Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
“We tried to go into Atlanta,” Claudine interjected from the pool. “It took us a few hours. You could have warned us that your road signs are totally insane.”
“Yes, explain to me again how they can put you on a circular road and tell you it goes north,” Jean-Charles said. “We were lost for hours.”
“But we managed to get there, eventually,” Claudine continued. “We ate at this nice little restaurant, and we thought everything was going okay; but when we asked the waitress how to get to Centennial Park, she called the police on us.”
“Were Bruno, Titi, and Jean-Charles dancing on the table or anything at the time?”
“No, no. I mean, they thought about it, but it being their first day in America, they were trying to behave. When that policeman walked up, our hearts must have jumped right out of our mouths. Americans are so severe, we thought. Just for asking directions?”
“But I can’t believe how nice your policemen are!” Martine raved. “The waitress had called the police officer to give us directions! He came to the restaurant just to do it and was glad to. You would never find that in Paris. Plus, those funny little safari hats.”
The safari hats finally clued Sébastien in. He’d been reading the tourist brochures: Atlanta had established a hospitality team of Cultural Ambassadors who wandered around tourist spots and remained on call to help lost visitors. The French contingent was not pleased at his explanation.
“You mean we weren’t almost arrested by an American cop?” Jean-Charles’s face fell.
“You still would never find that in Paris,” Martine said loyally. A big Gone With the Wind fan, she had nothing but positive expectations of this trip, and even staying out of jail couldn’t ruin it for her.
“Speaking of things you wouldn’t find in Paris,” I cleared my throat. “My brother David has invited all of you up to their place for the Fourth of July tomorrow.” I harbored deep fears about how this first meeting of both sides of the family would go. They couldn’t even speak the same language. “He’s almost sure to have his friend the sheriff there if you want another try at getting arrested.”
Thirty
David’s tiny, superbly competent wife Annette subscribed to Southern Living and Martha Stewart and habitually prepared twenty different dishes and four different desserts just to have a few American family members for Sunday dinner. Her reaction to the challenge of receiving twenty Americans and ten French for that most American of all days, the Fourth, emptied surrounding supermarkets for the next week.
The guests gathered on a vast deck pierced by trees, high up above ground that plummeted toward a creekbed. Familiar with the French rule about never helping oneself when a guest, I worried they would starve before plenty and explained the American-buffet nature of Annette’s appetizers several times. “Just help yourself. Don’t hesitate.”