Fanfare

by Renee Ahdieh

  “Mami, I guess I’ll call you from . . . wherever it is we’re going!” I shook my head at Tom and didn’t even attempt to hide my bewilderment.

  “Go, go!” she sniffed.

  “Are you crying?” I demanded.

  “No! Esto, I’m just surprised to see Tom. Pero, please call me when you get there!”

  “Don’t worry! I will!”

  “I won’t worry, querida. Not anymore,” she said quietly as she hugged me. She turned towards Tom and positioned herself on her tiptoes to embrace him tightly. As she pulled away, she put her right hand on his cheek in a gesture I always associated with deep affection. I guess my mother liked surprises more than I did.

  In the cab, I wasn’t too surprised when Tom directed the driver to take us to the airport since he specifically asked me to grab my passport.

  “We’re not really going to a museum, are we?” I intoned.

  “Of course we are. I wouldn’t ask you to go to a museum if I had no intention of taking you. Unfortunately, there are no museums open around here right now, so we have to go someplace else.”

  “Like?” I pushed.

  “Like . . . a museum you need a passport for,” he teased.

  “Seriously, tell me! Anyway, I’ll find out where we’re going as soon as we get to the airport!” I said with exasperation. While glancing circumspectly at his disheveled good looks, I decided I needed a proper kiss, and he needed some “persuasion.” I leaned over to him and pressed my lips lightly on his neck and across his jawbone. He sighed as his hands moved to my lower back to pull me closer against him.

  “Tommy?”

  “You’re wicked.” He groaned.

  I grinned. “Tell me.”

  He smirked back at me. “I will. But first, let me tell you a story.”

  I shoved him away jokingly. He chuckled for a moment and proceeded with his tale.

  “I promise it’s relevant. Besides, you could use some patience.

  “About a year ago, I was forced to attend these mall autograph signings all over the country. One particularly sad Sunday, I saw a petite girl with an angry face cutting her eyes at me from the queue. It intrigued me because she was clearly bored out of her mind. We definitely shared that sentiment. When she came closer, I saw that the angry girl was actually quite beautiful. Further intrigued, I attempted to engage her in dialogue with the help of some inane questions. She proceeded to accuse me of being a racist sod. I was hooked. So, I began stalking her through email and text messages. In a pathetic attempt to learn as much about her as possible, I asked random questions of her on almost a daily basis.” He stopped to press a kiss to my forehead.

  “Sounds like a really interesting story. Yet, I fail to see the relevance.”

  “It’s relevant. You already know where we’re going. You told me on Monday, January 12, 2009.” He stared evenly at me with an intense look that suddenly made me feel lightheaded.

  “What was the question?” My mind searched through tomes of emails.

  He merely smiled back at me patiently.

  Museums. Passports. Questions in January. No way. No freaking way.

  “You’re-you’re . . . are we going to Paris?” I squeaked.

  “Could you please pull around to the Air France terminal?” Tom said smoothly to the driver, faced me again, and wagged his eyebrows in a manner that clearly affirmed my rather inarticulate assessment.

  Speechless, I threw my arms around his neck. He laughed softly as he returned the embrace.

  “Happy Birthday.”

  “My birthday is not for another two weeks!” I croaked.

  “I’ll be in Madrid then. I changed your birthday this year. Temporarily.”

  I managed to find my voice again. “How omnipotent of you, oh mighty one!”

  We breezed through airport check-in without any undue notice and were directed by the Air France staff into a private waiting area prior to boarding our flight. The plane sped down the runway at eleven that evening. I tried hard to fall asleep, and Tom continually pressured me to rest since we would arrive in Paris in the middle of the day. Honestly, it did not matter to me in the slightest if I spent the next forty-eight hours awake. I would gladly suffer the consequences.

  We were going to Paris! The man I loved was taking me to the city I adored. It was wondrously cheesy, and yet it was also one of the most amazing things anyone had ever done for me.

  Go to hell, Ryan Sullivan, and take with you every silly fairy tale you believed was meant only for children.

  “Where do you want to go for lunch?” Tom asked as we waited for a chauffeured car upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle.

  “I have no idea!” I laughed with exuberance as I absorbed the slightly overcast sky and the sound of the French language rolling off the tongues of those around me.

  “That’s not helpful,” he replied merrily.

  “Tell you what: you pick an arrondissement, and I’ll pick a place to eat!”

  After much debate back and forth, he selected the eighth arrondissement. I thought for a moment and asked the driver to take us to the area of Madeleine. A cup of piping hot coffee and a croque-monsieur from Fauchon suddenly sounded incredibly delicious.

  One of the wonderful things about the stereotypical snobbery the world often accused the French of cultivating was the fact that they were rarely impressed by the things that drove the masses wild elsewhere. I was certain that people recognized Tom as we traversed Madeleine and spent a ridiculous amount of time browsing through the cases of pastries at Fauchon. Several times I saw a few individuals do a double take as their eyes glossed over us. Yet, not a single person approached Tom, nor did anyone give him any undue amount of attention. It was wonderful. The French were not easily overcome, and the British movie star traipsing through one of the loveliest sections of their city was not something that merited more than a cursory glance of appreciation. The bronze-skinned midget by his side was even more negligible. I can’t think of a time where I appreciated being completely unimportant more.

  As we strolled up and down the boulevards, and time passed with carefree swiftness, I noticed Tom glance at his watch more and more recurrently. He also grew increasingly quiet and introspective. For some reason, the faintest trace of anxiety marred his brow.

  “Are you meeting your other girlfriend soon?” I joked as he noted the time once again.

  “In a bit, yes. I was kind of hoping you would—”

  I interrupted him before he could finish. “We may be in Paris, but you’d better not say anything that even remotely sounds like ménage!” I teased. I couldn’t fathom what caused his unease, but levity was generally a good antidote.

  “Shit. It was worth a shot. In all seriousness, we do have an . . . appointment in about half an hour.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that? Let’s get a cab.” I started towards the street corner, but he grabbed my hand and stopped me.

  “The car is coming to pick us up in five minutes.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “The car?” I jeered with a grin.

  He did not release my hand. Instead, he focused his gaze on me with the same intensity I recalled during the cab ride to the airport in North Carolina. Behind his beautiful grey eyes, I saw a hint of something ineffable. Electricity sparked between us and radiated warmth in our shared glance. It wasn’t confusion that I saw amidst the flecks of green and gold. It was . . . fear?

  “Is something wrong?” I blurted.

  He glanced down and chuckled. The odd moment faded as the current of charged energy broke free its hold on us.

  “No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s exactly right.”

  “You were just looking at me kind of funny,” I mused.

  “Sorry. I must be knackered.”

  “The car” rolled before us, and we stepped inside before I could think of anything else to say that would prod him to offer further explanation for his odd behavior.

  “Where are we going now?” I asked cheerfully.


  “You know that, as well. I was supposed to take you to a museum.” He grinned as he inclined his head towards the driver, giving me leave to divulge the destination.

  “Au Musée d›Orsay, s›il vous plait,” I intoned.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.”

  “Have you ever been before?” I asked Tom.

  “No, but I spent some time learning about it prior to coming here. I’m actually a big fan of Impressionist art as well.”

  “I love Van Gogh. I don’t know why exactly, but I’ve always loved his work,” I commented.

  “It’s because you’re a nutter. You understand him,” he joked.

  “There’s a thin line between genius and insanity.”

  “And you’ve definitely crossed it,” he continued. His left knee bounced up and down rapidly in a habit I knew indicated he was nervous about something.

  “I’m not the one who showed up randomly at your door on a Friday night and decided to go across the Atlantic!”

  He laughed and ran his fingers anxiously through his hair. What the hell was going on with him?

  We rolled to a stop in front of the museum, and I was dismayed to see a mass exodus of art lovers leaving the premises. I checked my watch and came to a heart-sinking realization.

  “I think the museum is closed already!” I moaned.

  He took my hand and marched towards the entrance as though I hadn’t said anything.

  The guards nodded at Tom and removed the rope currently cordoning the entrance to let us pass through. Waiting beyond was a grey-haired man with a tag identifying him as “Head Docent.”

  “Hello, Monsieur Abramson. You’re right on time,” he said warmly in accented English.

  “Hello, Henri,” Tom replied as though he had known this man for years.

  “And you must be Mademoiselle Cristina,” Henri announced as he turned to me and smiled encouragingly.

  “Bonsoir, Henri.”

  “Thanks again for being so accommodating. I promise we won’t be long,” Tom stated to Henri.

  “Please, Monsieur. Take your time.”

  Henri led us towards the main Impressionist gallery and turned around to give us privacy as we strolled from painting to painting.

  “Did you plan this with Henri?” I whispered to Tom.

  “No, Henri and I go way back. I know he doesn’t look it, but the man is a wicked poker player.”

  “Right. No, really . . . did you plan this?” I tried again.

  “It’s a lot easier to enjoy an art gallery when the tourists aren’t paying more attention to my ugly mug, don’t you think?”

  I smiled indulgently as I considered all the trouble he went through to take me to my favorite place in the world for my birthday: the Impressionist gallery of the Musée d’Orsay in Paris.

  Pausing before a Van Gogh painting, I leaned in to study the brushstrokes. They were almost violent in their quantity and texture. The tiny dashes of color crashed into one another with seeming simplicity, but the picture as a whole appeared anything but effortless. Each individual element of a painting always made me feel as though I received a tiny glimpse into the artist’s mindset at the time. To me, Van Gogh’s work was vibrant and a bit aggressive. I loved it.

  Tom walked ahead to look at something by Gauguin. We shifted from painting to painting in companionable silence. Twice, I caught him staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Each time, he smiled with a trace amount of discomfort and pretended as though everything was fine. We continued to make our way down the gallery. As I neared the rear wall, I noticed Tom backtrack to a painting he had already observed.

  His behavior really started to puzzle me, but I was too in my element to let it overcome the enjoyment of being here with him.

  I paced the back wall and noticed a small glass case standing alone in the far right corner, nestled between a Pissarro and a Degas. Confused by the existence of a display case in the back of the Impressionist wing, I strolled over to it. From behind me, Tom exhaled slowly and audibly.

  At first glance, I didn’t see anything in the small case. Then, something sparkled from the center as I came closer to it. A small light shone on the art within, and it reflected back at me in flashing shimmers of incandescence.

  I stopped a few feet in front of it as realization dawned on me.

  It was a ring.

  Not just any ring. This ring was truly breathtaking. It sat inside a red box with the moniker “Cartier” emblazoned on the inner lid in gleaming gold script. It was an emerald cut diamond, and the behemoth flashing in the center could be no less than three carats of pressurized carbon perfection. The ring was extremely modern in its setting and presentation. Tasteful, yet fabulous.

  It was so Tom.

  My heart pounded in my throat, and I gasped quietly for air.

  Tom walked towards me and came to stand on the other side of the display case with the flashing stone situated between us. His eyes were wide and his breath was a bit shaky as he opened his mouth to address me.

  To propose to me.

  “I’m done,” he began.

  “Oh God,” I croaked.

  He laughed nervously. “Let me try that again.” He paused to clear his throat.

  “I’m done waking up and wishing you were with me.

  “I’m done being apart from the only person in America who cares to hear what I’m really thinking.

  “I’m done seeing something you would find ridiculously funny, and only being able to tell you about it.

  “Mostly . . . I’m done being without you.”

  My heartbeat drowned out all sounds except his voice.

  “I want you to be my wife.”

  I stared at his face. It was so full of earnest love that it consumed everything else around it in a fire of clarity. For a brief moment, I thought about the last time a man had proposed to me.

  I had gone with Ryan to pick out my ring. Since he was certain that he would not be able to purchase the ideal one without my help, we had gone together. From many selections, I had chosen the ring that was perfect for me. It was everything I had ever wanted. I loved antique rings, and the center stone was round cut with tiny pave diamonds intricately woven around it and situated amidst delicate embellishments that were carved along the length of the band.

  Exactly what I wanted.

  The glittering rock in front of me was the last thing I would ever have selected if given the opportunity. It was so . . . big. It almost looked like a piece of costume jewelry, flashing merrily at me as every ray of light was captured and refracted in its perfectly cut facets.

  This ring was so Tom. So not me.

  “What about . . . my mom?” I barely made out.

  “I asked her last night. She said yes.”

  Bewildered as the image of Tom and my mother sitting at our breakfast table just the day before came to mind, I tried to change the subject. “It’s huge!” I whispered.

  He smiled crookedly back at me. “I work in Hollywood. I’d rather not have someone look at my wife’s hand and think I’m a cheap bastard.”

  I couldn’t say anything else as I stared down at what I believed to be the wrong ring. Utterly. Then I glanced back at the face . . . of the right man. He had to be the right man. Every fiber of my being wanted to throw my arms around his neck and shout “Yes!” to the world.

  Why couldn’t I do it?

  I was so afraid. The last time I said “yes” to a man, he had left my heart in the gutter for me to find and resuscitate by myself. When I did unearth it, it was bitter and blemished. It had taken months of agony to make it function properly again. I couldn’t go through that once more. I wouldn’t make it.

  “Stop thinking, Cris!” he whispered.

  I snapped out of my fear-ridden reverie and stared back into his eyes. The eyes of the right man.

  “Don’t think, just do,” he murmured with a careful smile.

  I took a deep breath and raced over to him to press my lips to his. He
lifted me from the ground as we kissed, and I tangled my fingers in his soft hair.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I left for work the next Monday morning twenty minutes earlier than usual. Even though I was sure to regret relinquishing those extra moments of sleep, I was more concerned with making it to my cubicle under the radar. Like a zombie, I shuffled to my desk and plopped into my seat with a yawn that rippled down my spine. Shuddering afterwards, I placed my hands on the keyboard of the computer to type in my login and password information.

  There it was, resting innocuously on my ring finger for all the world to see. Yep, it definitely wasn’t a dream. It sat there obnoxiously fat and painfully brilliant and was my reason for coming into the office before anyone else noticed me. If a gust of wind blew in my general direction, I knew which side a fall would favor.

  This was completely ridiculous. A normal girl would be leading with her left hand everywhere she went, just as I did whenever I was first engaged to Ryan. That month, I began to point at everything, brush my hair over my shoulder, stroke my chin thoughtfully, and juggle bowling pins on fire with my left hand. I became the Ambidextrous Superwoman. It was impossible to miss my pride and pleasure at the shining rock of commitment glistening from my finger with every movement I made.

  The man I loved wanted to cherish me. For a lifetime. For a little while. The simple truth of the matter: I was incredibly uncomfortable with the recent turn of events. Never before in my life had I made such an important decision so recklessly and impulsively. Usually, everything I did was done with careful consideration, weighing pros and cons until I felt at peace with my choice.

  This decision was pure insanity. My heart had spoken instinctively, and my mind never even had a chance.

  What had I gotten myself into!?

  I should have spent the rest of the weekend talking at length with Tom about the intricacies that came with planning a life together. I should have asked questions about my mother, about how to deal with moving, about where I could work. Should have.

  Instead, we had passed the time in a suite at the Plaza Athénée . . . laughing and reveling in one another’s company with the shadow of the Eiffel Tower filling the floor to ceiling windows by the enormous bed. Completely carefree, as though the real world had been set on pause and nothing else mattered except enjoying the moment.