father before he left?”
    “He wasn’t a father at all,” she replied. “He was . . . unnatural.”
    I was silent, waiting to see if she would go into any of the grisly details, but she
     pressed her lips together like someone who was told to be quiet. A few moments later,
     however, she added, “I blame my mother for marrying him and having me with him. It’s
     really all her fault, and she knows it.”
    “How does she explain that? Falling in love with a man who was self-centered and cruel?”
    “She doesn’t. She won’t talk about him, and now neither will I. He’s dead to us. Look!
     There’s Vincent waiting outside the café,” she announced joyfully, waved, and sped
     up. I quickened my pace to keep up with her, laughing to myself. She was practically
     running to him. She could bowl him over at this speed, especially if she embraced
     him, I thought.
    “Does he speak English, or will I have to depend on my French?”
    “Of course he speaks English,” she replied. “He’s the brightest in our family. I told
     you. Vincent is perfect!”
    Excusez-moi, I thought. I could see I had better like him or else.

Crossing the Seine

    Vincent was tall, about six feet one, with a swimmer’s build, lean, with round shoulders.
     He had light brown hair that fell lazily over his forehead, nearly covering his dark
     green eyes. His firm, manly lips were in a tight smile as we drew closer. He had his
     hands on his hips and wore a dark blue pair of jeans with a light blue turtleneck
     sweater and a pair of coffee-white running shoes.
    “ Ça va , Denise?” he asked, and held his smile. He didn’t look at me. I thought he was a
     little arrogant in the way he purposely ignored my presence. Like her mother, perhaps,
     he was waiting for some sort of formal introduction.
    “ Bien ,” Denise said. “Sommes-nous en retard?”
    He held up his wrist to show us his watch.
    “ Mais oui . When are you not late?” he asked in English, and finally turned to me. “You are
     showing your new American friend your bad American habits?” he asked her in French.
    “Maybe they are French habits,” I said, and he focused fixedly on me. “She’s never
     lived in America.”
    His smile softened. “You speak French?”
    “Enough to understand enough,” I said deliberately in English.
    “I told you she spoke French, Vincent.”
    “You said okay French, maybe a little better than most tourists,” he reminded her.
     She blushed. “I have reserved a table for us. It has the best view,” he said, mostly
     for my benefit. “ Apres vous ,” he added, and stepped back.
    “ Merci .”
    I started for the café entrance.
    “She hasn’t got her diploma yet,” I heard Denise tell him.
    He rushed forward to open the door for us.
    “You’re going to attend school here?” he asked.
    “I will, oui . The American School of Paris.”
    “Ah, yes, the place for the children of expatriates, n’est-ce pas ?”
    “I’m not the child of an expatriate, nor am I one. Maybe you don’t understand what
     that means,” I said