I laugh, and then reply, “We, uh, haven’t talked about visiting, but I’d love to see where he grew up. Your home is near the ocean, isn’t it?” I remember.

Mary-Gene reluctantly lets me leave her side to attend to the pan on the stove.

“That’s right,” she smiles at me as I peer over my shoulder at her. “It’s a beautiful home, we’ve had it north of forty years. I’d love to have you come and stay. This summer, maybe?”

I’m not quick enough to hide my surprise at her eagerness.

Noticing that she’s bombarded, she says, “Oh, I’m sorry, darlin’, I know I can be a little pushy sometimes. You’ve probably already got plans for the summer. Doesn’t matter,” she continues, not letting me get a word in edgeways, “whenever you’re able to visit, we’d love to have you.”

“Thank you,” I say hastily, when she takes a breath. “I’m looking forward to it, whenever it comes about, though, not so much the flight. I’m not the biggest fan of flying,” I admit.

“Me either, sweetheart,” she shakes her head. “You just need to take full advantage of those little liquor bottles that they give you. Knock ’em all back,” she winks at me, “you’ll be right as rain.”

And there I have it — my first piece of advice from Logan’s mother: get drunk. Instantly I warm to her even more.

Grinning, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn my back to her for a moment to stir Mercy’s pot of deliciousness once more. When I turn around again, I’m startled to find Mary-Gene standing right beside me. Instead of laughing off the fact that she made me jump — which would be the normal thing to do — I attempt to disguise my shock by turning my jump into an awkward little dance move. Really, Gem? Mercifully, Mary-Gene is staring into the pot on the stove, meaning that she doesn’t see my awkwardness in full bloom. Either that, or she chooses to ignore it. Be cool, I tell myself again.

“So, Gemima, has Logan had you over to his apartment often?” his mother asks me. “You seem to be familiar with it,” she says, gesturing to me and the stove.

I look at her and falter slightly. I suddenly wonder how much I’m allowed to tell her, though given that Logan admitted that he loves me in front of her, I presume my next sentence to be an acceptable amount of sharing.

“Yes, he’s been very hospitable,” I tell her. As I continue, my sharing grows exponentially, “If we’re not here, then we sleep at mine.” I become unstoppable. “We basically live together,” I blurt out.

Her eyes widen in surprise, though she looks thrilled by the news. “So soon?” she says immediately.

I give her the simplest answer that I can think of. “When you know, you know,” I smile, feeling a what-are-your-intentions-with-my-son talk coming on.

Sure enough, Mary-Gene presses, “And you have this knowingness about Logan?”

The expression is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” I blanch: I just swore! Suddenly my calm resolve crumbles and I enter dangerous American Mouth territory. My automatic babble-mode takes over, and I say at high speed, “We’re not shy about our feelings for one another. And, well, to be perfectly honest with you, Mrs. G — can I call you that? — I have a terrible proclivity for speaking my mind at all times, even inappropriate times — Logan and I call it my American Mouth — so if you want to do the whole what-are-your-intentions-with-my-son thing, then ask away.”

She looks comically alarmed by how many words I managed to get out without taking a breath. “You can talk as good as I can; I like that, dear,” she compliments. “No one has ever asked to call me Mrs. G before,” she grins, “I think I’d prefer Mary-Gene or MG. It’s more personal.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I nod my understanding. Dammit! “Shit, sorry, I mean: yes, Mary-Gene.” I swore again! I need to get some control of myself; it’s time to start channeling my inner Southern Belle.

Totally ignoring my swearing — an action that reminds me that she has seen and heard a lot worse from her son when he was a teenager, which perhaps has desensitised her — Mary-Gene says, “As for the intentions-talk? It’s not necessary. It’s abundantly clear to me that the pair of you are besotted with each other. And frankly, darlin’, I’m ecstatic that you’re so gorgeous,” she exclaims. “You’re boast-worthy. So is Logan; together you’re a perfect match,” she smiles, satisfactorily.

Oh, wow! “I…uh…thank you,” I stammer, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks once more. “So I have your approval, then?”

“Top marks, kid,” she says, giving me two thumbs up.

“Good,” I giggle, smiling broadly. Not too bad for our first dialogue, I say to myself. Leaving the food to warm through, I pick up the two bottles of wine that I put on the kitchen island earlier this evening and I walk with Mary-Gene back outside, to join Logan and Rupert around the table. I naturally head straight for the empty seat beside Logan, and fall into it feeling very gratified about how the evening has progressed so far.

A moment later Logan has the first bottle open and once we’ve each got our glass in hand, we raise a toast.

Speaking before anyone else can, I say to Logan’s parents, “Bienvenue à Paris de nouveau. Je vous souhaite une merveilleuse visite.” Welcome back to Paris. I wish you a wonderful visit. I immediately surmise from their blank facial expressions that they don’t understand a word of French, and so hurriedly repeat the sentiment in English.

“Merci,” they say together, making Logan and I laugh. OK, so they understand one word.

After taking a sip, Rupert says, “Gemima, tell us about yourself…”

Speak clearly and be poised, I give myself a pep talk. I begin talking, and for the next ten minutes we chat back and forth about my youth in Florida, my family, and my reasons for coming to Paris eight years ago. Internally I celebrate how easy they are to talk to; the conversation flows effortlessly with everyone partaking, and fortunately I make zero inappropriate comments. So far, anyway.

“What does your father do back in Florida, Gemima?” Rupert asks me.

“Uh, nothing. My father was killed when I was four,” I tell them.

“He was killed?” Logan says, looking shocked.

I nod innocently. “I told you that, didn’t I?” I’m sure we spoke about him during our first lunch date.

“Baby, you told me that he died not that he was killed,” he says, looking concerned.

“Well, he did die,” I shrug, wanting to lighten the suddenly gloomy mood. This mood-change is the exact reason why I don’t talk about his passing; because it seems to instantly bring everybody down. I know my father wouldn’t like that, which is why I usually use the word died instead of killed. This choice of word has saved my mother and I a lot of questions over the years, but Logan, I suddenly realise, might be the only person that I disclose all of the details to. “It was a wrong-place, wrong-time kind of thing,” I tell everyone. “So, it’s been mom and I since then,” I say, moving things along. “When her second marriage broke up she joined me here in Paris, and as you know, Mary-Gene, she set up her salon and the rest is history.”

“I’ve been on every visit since it opened,” she tells me, excitedly. “Friday six o’clock,” she recites her upcoming appointment. Picking up my mobile phone which I left sitting on the table, Mary-Gene hands it to me, saying, “Do you have a photo of your mother? I might recognise her.”

I start hastily flicking through my photos, bypassing the most recent one hundred which are all of Logan from our recent French Riviera retreat, and then the next hundred which are all of the nineteen-twenties decor.

Rupert asks Logan, “What’s this?”

Glancing up from the screen, I see him indicate the small forty-nine plaque, and Logan and I immediately smile at each other, before I tell his parents, “Your son is a real romantic.”