An Autumn in Paris

by Alix Nichols

  “Yep,” Dana says. “His mom called on Thursday, by the way.”

  I hope that bodes good news. “And?”

  “She said they’d been talking about it a lot. Like, daily. She’s positive he understands what’s at stake for him.”

  “Good.”

  A small part of me regrets I might not get a chance to teach a lesson—with the help of my fists—to the prick who raised his hand to Dana. But I tell myself it’s better this way. More civilized. More grown-up. Besides, my fists aren’t going anywhere. They’ll be right here, ready and waiting, in case Nico veers off course.

  The polished female voice of my GPS gives me a heads-up about a left turn.

  “Wait—it gets better,” Dana says. “He’s started dating a charming young woman. And he’s seeing a therapist. According to his mom, he’s really moving on.”

  The GPS politely reminds me about the upcoming turn.

  “Good riddance.” I shrug.

  “That’s exactly what I said to her.”

  Forgetting about the road, I stare at Dana.

  She chuckles. “I’m pulling your leg! I told her I was happy for Nico.”

  The GPS lady forgets her good manners and barks at me to turn left now. I do. I swear she mutters “you idiot” under her breath. A few minutes later, her once-again serene voice informs us that we have reached our destination.

  “Claude Monet did his own landscaping years before he started painting in here,” I say like a tour guide as we enter the gardens.

  Dana looks suitably impressed. “Including the lily ponds?”

  “Yep. Isn’t that super cool?” I turn to Liviu. “I’ve never heard of another artist who created his own models from scratch, nurtured and grew them, and then painted them.”

  With a look of feigned innocence, Dana raises her hand. “Would I qualify? I’ve drawn Liviu once.”

  I burst out laughing. Man, does she crack me up.

  “Will you show me that portrait?” I ask her, wiping my eyes.

  “Not in a million years,” Liviu says. “It sucks.”

  Dana shrugs a sorry.

  We head for the famous Water Garden with its Japanese bridges, bamboos, and lilies.

  Just like in the Passage des Panoramas, Liviu walks ahead of us. He’s hunching his shoulders and slouching, no doubt trying to imitate a high schooler’s gait.

  But the crispy leaves dotting our path prove too much of a temptation. Relapsing into childhood, he stops tramping and starts skipping from one foot to the other, trying to hit the leaves and make them crunch.

  Dana and I exchange an amused look.

  As if sensing he’s being watched, Liviu stops in his tracks and swings us a glance over his shoulder to check if we’d seen his little-boy moment. The kid looks mortified.

  We do our best to pretend we’re too busy talking.

  His face relaxes, and he goes back to tramping as befits an almost teenager.

  Two hours later, we’ve seen the grounds and the house, and taken plenty of photos. As we exit the property, I announce matter-of-factly that I’ve booked a table nearby for an early dinner. Before Dana says she can’t, I remind her that Ioana is sleeping in the loge tonight and will take care of Baloo. And, my last night’s Bouillon Chartier dinner was overridden by the party at La Bohème. So…

  “Great!” Liviu says. “I’m getting hungry.”

  Dana only smiles, and I release the breath I was holding.

  So far so good.

  Things start to get more complicated when I pull over in front of a stately manor house overlooking the Seine. A lush, forestlike park sprawls around it with a few charming outbuildings scattered nearby. Everything looks exactly as advertised. No, scratch that… it looks better.

  “Domaine de la Corniche,” Dana reads the estate’s name, climbing out. “Sounds chic.”

  She’s frowning.

  Not good.

  A valet leads us into the manor, which is also a hotel and a spa, and then to the restaurant, where the maître d’ takes over.

  “Would you like to sit outside on the terrace?” he asks. “It’s warm enough.”

  It really is. My phone app hadn’t lied.

  Dana smiles and nods a thank you, but I detect disapproval in her eyes.

  I chew my lip nervously.

  The maître d’ takes us to a table by the parapet. “Enjoy the view! I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “This place is gorgeous.” Dana looks around. “And expensive…” She peers at the sign on the glass door and then faces me with a scowl. “It has a freaking Michelin star!”

  “Only since earlier this year,” I say as if that mattered. “It was merely a gourmet restaurant before.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “I may sound like a broken record from last night, but it’s too much. I can’t accept it.”

  “Listen to me.” I lean forward. “I knew about this place before I moved to Paris. My friend Yacine was here with his girlfriend last year, and he recommended it highly. If it wasn’t your birthday, I would’ve found another occasion to check it out.”

  She stares into my eyes, her expression tight.

  “Please?” I say.

  She still hesitates.

  “You have to consider that this is a very selfish present,” I say. “I’m going to benefit from it just as much as you will. Does that make it more acceptable?”

  “Maybe…”

  I wait.

  “OK,” she says.

  The maître d’ comes back with the menus, and we order our food and a bottle of wine.

  “I won’t have more than a glass,” I promise her.

  There’s no way in hell I’m driving them back inebriated.

  Dishes and amuse-bouches arrive at a steady pace, all delectable, refined, and beautifully presented.

  Slowly, Dana relaxes. She seems to genuinely enjoy her meal, commenting on the foods and gushing over the wine.

  In the soft light of the setting sun, I listen to the water rambling down below and take in the magnificent view. The lithe, sinuous river meanders across the Seine Valley. Its banks aren’t rocky or even hilly here like elsewhere. Almost flat, they roll along as gently and slowly as the river, enhancing the peaceful feel of this place.

  If we were by the water, we wouldn’t see much beyond the first row of trees. But from up here, perched high on our corniche, the eye can accommodate the full depth of the woodland and the riot of green, gold, brick red, and ruby that it offers.

  But Dana has angled her body away from the parapet and won’t look down.

  “Fear of heights,” she explains with an apologetic smile.

  Recalling how her first love died, I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.

  A bird calls from across the terrace.

  “Do you recognize the sound?” Dana asks Liviu.

  He tenses, listening.

  “We play this game, trying to match sounds and birds,” Dana says to me.

  She doesn’t pull her hand away. I leave mine where it is. It’s just a friendly gesture of comfort, I tell myself.

  “Not sure,” Liviu says. “A cuckoo?”

  “I think so, too,” Dana says.

  She turns to me. “I had a wake-up call when he turned six, and I’ve been trying to educate him—both of us—about nature.”

  “What kind of wake-up call?” I ask.

  “He was the ultimate city kid. To him, nature was limited to what you can see in Parisian parks.”

  “Was he allowed to watch TV?” I ask.

  “Yes, but clearly, it wasn’t enough. When I took him to the zoo for the second time—the first time he’d been only three—and he saw a peacock, you know what he said?”

  “Mami, come on.” Liviu taps his foot. “You’ve told this story a bajillion times.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “But not to me.”

  She smiles. “He said, ‘Mami, Mam
i, look at that freaky pigeon!’ ”

  “It’s not that I was dumb,” Liviu explains. “It’s just that to me a pigeon meant a bird.”

  “I totally get it,” I reassure him.

  Darkness falls.

  Our server turns up the lights and brings the desserts out. Reluctantly, I let go of Dana’s hand so we can eat.

  Washing my last morsel down with coffee, I rest my eyes on the half-empty bottle of wine. Then I close my eyes and finally allow myself to acknowledge what I’m craving. What I’m secretly hoping for. What I had in mind bringing Dana here. Her sweet, naked body in my arms. My hands on her incomparable breasts, on her ass, everywhere. My cock sheathed deep inside her.

  That’s why I have condoms in my pocket.

  Yes, I’m hoping it will happen tonight, even though I don’t see how it could. There’s simply no way, practically speaking. But also, morally. I must not let it happen, if I am to stay strong, and steadfast, and unfaltering—

  “So.” I open my eyes and turn to Dana. “We can drive back to Paris now, or I can book two rooms here—one for you and Liviu, and one for me. Then we can finish this bottle and drive back tomorrow morning.”

  “What if the hotel is full?” she asks.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is that her main concern?

  “It isn’t. I’ve checked,” I say, indirectly avowing premeditation.

  She holds my gaze. “This wine is heavenly. Who am I to stand between you and two more glasses of heaven?”

  19

  We finish the wine. Dana texts her mom. I pay. She thanks me profusely.

  Liviu says, “Thanks, man, it was fun.” And we fist-bump.

  I assure Dana the pleasure was all mine.

  We go upstairs to our rooms and wish each other a good-night.

  I sit on my bed and tell myself it’s in Dana’s hands now. All I can do is wait. There’ll be a knock on my door sometime within the next hour. Or there won’t be.

  Twenty minutes later, my phone beeps. It’s Dana.

  Fancy a brisk walk in the park?

  My hands trembling, I tap.

  Sure. Meet you in the lobby.

  My clever girl! She probably found it too difficult, too direct, to knock on my door, so she came up with a most elegant solution. We’ll take a stroll, hold hands, maybe start kissing. Then, I’ll lead her back to the hotel. To my room. Into my bed.

  I grab my jacket and rush out the door. She comes down barely a minute after me and, without a word, we head into the park.

  With no clouds to block the view, the sky looks like the fancy ceiling of the Great Hall at Le Grand Rex. The bright stars, full moon, and warm lights flickering through the manor’s windows all come together to make this night feel magical.

  We progress in silence. Leaves and little twigs crunch underfoot. It’s quiet, barring some insect that makes a low humming sound. The night air smells of wood, earth, and moss.

  I decide I’m letting Dana take the lead on this.

  Our circumstances are very different, yet essentially the same. We’re trying to stay faithful to someone who isn’t there. In Dana’s case, that person won’t be coming back. In mine, I hope to God she will.

  But we’re only human.

  We’re drawn to each other, hungry for each other. It’s more than just a physical attraction. As cheesy as it sounds, there’s a chemistry, a connection between our souls. If I’m completely honest with myself, I can’t deny how special our connection is. I can’t deny that Armelle and I never shared anything remotely close.

  “How did you become a vet?” she asks

  “I always loved animals, but my mom wanted me to become a physician like her.”

  “And your dad?”

  “He wanted me to become a surgeon, like him.”

  She laughs. “Please don’t tell me you became a vet to spite them!”

  “I was a contrarian spirit at the time.” I spread my arms. “But I’ve never regretted my decision.”

  When the manor disappears from view, Dana spots a small clearing in the distance at the end of a narrow trail. “Follow me.”

  A little puzzled, I follow behind her as she turns off the main path.

  Once in the clearing, Dana halts. “I’m going to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time and never dared.”

  I swallow. “Be my guest.”

  “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “I swear by Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of pets.”

  “Is that true?” she asks. “Is there a saint for animals?”

  I lift my hand, palm forward. “Vet’s honor. Go ahead.”

  She shifts from one foot the other. “There’s this book I read recently. It’s called Blinded by Science.”

  “Sounds New Agey to me…” This isn’t quite what I expected to hear.

  “See?” She turns away. “I haven’t even told you what I wanted to do, and already you’re judging!”

  I hang my head. “You’re totally right to reprimand me. I won’t say another word.”

  She narrows her eyes at me.

  I join my palms together in a plea.

  Dana snorts. “All right, all right, I’ll continue. But consider this a warning, Monsieur.”

  “Understood,” I mouth.

  “So, this book explains how everything in nature gives off a vibrational energy when touched,” Dana says. “The trees’ energy is particularly good for us.”

  I nod, hoping I don’t look too skeptical, not that I don’t believe in any unorthodox approaches. In fact, some have been proven to work. It’s just that the whole field of holistic healing is too full of bullshit and of crooks peddling it. As a conventionally trained medical professional, I tend to mistrust first and ask questions later.

  “Basically, that’s it,” she says. “And now, brace yourself, good Doctor. I’m about to go all hippy on you and hug a tree.”

  I look around. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “This one.” She points to a straight, tall tree to her right. She marches to it and wraps her arms around its trunk.

  Leaning on another tree a couple of meters away, I watch her.

  She adjusts her position and stays motionless for a long while. Her eyes are closed, her expression happy.

  Just by looking at her, it’s impossible to tell if she’s experiencing a placebo effect or bona fide tree goodness. Suddenly, I remember having read an article about the Japanese practice of “forest bathing.” If memory serves, Japanese scholars have shown that just being among trees reduces blood pressure and calms you.

  Hmm. I can’t say I’m very calm at this juncture. My eyes travel between Dana’s face and arms, feasting on her delicate, natural beauty. Her pretty face is blissfully serene. Her levels of oxytocin and dopamine must be high right now, the medic in me concludes. I’d wager that if I checked her radial pulse, it would be perfect.

  Man, would I love to check her pulse now.

  I take a steadying breath. Dana leads on this, remember?

  She shifts a little, presses her other cheek to the ridged surface, hugs the trunk tighter, and then draws away.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs to the tree.

  “Feel any vibrations?” I ask.

  She nods. “You should try it.”

  “Now?” I step closer.

  “No,” she says. “Later.”

  She places her hands on my chest.

  I sway toward her, smelling her hair and pressing my lips to her forehead. The relief, the joy that floods me is so great, a small part of me wonders how I managed to not do this for so long, to stay away from her for weeks.

  “I missed this,” I say, kissing her face. “I missed you. God, how I missed you!”

  20

  “And I, you,” she breathes out.

  A dark strand has fallen loose from her bun. There’s enough light for me to see the fire in her eyes, and the flush in her cheeks. I cradle her face in my hands. She lifts it, her lips parting. I bend
my head down and kiss them. First softly, then harder, then softer again. On the softer stretch, my fingers get busy, undoing her bun.

  When her hair tumbles down over my hands in heavy silky waves, I moan against her lips. Then I kiss her some more, openmouthed, rough. She clutches at me, yielding and feverish with want. I can feel the force of her need in the way her tongue meets mine, in the way she strokes my neck and my shoulders, in the way she clings to me.

  It makes me want to take her right here, right now—the big, comfy bed in my room be damned. But I forbid myself from even thinking about it. This second time, I want it to be tender. Deliberate. And I want her to love every moment of it.

  My mouth slants over hers as I kiss her deeper still. Dana’s lips are bow-shaped, full, and made for kissing. I could do this forever.

  But she signals she wants more by standing on her tiptoes and pressing her groin against mine.

  I cup her ass to press her closer still, my hard cock demanding it. The swell of her derriere in my hands feels exquisite as I squeeze and stroke her. Dana gyrates her hips, grinding herself against me.

  It’s torture. It’s bliss.

  We both pant, our bodies straining, working.

  My mouth moves down her slender throat and lingers in the hollow at its base. She tugs at her scarf until it’s down on the ground beside us. Dana is wearing her favorite combo of shirt and skirt today, but I hesitate to unbutton her shirt. She might feel too cold. Too exposed. Yet I know I’d give my right arm to be able to look at her breasts without delay. And I’d give my left arm to touch them.

  Solving my dilemma, she begins to undo her buttons. As her nimble fingers move from one to the next, her fine collarbones come into view, then the bare top of her breasts. Then, her pretty bra, holding the rest of them.

  Dana is the only woman I know whose tits are shaped so incredibly, impossibly right. There isn’t a bra in the world to do them justice.

  I want it off!

  She lets out a soft laugh, reaching behind her to undo the clasp. “Oui, Monsieur.”

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I’m so—”