Romancing the Dark in the City of Light by Ann Jacobus

foyer. They walk wordlessly through huge double doors into a turquoise, then pink, and a mint-green room, all lined with gold moldings, massive paintings, and French antique furniture. A long salon at the end has about sixty petite red velvet chairs lined up before a podium.
    They sit near the back. The gilt molding on the walls is blinding.
    “What?” she finally says. “I embarrassed you.”
    “Don’t need anyone to fight my battles.”
    “But it was my battle, too. You’re my guest. They humiliated us.” The shrill edge to her voice is creeping back in.
    Moony scowls at her. “Was normal security stuff.”
    “Fine.”
    “Why are you being so … What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing.” Yeah, why is she being so?
    People are holding flutes of champagne. She excuses herself to go find the source.
    In the biggest salon, a crowd surrounds a long, linen-draped table covered with silver trays of canap é s and glasses of champagne. Summer takes a glass and downs it, then sips another as she presses her nose against the cool glass of the oversized French doors. She stares out at the floodlit, perfectly manicured shrubs and the golf-green lawn that sweeps out from a wide terrace over prime Paris real estate.
    Poor Moony. Someone needs to tell him that being her friend is rough duty.
    Feeling better, she goes back to her seat. The ambassador, a mega-wealthy, graying ex-quarterback, is already introducing the poet laureate, a tall and gawky guy with tufts of sticking-up hair. He reads to the hushed room but she cannot follow him, though she tries her best.
    All this red velvet is buzzing and jittering her head. Maybe from the adrenaline of her tantrum earlier. The crowd’s weird energy is magnifying it. She can’t not think about Dad’s death. He was really messed up and he didn’t even try to get better. Seems like he just drank more. And Grandpa used her as a pawn to make him worse. Now everything is howling and freezing and stinging like she’s standing outside in a blizzard. Wearing only a push-up bra and thong.
    She’s got to get out of here.
    “Be right back,” she says, but Moony doesn’t even acknowledge her departure this time.
    She heads for the bar, but zigzags through two new rooms before finding herself in a long corridor lined with oversized oil paintings. AMERICAN ARTISTS reads a plaque. Gentle applause from the reading sounds in the distance. She paces the length of it hoping for an exit. She can’t leave Moony here, but she desperately needs to get outside. She can’t breathe.
    A cigarette will help.
    A man in a dark suit strolls in with two glasses of bubbly and two cigarettes dangling between his fingers.
    “Summer,” he says.
    It’s Kurt.

EIGHTTEEN
    “What are you doing here?” Summer asks.
    “I was invited.”
    “You know the ambassador?”
    “Yeah. Great guy.”
    “You can’t smoke inside. And I—I think it’s strange that you’re here.” He looks fantastic in that suit—and more like twenty-something than her age—but she cannot talk to him right now.
    “It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” he says, holding out a glass for her. His red tie features mini martini glasses and tiny cigars. “Although in my case, it really is.”
    He seems downright delighted, in fact, his face lit up like someone just gifted him a pony. “Oh, for chrissakes.” She takes the champagne and drinks. He holds out the second cigarette so she takes it, too.
    “Want to catch a movie?” he asks. “If we leave right now, we can make a seven o’clock show.”
    “No, I don’t. I’m here with someone else.” She takes a deep drag. “ You sure get around.”
    He shrugs.
    “So, do you work full-time? How old are you anyway? Did you already go to college?”
    “Yes, old enough, and I’ve been to many schools.”
    “You and me both.”
    A suited security guy with shades and a squiggly wire behind his ear appears.
    He says sadly, “Miss Barnes.” She doesn’t recognize him, and he doesn’t even