She took a look and laughed. “Ooh, architectural erotica—my favorite kind. Listen: ‘This timeless refuge offers a dreamy, relaxing, and authentic experience in a refined, eighteenth-century décor. . . . Behind its stunning fa?ade, La Mirande exudes the sweet way of life of yesteryear.” She surveyed the exterior, an elegant neoclassical composition in butter-colored stone, its windows capped with gargoyles and angels, gods and goddesses, sunbursts and swirls of cake frosting in stone. “Stunning fa?ade indeed,” she concurred. “The fa?ade,” she added, “is from the seventeen hundreds, but parts of the building date back to the early thirteen hundreds, when a cardinal—a nephew of Pope Clement the Fifth—built his palace on the site.” She was enjoying this, and that pleased me. “Come on, let’s go inside and show them what chic cosmopolites we are.”
If the hotel’s exterior was quietly elegant, its interior was almost intoxicating in its richness. Crystal chandeliers and sconces glittered everywhere; paintings and statues and flowers filled the spaces, set against backdrops of gilded wallpaper, brocaded drapes, rich paneling, sumptuous sofas and chairs. An interior courtyard was set with candlelit dining tables; so was a lush outdoor garden that offered spectacular views of the floodlit walls of the Palace of the Popes. Miranda flitted from space to space, statue to statue, ruffle to flourish, her face beaming. “This place is so excellent,” she exclaimed. “You could probably pay my assistantship for a year for what dinner’s gonna cost, but wowzer, Dr. B, how gorgeous.” She laughed, a fountain of delight. “I know money can’t buy happiness, but damn, it sure can open doors to places that make me smile.”
We ate in one such place, a linen-draped, candlelit table in a corner of the hotel’s garden. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees around us; above us soared the graceful windows of the papal chapel, flanked by a pair of massive towers.
We were midway through dinner—duck breast for me, “line-caught sea bass” for her—before I worked up the nerve to go on my own fishing expedition and angle for details about Stefan. When I wasn’t busy bristling at his pretentiousness, I had realized, I was fretting about something else. I’d seen the way he looked at her, heard the way she spoke to him. They shared a familiarity that went beyond collegiality; a familiarity that might be, or might have once been, intimacy. It’s none of my business, I scolded myself, but that didn’t stop me from casting the lure. “Stefan’s quite a character,” I said casually. “Remind me how you know him?”
She didn’t exactly take the bait—her gimlet look told me she knew she was being cross-examined—but she answered the question anyway. “Remember when I did the dig in Guatemala, the summer after my first year of graduate school?” I nodded. “He was a crew leader. I worked under him.”
I raised my eyebrows at the phrase “worked under him.” I expected her to roll her eyes at that and fire back one of her signature smart-ass retorts. Instead, she turned crimson and looked down at her fish, swimming in butter and seaweed sauce. “Sorry, Miranda. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was joking, or meant to be. I think. I hope.”
She looked up, slightly defiant but also vulnerable. “It’s okay. I had it coming, after the way I’ve let Stefan be a jerk to you. I did get involved with him in Guatemala, and I shouldn’t have. I was a kid, and he was my boss. And he was married, though he said that didn’t really matter, because the French don’t mind infidelity—‘We approve of extramarital affairs,’ he said. Exact quote. He approved, turns out, but his wife didn’t.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because she came to Guatemala. A birthday surprise. A big surprise. When she found me in his tent, she came at me with fingernails and teeth.”
“Ah. That would imply a certain level of disapproval.”
“She took the next flight home and promptly divorced him.” She took a deep draw from her glass of red wine. “I’m also embarrassed that I still feel awkward about it. It’s been five years. It shouldn’t still bother me.”
“Says who?”
“Myself. My inner critic. My friends who have hookups and don’t think twice about it, who act as if sharing a bed with somebody’s no different from sharing a taxi or a park bench. I’ve just never been able to be that nonchalant about the whole sex thing.” She spun the stem of the glass between her fingers; the wine swirled up the sides, then sheeted back down. “I feel guilty about Stefan’s marriage, too. If not for me, he might still be married.”
“Maybe. But maybe miserably married. As it is, he seems like a fairly happy guy. Pompous, but happy.” She smiled. “Anyhow, if she hadn’t caught him with you, she’d have caught him with someone else, don’t you think?”
“Oh, probably. Much as I’d like to believe I’m something special, I probably wasn’t Stefan’s only . . . extracurricular activity.”