They drove to the Left Bank, and he saw that more barricades had been set up. There were police in the streets, as they reached the cheerful-looking bistro quickly. It had a terrace outside, and the inside was bustling with Parisians, people laughing and chatting at tables with red and white–checkered cloths, and waiters were rushing around with the menu on chalkboards. It was exactly what she’d promised: warm, friendly, and simple. He saw several people glance at her and recognize her immediately, but no one said anything. They were led to a corner table, where they wouldn’t be jostled and she wasn’t on view the moment people came through the door. She was definitely well known in Paris, even more than in New York.

She translated the menu for him, and when the food came it was as delicious as it had sounded. She had bouillabaisse and he had oysters, followed by a steak for Mike and chicken with mushrooms that smelled delicious for her. It all tasted as good as it looked.

“It’s not as good or as much fun as the diner,” she apologized. “And no jukebox. They really should put one in, it would be so much fun!”

“I think it’s great as it is, and it feels authentically Parisian.”

“It is. I love it here, and they’re always nice to me. I used to eat dinner here all the time.” Axel and Matthieu loved it.

“You will again.” He smiled gently, and she told him what she’d been doing since she got back. She’d been busy, which seemed to be her normal style. He wanted to ask her what kind of security she had in her offices, but he didn’t dare. She’d wonder why he was asking, since he was supposedly a lawyer, not an agent of the CIA. He couldn’t say what he did anyway, it was all classified at a high clearance level, but he had to keep remembering to maintain his pretense of being a lawyer. She never questioned the story, and the evening sped by with good food, good wine, and good company. She looked relaxed and happy as they talked their way through dinner. She ordered profiteroles for them for dessert, which were like cream puffs, only filled with ice cream and drowned in chocolate sauce.

“Put this on our list of favorites, along with the banana splits,” he said, grinning.

“Good, isn’t it?” she agreed with him. “The banana split was better, but this is pretty good.”

“I think I’d reverse that.”

“I’d take you for my favorite ice cream tomorrow, but I think we’d better stay home. You can come to the apartment whenever you want. Just be careful. People can get really crazy and rock cars sometimes, or set fire to them.”

“What about yours?”

“I keep it in a garage farther away when there are protests. It’s sad that they get so out of hand. They even attack the monuments sometimes and put graffiti all over them or try to break them. It’s terrible when they behave like that. The police use tear gas on them, so be careful tomorrow if you come over.”