by Sandra Byrd
He complicated my dreams and my plans.
“Hi, Lexi,” he said, coming forward to hug me as I stood to greet him.
“Bonjour, Dan,” I said more softly than I’d meant to. “Oh! I’m still speaking French. I’m sorry”.
“It’s pretty,” he said, adding softly, “Like you”. With him, it sounded earnest, honest, almost a bit embarrassed. Not like the typical French come-on. I got the feeling he wasn’t expecting to still feel as strongly about me as he did, either.
“In any case, it’s good to have a French-speaking tour guide”. He grinned. “Should we go?” He offered me his arm, and we walked out onto the street. “What’s the plan? You’re in charge!”
We talked as we walked the streets, getting reacquainted and catching up, but it seemed as though we were instantly comfortable with each other again. I was thankful and, truthfully, blissful we experienced no awkwardness.
I took him on the Big Red Bus so he could get an overview of the city. “This way you get to see everything and decide what you want to visit,” I said.
“I’ll let you decide that—except for dinner tomorrow night,” he said. “I have a special plan for that”.
“Okay,” I said. What could that be?
We climbed to the top level of the bus. “Don’t plug in your earphones,” I whispered. “I’ll be your guide”.
Now was my chance to redeem my first, lonely visit to Paris. I shared with him everything about the monuments and sites we passed, things I knew from my years of study and things I’d learned since I’d been here.
“There’s the Louvre”. I pointed out the glass triangle that stood before the main entrance. “The building that is now the museum used to be the royal palace. Louis the XIII lived there, as did Louis the XIV before he built Versailles. Then, in the Revolution, it was turned into a homeless shelter. Pigs even stayed there. It was reinstated as a museum to hold the treasures the French people returned to themselves from royalty.
“Fascinating!” he said. “If there’s one museum I want to visit while I’m here, that’s it”.
I was glad he hadn’t said the Musée d’Orsay. Better a fresh museum than one with recent, complicating memories. “Then let’s go tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll come in early and we can go before lunch”.
We rode up the Champs-Elysées. “Lots of shops here,” I told him. “We can visit tomorrow and you can buy something for your mom or whatever souvenirs you want. The street is called the way of diamonds and rubies”.
“Because of the jewelry shops?”
“No, because of the head and taillights of the crazy traffic,” I said, laughing. Dan joined me.
We got off the bus and wandered around the neighborhoods for a while, chatting about architecture and music and the food stalls, which he seemed taken with. We stopped by my favorite old bookshop.
“You should like this bookstore,” I teased. I pointed to the name over the door.
“Mille Feuille!” he said. “I thought that was the pastry you baked me”.
I grinned. “Yes. But it means ‘a thousand sheets,’ like sheets of paper, so it works here too”.
We browsed the racks together, delighted and surprised by the titles we liked in common. He didn’t go for poetry, though I did. I thought about buying a leather bound collection of poetry by Jacques Prévert, whom I loved, but it was signed and just too costly.
Moving on, we stopped into Ladurée, where I’d been just a few weeks before with Philippe. I showed Dan all of the pastries.
“I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like a high-class salon,” he said. “A jewelry store, almost”.
I nodded thoughtfully. “Yes”.
He looked at me. His hair was slightly slicked back by a little gel, a little mist, and the wind from the bus. The cold air had given his cheeks color, and he was getting an evening shadow along his jaw. I found him more attractive in Paris than I had at home.
I grinned to myself. Perhaps everyone was more attractive in Paris!
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Can I tell you what any of these are?”
“I know the Napoléons,” he teased, pointing at one in the case. I’d never let him get away with calling them that in Seattle. They were properly called mille feuille, a nod to their many thin layers of flaky pastry.
“Just try ordering a Napoléon here and see what they say,” I challenged.
He grinned. “I’ll leave the ordering to you”.
We settled on a pastry and a coffee, not wanting to eat too much before dinner, and sat down at a table.
“How was your sister’s wedding?” I asked.
“Very nice,” he said. “I admit, I wasn’t expecting to like the guy she married. I’d hoped she’d marry an American and live nearby. And, you know, it’s hard to imagine what people from another country are like before you know them. But he’s a decent guy, and he seems to really love her, so that’s enough. She’ll visit once a year, and I can come back from time to time and see her too”.
“She’s happy in Belgium?” I asked.
“Yes”. He sipped his coffee. “Are you happy here?”
I bit into my pastry to buy some time. “Yes,” I said. “I’m fitting in more and more. But there are things I miss from home too”.
“Such as …” Dan finished his mille-feuille and looked me in the eye.
“Oh, fresh salmon,” I said. “Lattes. Mostly people, though”. I avoided meeting his gaze. “We’d better go. Paris is beautiful in the twilight. Let’s walk for a while. And I’ll point out the Sainte-Chapelle and we’ll go by Nôtre Dame. Then, would you like to eat dinner on a riverboat restaurant cruising the Seine?”
I’d always wanted to do that. But not alone, of course. It was too romantic to waste.
“That sounds great,” he said, offering me his arm again. It wasn’t as intimate as holding hands, but it wasn’t nothing, either. I had the feeling we were both holding back, not really sure where things may—or may not—lead.
We strolled down the streets lit by green street lamps, the air misty enough to bring atmosphere and romance but not enough to get us wet. We talked about his job and how it had been easing up lately. He shared funny stories about the fifth grade boys he taught in Sunday school.
“If they don’t know their memory verses, I turn them upside down in the garbage can,” he admitted.
“Head first?” I asked, horrified. “Is it empty?”
“Nope,” he grinned. “Full of papers. They’re boys, Lexi. They love it”.
An hour later, we chose one of the several riverboat restaurants and boarded. Dan paid.
“I insist,” he said.
We were shown to a table near a window. A candle glowed in its center, and the seats were upholstered in red velvet.
I smiled as Dan took off his coat. He’d worn his suspenders.
He caught me looking at them and turned pink. “I remembered you liked them,” he said.
We talked about funny things from home, and the more he talked, the more homesick I felt. But I’d felt this way when my dad visited, and when he’d left, I felt fine and French again. It was all very complicated. I felt totally comfortable with Dan, like we’d never been apart. The kind of vibe where you know what someone is thinking, where conversation is easy and requires little thought and no second guessing. But there was also a feeling of expectation, things we both, I think, felt but weren’t ready to say. The tension made things more poignant by denying them voice.
After dinner we took the Métro back to Dan’s hotel, and he insisted on paying for a cab to take me all the way back to my cottage.
“I don’t think it’s good to ride the train this late,” he said, although I insisted it was perfectly safe.
I finally acquiesced, and we agreed to meet in the hotel lobby the next morning.
“How do you say good-bye in French?” Dan asked.
“The French love nuance,” I said. “Adieu means ‘I won’t
see you again for a long time.’ Au revoir means ‘good-bye for now.’ À bientôt means ‘see you soon.’ Take your pick!”
“Till tomorrow, then,” he said, apparently not willing to risk mangling the French, I thought.
The long cab ride home gave me time to think and to smell the rose he’d swiped from the dinner table.
I hadn’t expected to have that much fun. I hadn’t expected to feel yearning.
The next morning, I dressed in nice but casual clothes, and I packed my new dress and shoes in a bag. I wasn’t going to be able to come home between sightseeing and dinner.
I took the train in and met Dan in the hotel lobby.
“Here,” he said, taking my bag from me. “Let me put this in my room for now”.
He did it quickly and efficiently, so as not to make it seem like more than it was, but it still felt intimate to me. I was glad when we left the hotel and started walking toward the Louvre.
The day was chilly but gloriously clear and beautiful. We stopped at a Starbucks as a joke and had a coffee. Then we arrived at the Louvre and stood in line with half of Paris.
I talked about my work, school, and Anne. I told him I had a friend at work who had a daughter I adored. I didn’t mention the friend was male and that we’d been on a date. I talked about my exhibition.
“What are you going to do for your theme?” he asked as we moved closer to the entrance.
“I’m not exactly certain,” I said. “I have a few thoughts of what I’d like to make, but I don’t see how they all work together yet. I’m waiting for it to just make sense”.
“I hope it makes sense soon,” he said. “You only have a few weeks left, right?”
“A month,” I agreed. “Two weeks, really, until my exams start. So I need to start planning”.
“And then what?” he asked. “Stay here? Come home?”
“It all depends on the job,” I said. But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t entirely true.
“Speaking of jobs,” he said, “I see your friend Luc once in a while, when I pick up special orders. We’ve been placing quite a few with them, as business has grown”.
“Yes, I heard,” I said. “I’m glad things are looking up for you”.
“I’m helping him out with a business issue too,” Dan said as we neared the entrance.
That got my attention. “What is that?”
“He signed a lease that turned out badly. He asked if I could get him out of it. I told him I didn’t specialize in real estate law, but I had a friend who did”.
“Will your friend be able to get him out of it?”
“Yes,” said Dan, pulling out his wallet to pay for our tickets. “I’m pretty sure we can”.
That was a relief. Luc wouldn’t have to face Monsieur Delacroix after all.
“Thank you,” I said to Dan. Somehow, I knew he was doing it more for me than for Luc, whom he knew only on a professional level.
“He helped you, didn’t he?” Dan said. “Though I don’t know if I should pay him back for that”. His eyes twinkled.
We paid and walked into the huge gallery of the Louvre.
“We should do the top three—the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo, and Napoléon,” I said. “Then you can pick what you want to see, because I can come back”.
We stood in line for the gallery that housed the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo. When we finally stood in front of the Mona Lisa, I have to admit, I was impressed.
I was prepared not to be, because generally speaking, I’m not into anything surrounded by a lot of hype. But her skin was so luminous, alive and vibrant, her coy smile reaching out from the poplar panel for five hundred years. Dan was taken by it too. He stood before her, silent, for five minutes.
“We don’t have this at home, do we?” he asked. “Seattle Art Museum or no”.
I shook my head. We walked in companionable silence to the Venus de Milo. “Where her missing parts lie keeps her shrouded in history,” I said. “She’s not easy to understand”.
“Maybe that’s part of her appeal,” Dan said thoughtfully.
We wandered through the sculptures for a couple hours, and by then we were tired. We sat at a café and had a carafe of red wine and a hearty pasta dish before poking around in the high-class shops. I helped him select a bottle of perfume for his mom, and he chose a cigar guillotine for his dad.
“Chop chop,” he said, moving the guillotine up and down. “Watch your head”.
At the last minute, I bought one for my dad too. It was exactly the kind of corny thing he’d love.
“Do you want to visit the Eiffel Tower?” I asked. “You should do that before you go”.
“I’ve made dinner reservations there,” he said.
“How?” I asked, shocked. It could take months to get reservations at Jules Verne, the restaurant on top of the Tower.
“Connections. Planning. And a good administrative assistant,” he admitted. “I was hoping to surprise you”.
“Consider it a success,” I said softly.
As we walked down the street, we passed a jewelry shop. “Wait!” I said. “Can we stop here?”
“Sure,” Dan said, a little confused.
I looked at the various setups, the staging, the way the jewels were arranged by occasion or holiday. The tables were covered with velvet, jewelry pieces scattered appealingly across them. Some large displays, some small, all very much a fairy tale. Suddenly, I knew what my theme would be for the exhibition.
“Thank you!” I said, putting my arms around Dan and hugging him.
He laughed. “For stopping?”
“Yes,” I said. “And for giving me the seed of an idea yesterday when you said the pastry displays at Ladurée looked like a jewelry store”.
He held out his elbow again, and we linked arms, but I thought it was a bit closer than the night before. We were close enough to touch, to feel one another’s warmth, but far enough apart for the uncommitted.
We talked all the way back to his hotel. I waited in the lobby while he changed, and when he was done, he handed me his room key, and I went upstairs to get ready.
Being in his room felt odd. Intimate. His shaving stuff was on the counter, along with his aftershave. The room, like all Parisian hotel rooms, was tiny. I set my purse on the desk and saw that his laptop was on and his e-mail was open.
There was an e-mail in his queue from Nancy.
I turned away and went to the bathroom to wash up and get dressed. After changing into the bold red dress, I packed my casual clothes into the bag and went downstairs.
“You look great,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I guess I should have worn my red suspenders,” he added, making the moment lighter.
I laughed with him.
As we had reservations at Jules Verne, we didn’t have to wait in line. I’d always thought of the Tour Eiffel as black, but it wasn’t—it was brown. A soft powder brown, and at night, like now, it twinkled with thousands of lights.
We reached the top of the tower and the restaurant, and sat by a window. It was definitely a table for two.
Paris—the city of lights, the city of romance—was at our feet.
Much to Dan’s relief, the waiter spoke English. I think he was tired of relying on me to translate all day. I was glad to have the duty relieved too. And, truth be told, I liked the man in charge.
Tasting Menu, €142
~ Foie Gras Terrine “a la Lucculus”
toasted Parisian brioche
~ Large Roasted Langoustine
green beans and chanterelle mushrooms
~ Baby Purple Artichokes
barigoule sauce
~ Turbot “cuit a plat”
baby spinach
~ Milk-fed veal
simmered baby carrots, young potatoes and spring onions, cooking sauce
~ Tower Bolt
dark chocolate praline, hazelnut ice cream
“This is a beautiful pleasure,” I said quietly. “Thank you for bringing
me”.
“My pleasure,” he said, grinning.
We talked casually through the early courses. Each plate was flawlessly presented, impeccably cooked, and perfectly enjoyable. I couldn’t imagine a better date.
But did I mean the event or the man?
“Have you learned anything new about yourself or baking while you’ve been here?” Dan asked.
I nodded. “I learned I like creating beautiful things, that I enjoy cake and chocolate, that I don’t work fast but I like detail work. My friend Anne, on the other hand, likes to make everything. She keeps things humming. She can do pretty things, but she doesn’t have to. She can do the backbone baking, which kind of bores me”.
“Sounds like you make a good team,” Dan said. I was surprised by the thought.
“True,” I said. “But I’ll learn to enjoy the backbone baking too. My job will require it”.
“My job’s gotten a bit easier,” Dan said. His tone changed, and I had the feeling the conversation wasn’t casual anymore. “I’ve put in my grunt time, and now I’m getting projects that don’t take so many billable hours. I’m doing some literary copyrights too. No more John Hong and the Ding Dong rap cases like I had as a grunt”.
We laughed.
“I feel like I can settle down now,” he said. “Seeing my little sister married before me, well, it reminded me that life goes by quickly. It’s made me reevaluate my priorities”.
I sipped my wine and nodded, not ready to ask him to elaborate because of what he might say. We talked and laughed through dinner, and then walked back to his hotel through a light rain which moistened my face enough to make it glisten but not enough to ruin my makeup. It felt delicious on my skin.
“I’ll get your bag,” he said, and went up to his room. I sat in a chair in a private corner of the lobby and waited. When he came down, he had a soft hand towel as well. “I noticed your face got a little wet in the rain. I know mine did,” he said.
He wrapped the towel loosely around his hand and gently stroked my cheekbones, my eyebrows, my eyelids.
It was gentle, and sweet, and sensual all at the same time. I’d never felt like that before. I didn’t want him to stop. He looked me in the eyes, and I allowed myself to fall into the intimacy of the moment and stay there, meeting his purposeful gaze and not wavering for ten long seconds.