Women Drinking Benedictine by Sharon Dilworth Read Free Book Online Page A

when taken out of context.
    â€œThe best thing about a cocktail party is being asked to it,” Jane remembered.
    â€œGluttony is not a secret vice,” Sally said.
    Her new friends agreed.
    The owner/waiter at the restaurant in Antibes served them a second round of Kir Royales, then scurried away from the table before they could ask him for anything else.
    â€œMaybe he could bring us a photograph of some food,” Sally said sardonically. She had taken her scarf and tied it around her head. The style might have been reminiscent of Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief , but Sally looked more like an old woman suffering from a bad toothache.
    â€œShould we go somewhere else?” Amber said.
    â€œLeave? After two free drinks?” Jane said. “That would be rude.” Jane returned to her menu. Amber wouldn’t be surprised if her friend had it memorized.
    Amber raised her glass of Kir and held it at eye level. “Look,” she told her friends. “I’m looking at the world through rose-colored glasses.” Jane and Sally were deep in discussion about the next day’s plan. If they heard her, they were ignoring her.
    Amber was slightly disappointed by the trip to the Riviera. They had chosen Antibes because it was supposed to be the spot where the really really rich and the very very successful still lived. But Amber had not seen anyone who did not look like a tourist. Everyone walked around in comfortable tennis shoes or dull-colored Rockports, their compact passport carriers slung over their shoulder. Mostly Americans, none of them exotic or interesting.
    The general feeling of the area was not successful or rich, but gray—like rain on a Sunday afternoon.
    Amber lowered her glass and the soft-colored world disappeared.
    â€œI’m going out for cigarettes,” she said, and dumped her purse onto the table and began separating the francs from the U.S. coins.
    â€œYou begged us never to let you smoke again,” Jane reminded her.
    â€œI’ll buy the pack but just smoke one,” Amber said, holding up her two fingers in the Girl Scout promise. Cigarettes were not potato chips. It was possible to be satisfied with one or two.
    â€œFat chance,” Sally snorted. She tucked her chin back into her scarf.
    â€œIt’s not my fault they don’t sell them individually,” Amber said, wondering why Sally had chosen the word fat.
    â€œDo what you want, but don’t bitch to us tomorrow when you wake up with a nicotine hangover from your largesse.” Jane said.
    â€œRight. Right. Right,” Amber said, now convinced that Sally’s word selection was below the belt. She scooped up a handful of coins and left the damp restaurant.
    The tobacco shop was closed, its front door locked. A man stood beside the cash register counting money and smoking a cigarette. Amber knocked.
    â€œFermé,” he mouthed and pointed to the sign hanging in the doorway.
    She put her hands together as if praying.
    He smiled. His teeth were white and beautifully straight. He unlocked the door and let her in. “Hello, pretty woman,” he said.
    Amber finally found what she had been looking for. Jackpot. Right here in Antibes.
    He would not give change, so she bought four packs of American cigarettes. He did not charge her for matches but asked if she would like a tour of the city.
    â€œThe beach is particularly beautiful at night,” he said.
    Europe was magical. This would never have happened to her in Pittsburgh.
    Amber could see the expressions of curiosity when she and Maurice walked into the restaurant.
    â€œMeet my new friend,” she said grandly. The table was covered with cracker crumbs. Sally and Jane looked tired and tipsy.
    Maurice moved around the table giving both Jane and Sally kisses on the cheeks. So polite and so French, utterly romantic, thought Amber, pleased with her find. She was thrilled, almost giddy.
    â€œYou must be sisters,”