Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,4

pulled him into an embrace and pressed her soft lips against his. “And I will teach those American women the French secret to staying skinny.”

“Ah, and what is that exactly?”

“Walking, fresh air, lipstick and sex.”

“It sounds so simple,” he said, loving that she seemed keen to join him on this new venture.

“Which is precisely why it works.” She clapped her hands together, insistent. “You must call them back immediately. Tell them that you’re honored to accept.”

Which was how they’d found themselves, one month later, on American soil, living in a two-story brownstone in Boston’s Seaport District, selected for them by a realtor who, in turn, had been recommended by the hotel. Their lives unspooling exactly as they’d imagined.

And then one day Marie stepped into his office holding a surprise behind her back: a tiny white stick bisected by two pink lines.

Soon enough his wife’s days were consumed with setting up the nursery (that is, after Jean-Paul had dragged an untold number of unpacked boxes and crates from the spare room into the garage) and painting the walls a soft pink. Along the top near the ceiling, she stenciled tiny bluebirds for a border. “But what if she hates birds?” Jean-Paul asked, and Marie had shooed him away, saying what did he know about little girls anyway?

Those had been their salad days, when they joked with each other easily, when a pregnant Marie might page him at the hotel to tell him to bring home a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream if he had any intention of not sleeping on the sofa that night. Together, they watched as her belly grew and grew, until his petite French wife looked as if an enormous basketball were attached to her front, and yet Jean-Paul still thought her the most enchanting woman he’d ever met.

When Isabella arrived at last, five days past her due date, it was with a holler and a bang—practically pushing herself out into the world as the medics wheeled Marie across the hospital entrance. Jean-Paul remembers the exquisite little toes, the dainty, crinkled fingers, Isabella’s tiny face scrunched up in rage during those first few minutes. But when the nurse laid the baby on Marie’s chest, she’d instantly settled, as if recognizing her own mother’s scent.

Besotted, that’s what they were.

But somewhere in the last few weeks (or maybe months?) Marie has grown quiet, sullen. Work now demands that Jean-Paul arrive at the hotel by seven most mornings and that he often stay as late as seven or eight in the evenings. Especially now that the renovations are complete, reservations have soared. And while technically he’s on call only for the weekends, inevitably a small crisis—an angry, belligerent guest; a leaky pipe; a broken generator—will arise, and his night manager, Oliver, will call to wrench him from the depths of sleep.

Sometimes when the phone rings in the middle of the night, Marie will give him a swift kick under the sheets, as if Jean-Paul isn’t answering quickly enough (though, she claims to never remember the call—or the kick). Inevitably a tender bruise will pop up on his calf the next day, proof. When he left this morning, she was particularly petulant, shooting him dark looks across her coffee mug while the baby—dear, sweet Isabella, with her enormous brown eyes and plump belly sticking out deliciously over her diaper—shifted fitfully in her arms. His wife is convinced that their daughter suffers from colic, but their pediatrician has reassured them that she’s a typical three-month-old, if a tad sensitive.

“Sensitive?” Marie had come home raging. “How about every little thing sets her off?” Jean-Paul didn’t know what to say to make things better. He felt as if he’d already exhausted all his best material: It’s only a stage. The baby will grow out of it. Maybe she’s going through a growth spurt? But the comment that really sent his wife into a whirlwind of rage was when he inquired if maybe they should switch to formula to help calm Isabella.

Was it possible, he asked foolishly, that Isabella was allergic to Marie’s milk? Well, he might as well have accused Marie of poisoning their own daughter! For two whole days, she refused to speak to him.

How, Jean-Paul wonders (to himself), does she expect him to provide for his family and do his job well on practically no sleep at all? At least Marie can nap during the day while the baby sleeps. He’d actually said this aloud over dinner one night,