Max looked to her hostess at the other end of the table chatting with Hugo, who seemed quite enamored of her. She tapped Olivier’s knee, and indicated with her eyes that something might be going on at the other end of the table. “Projection,” he whispered, and she laughed. Lucy sat on Hugo’s left in her red dress and next to her was Carlos, who gesticulated wildly, fork in hand, as he spoke.
Anne stood and welcomed everyone once again, and wished a good life to the newlywed couple. To her right, Jean-Claude raised his glass, as did everyone else. Max breathed in the fragrance of the deep red wine, detecting a berry scent. She sipped, and swooned. Olivier turned and kissed her. “It’s such a cliché but this is the happiest night of my life,” he said. “The happiest day. I don’t want it to ever end.”
Hank sat next to Walt, whose wife had died two years ago, and for the first time Max realized she was looking at an aging parent. After the honeymoon, her plan was to fly back to New York for at least a month. A fabulous array of cheeses was brought out. And after another lengthy, restful pause, a waiter walked out carrying a croquembouche, her favorite cake in all the world. Literally meaning “crunch in the mouth,” it was a tower of cream-filled puff pastry balls piled into a high pyramid and encircled with caramelized sugar. This was a surprise to her. She got up and went to Anne, giving her a kiss to everyone’s applause. “It has the vanilla-bourbon cream icing that all the brides want these days,” she said, glowing with pride.
“It’s perfect,” Max said, returning to sit with Olivier. Suddenly, everyone at the table was holding up the traditional scintillants, small sparklers, and music was playing. Olivier turned to her, proffering a hand, “Dance with me?”
She arose from her chair as if in a dream, and he led her in a waltz that she never thought she could manage, but with him it was effortless. So much about being with him felt that way. Effortless. She glanced at his parents, who were smiling, and she could imagine a smart little boy named Olivier, the man she was with now, adoring them, and trying hard every day to please them. “You smell divine,” Olivier said, “in fact, my olfactory senses are blocking everything else out. Except the visual. Je t’adore.” Max put her head on his shoulder. Another waltz came on, and Max and Olivier watched as Hugo stood and invited his daughter to dance. Max said, “Olivier, I’m going to cry.”
“So am I.”
They stood back, and Hugo, who had arrived with a cane, put his arm around the tiny waist of Lucy-in-red, which is how Max smilingly referred to her, and slowly began to move gracefully around the room. Max recalled reading that the tremor in Parkinson’s disease patients often stopped when they danced or rode bicycles. Lucy gazed up at him, and Max was amazed that she knew how to waltz. Carlos stepped near Max and Olivier and asked, “Is it rude to cut in?” He was looking at Lucy and Hugo.
Max laughed. “You don’t know how to waltz.”
“I’ve been watching YouTube.”
He marched over and tapped Hugo on the shoulder, and Max looked on in astonishment as he led Lucy gracefully around the room. As if that wasn’t enough, Olivier said to her, ‘look,’ and she saw the tiny figure of Anne in Hugo’s arms. Olivier led Max back to the floor, just as Hank swept Juliette onto her feet. Max began to laugh, and Olivier said, “What’s happening? Did Lucy sprinkle pixie dust all over the room?”
Olivier excused himself and walked over to Isabelle, and asked her to dance. She seemed to hold back, then said, “Bien. D’accord.” Max stood on the sideline, transfixed. Isabelle danced as though she had been doing it all her life.
The evening went on. And on. And Max thought, I am a princess, but I would never admit that to anyone. Ever in my whole life. Suddenly Lucy was at her side. Max put her arm around her, and squeezed.
The music switched to techno-pop, and Max’s favorite band, AaRON, that was taking France by storm once again, drowned out conversation. The singer of the group, Simon Buret, sang songs of hope, of loss, of joy. Max waved to the DJ, and put a thumb up, as she and Ted hit the dance floor. Hours passed, and at two in the morning, Max and Olivier fell exhausted into bed.
“Tomorrow our lives change,” Olivier said. “We’ll see your parents and the others off, and later in the day I have a staff meeting, if you can believe it. There are concerns about new terrorist cells being discovered.”
“People are just relaxing from the Paris attacks.”
“I worry, though, that we are not being vigilant enough. Justice, police, and administration must communicate more with each other.”
“Olivier, it’s our wedding night.”
“You’re right.”
“We’ll be in our new apartment.” The old friend of Olivier’s had offered it to them.
“You’ll be the one deciding if it’s going to be home.”
“It’s in the Third Arrondissement, which I’m happy about. But I don’t like the eight hundred thousand-euro price tag.”
“We won’t find anything in this area for less, I’m afraid.”
“My mother inherited a small fortune from Ellen Jordan after she was killed. She’s insisting that she put up half of the asking price.”
“We couldn’t accept that.”
“Hank said we must. Ma feels it is what Ellen would have wanted.”
Olivier chuckled, “We have another angel floating around over our heads? It’s awfully busy up there.”
“There are never too many angels.”
“I just don’t want them competing.”
Max turned and drew him to her.
Chapter Thirty-four
It was a long, tearful leave-taking at the airport, as Juliette, Hank, Walt, Carlos, and Lucy boarded their Air France flight back to New York. Olivier felt a great sense of relief that he and Max could now begin their new life together, though taking a honeymoon trip to Australia for two weeks meant another long delay before he was functioning fully as an anti-terrorist judge. He had already spoken with the interior minister, who was now head of France’s anti-terrorism operations. Before he departed, he was due to meet with one of the other six investigative judges who formed the anti-terrorism division to discuss if it was absolutely necessary for him to have a bodyguard once he began his job.
“I feel desperate for a life of routine once again,” Max said. “I’m glad it wasn’t my fate to be an actual princess in this life.”
Olivier laughed. “I don’t think you would have lasted as long as you did in Burgundy without a crime to solve.” He passed the car in front of him, and entered Paris.
“It’s just been proven to me that the countryside isn’t as peaceful as we pretend. But okay, I’m ready to admit I’m a city girl. And I adore this city beyond all others. Why don’t we go to the apartment and from there we can plan the rest of the day?”
“I have meetings set up, and you need to meet your new bosses at Interpol. Your official ID should be in the mail.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Can’t we be newlyweds for an afternoon?”
“There’s a special agenda for newlyweds?”
“Use your imagination. I told Chloe and Ted we could meet them later in a little café for a bite to eat.”
“Oh, Max.”
“I know. But they are leaving for two weeks and so are we. It’s on rue Alibert. We can walk there.”
Olivier was just getting to know the area that abutted the rapidly changing moneyed Third Arrondissement. The Tenth and the Eleventh arrondissements were working-class communities, just now becoming gentrified, and Max was enchanted by the “mixte,” where neither class or race seemed to matter. It was here where the November attacks had occurred, the terrorists intentionally targeting the hip professionals in their twenties to thirties who started their weekends in the bars and cafés, and attending concerts in the theaters like the Bataclan, where so many died. Looking around, Olivier saw that the cafés were crowded again, whic
h gave him hope.
They passed Place de la République on the way, and Max stopped.“Look at the sunlight on the statue of Marianne. Pull over and I’ll take a quick photo.”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“I’m the new kid on the block.”
“Thank God they’ve taken the tents down,” he said. “I really never liked the idea of the Place becoming an encampment. Ever since they changed the entire landscape here, it’s become a place of perpetual protest. I’d hate to be living there,” and he pointed up to a beautiful apartment building overlooking the scene.
Max said, “I’ve heard people talking about how awful the traffic was a few years ago.”
“It still is, and I miss the small public gardens and fountains.” He had swung into a parking space and they both got out. “There she is, our statue of liberty.” He gazed up at the massive statue. “Symbol of the French Republic, like her or not. And many do not.”
“What’s the head gear?” Max asked.
“The Phrygian bonnet. It matches those worn by the ancient Roman slaves and much later by the French street wives in the 1789 uprising.” Max took a picture with her phone, and they got back in the car. Olivier reminded her that Place de la République connected the Third, Tenth, and Eleventh arrondissements.
The apartment had an elevator, but they walked up the stairs, and Olivier unlocked the door to the apartment they had only seen once, but had fallen in love with. They paused at the doorway, and Olivier swept Max up in his arms. “Here we begin our new life together,” he said, planting a kiss on her upturned smile.
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