The Expats by Chris Pavone

Now?”
    “Not quite now, sweetie,” she said. “Maybe later.”
    Jake sighed, the immense disappointment that a little boy can feel, hundreds of times a day, over anything, everything, nothing.
    “Monsieur?” The waiter was beside Dexter, who ordered a beer. The waiter stepped aside to allow a middle-aged Russian couple to vacate their table, loudly and rudely. The woman was laden with shopping bags from the exorbitant boutiques on the rue St-Honoré, more than a mile away. These people had come too far, to the wrong place.
    “Et pour les enfants?” the waiter asked, ignoring the Russians. “Quelque chose à boire?”
    “Oui. Deux Fanta, orange, s’il vous plaît. Et la carte.”
    “Bien sûr, madame.” The waiter picked up a pair of leather-bound menus, then shuffled aside again, as a different couple began to install themselves at the next table.
    Even discounting last night’s oyster appetizer—“a giant gray booger swimming in snot” is how Jake described it—the meal had not been a success with the children. So Kate was hoping—praying—that this brasserie would have something kid-friendly. She was scanning the menu, eyes darting frantically.
    The man at the next table ordered a drink and the woman added, “La même chose,” the voice familiar. Kate looked up to see a devastatingly handsome man sitting across from her, while the woman was across from Dexter; both women were wearing sunglasses. Because of this configuration and the glasses, and Kate’s preoccupation with the menu—she was leaning toward the braised pork knuckle, served with the always-welcome applesauce—it took a full minute before the two women, seated side by side, realized who each was sitting next to.

    “OH MY GOD!”
    “Julia!” Kate said. “What a surprise.”
    “Ah,” Dexter said, grinning at Kate. “You’re the Chicago woman.” Needling.
    Kate kicked him under the table.
    They all had a round of drinks, and the foursome decided to dine together, later. Bill suggested that the hotel probably offered babysitting, and it turned out he was correct. Kate was quickly learning that Bill was the type of guy who was always correct.
    So they fed the children, and returned to the hotel. The concierge promised that the babysitter would arrive by 22:00. Kate and Dexter put the boys to bed, with hopefully the full understanding in their young brains that if they woke in the night for a drink of water, or a pee, or a nightmare, there’d be a stranger in the room, and she probably wouldn’t speak any English.
    The four tipsy adults spilled into the streets at ten thirty, headed for some fashionable new restaurant that Bill chose. It was on a quiet, seemingly deserted street, but inside was warm and lively and tight, knees bumping table edges, chairs wedged against walls, waiters a fluid jumble of soaring and falling arms and hands with plates and bowls, the clinking of glasses, the clanging of forks against knives.
    Their waiter shoved his nose deep into the balloon glass, his brow furrowed, critically assessing the wine he was about to serve. He raised his eyebrows, a facial shrug. “Pas mal,” he said. “It is not bad.” He had to slide and dance and spin to get around the table to pour the wine correctly, sidestepping other patrons and other staff, the wayward limbs of gesticulating guests.
    Kate looked out the window, over the half-curtains—bistro curtains, she remembered they were called, and now she realized why—and across the avenue, to an ornate Art Nouveau railing on the shallowbalcony in front of extraordinarily tall windows that were glowing with candlelight behind sheer billowing curtains, through which Kate could see the movements of a party in progress inside, shifting shapes and flickering lights, and a woman parted the drapes to blow cigarette smoke through the barely opened French doors—aha! French! doors!—out over the wide avenue.
    The men fell into a conversation about skiing. Bill was regaling