French Kiss

Chapter 34

Moncrief and K. Burke return to the hotel. If you were unaware of the details of their relationship, you would assume that they were just another rich and beautiful couple strolling through the ornate lobby of the Meurice.

Much to Moncrief’s surprise and pleasure, K. Burke had brought along an outfit that was quite chic-a long white shirt over which hung a gray cashmere sweater. That sweater fell over a black slim skirt. It was finished with short black boots. Burke could possibly pass as a fashionable Parisian, and she could certainly pass as a fashionable American. Moncrief had told her how “snappy” she looked.

“You look snappy yourself, Moncrief,” she had said to him. This was, of course, true: a black Christian Dior suit with a slight sheen to it; a white shirt with a deep burgundy-colored tie.

Moncrief walked K. Burke back to her room and said good night. He listened while Burke locked her door behind her. Then he walked to the end of the hallway, to his own room.

It was a dinner between friends, between colleagues. K. Burke had expected nothing more. In fact, K. Burke wanted nothing more. It had been a spectacular day-the odd museums, then the extraordinary dinner: foie-gras ravioli, Muscovy duckling with mango sherbet, those wonderful little chocolates that fancy French restaurants always bring you with your coffee (or so Moncrief told her).

The night had turned out to be soothing and fun and friendly. He referred to Dalia a few times, and it was with nostalgia, sadness. But there was no darkness when he reminisced about his late girlfriend.

Now, as Burke unscrews and removes her tiny diamond studs, she wonders: Can you have such a wonderful time with a charming, handsome man and not think about romance?

Of course you can, she tells herself. But then again, it’s impossible to put a man and a woman together-the electrician who comes to fix the wiring, the traffic cop who stops you for speeding, the attorney who is updating your will-and not consider the possibilities of What if…at another time…under different conditions…

Burke removes her shirt and sweater. She sits on the bench at the white wood dressing table and removes her boots. As she massages her toes she shakes her head slowly; she is ashamed that she is even having such thoughts. Despite the pleasant dinner, she knows that Moncrief has not remotely begun to recover from Dalia’s awful, sudden, horrible death. And yet here I am, selfishly thinking of how great we look together, like one of those beautiful couples in a perfume ad.

“Enough nonsense.” She actually says these two words out loud.

Then she goes into the bathroom, removes her makeup, brushes her teeth, and takes the two antique combs out of her hair. She slips her T-shirt (GO RANGERS) over her head, then she removes her contact lenses and drops them into solution. There is only one more thing to do.

She goes to her pocketbook to do what she does instinctively every night before bed: check the safety on her service weapon. Then she remembers-she doesn’t have a gun. The French police said that she and Moncrief were on official business for New York, not for Paris. No firearms permits would be issued.

She remembers what Moncrief said to her when she complained.

“Do you feel naked without your gun, K. Burke?”

“No,” she had answered. “Just a little underdressed.”