Gregoire smiled. “What a wonderfully English thing to be concerned about. But he will not leave. It takes the average person several months just to secure a reservation here. He will not storm out, he hasn’t the flair.”

“You have great influence,” Sophie remarked.

He shrugged. “It is not me, Madame, it is your company. The wife of the proprietor gets a discount, and we entertain many of our contacts here.” He scrutinized her face. “You are still concerned about that monsieur? Allow me.”

Lazard beckoned and another waiter glided to their table. He spoke rapidly to him in French, too fast for Sophie to follow. The man nodded and moved away, and seconds later Sophie saw the angry customer and his frazzled-looking wife escorted to a table.

She smiled lightly. “Now I’m impressed, Gregoire!”

“You are so considerate; I must be also. I have told them to send over a magnum of champagne from us. Veuve Cliquot La Grande Dame, very appropriate,” he said, grinning. Then his face changed. “Oh—I didn’t mean—”

Sophie shook her head. He had meant to compliment her with the grande dame, great lady, and then realized the champagne was named Veuve Cliquot, the widow Cliquot.

“You don’t have to tread on eggshells,” she said.

He looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“It’s an expression. You don’t need to—to dance around the subject, or be afraid to mention my husband. I know I am in mourning, but that is because he has just been declared to be dead.” Sophie took a sip of water. “It would have been wrong to put on these clothes before. But I have come to terms with my loss. It has been many years.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“I believe I am acting as he would have wanted me to. For the sake of our son, Thomas. And of course, the company, which he took great pride in; I am just checking that all is well with it.” Sophie sighed, thinking of the Massot receptionist, so terrified of her. “I wish nobody would be afraid of me, Gregoire. Nobody has to mind their tongue or watch that they don’t bring up Pierre. I am moving on. It’s why I’m here.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

The waiter arrived back with their menus, announced the gratitude of the formerly angry monsieur, and waited for their order. Lazard decided on a steak au poivre. There was a pause, then Sophie realized they were looking at her.

“Oh—give me a few seconds,” she said. It came to her that she had been waiting for Gregoire to choose something on her behalf, the way Pierre had always done. But he had not; he was waiting for her to make her own selection. Sophie wasn’t used to that. She decided she liked it.

“The salade niçoise,” she said.

“Of course, Madame. Some wine for the table, Monsieur?”

Gregoire looked at Sophie; she shook her head.