The First Time

by Joy Fielding

  Tears filled Jake’s eyes. “I wouldn’t let you see it without me,” he said simply.

  “I love you,” Mattie heard herself say, snuggling back into his arms.

  I love you, the walls echoed. I love you, I love you. I love you.

  Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Iloveyou.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was just after nine o’clock on the morning of April 11 when their taxi pulled up in front of the Hotel Danielle on rue Jacob in the heart of Paris’s Left Bank. “Is this not the most beautiful city you’ve ever seen in your entire life?” Mattie exclaimed. How many times had she asked that since they’d left the airport?

  “It’s by far the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” Jake agreed.

  Mattie laughed, not quite believing they were really here. Months of planning and dreaming, and suddenly it was a reality. And it didn’t matter that she was exhausted from the flight and hungry because she’d had difficulty swallowing the overcooked piece of meat that claimed to be steak Diane. “No one can swallow airplane food,” Jake assured her, returning his tray to the stewardess untouched.

  “Shall we?” Jake asked now, helping Mattie out of the cramped backseat of the small French car as the taxi driver carried their bags into the stylized Art Deco lobby of the charming old hotel.

  “Oh, Jake. It’s beautiful. C’est magnifique,” Mattie said to the exotic-looking woman behind the front desk. The woman, whose name tag identified her as Chloe Dorleac, had dark violet eyes, thick black hair, and impeccable posture. She looked at Mattie the way one regards a child getting ready to misbehave, cautiously, skeptically, as if she were afraid Mattie might start doing somersaults around the room. No danger of that, Mattie thought, leaning on her cane.

  “Bonjour, madame, monsieur. Can I help you?”

  “How did you know we speak English?” Mattie asked.

  Chloe Dorleac smiled indulgently, said nothing. Her mouth, Mattie noted, was a thin red slash that made only minimal adjustments when she altered her expression.

  “We have a reservation.” Jake fished in his pocket for the appropriate piece of paper, sliding it across the high ebony desk. “Hart, Jake and Mattie.” He handed the woman their passports.

  “Hart,” Chloe Dorleac repeated, scrutinizing their passports with even more care than the customs officer at the airport, scribbling their passport numbers into her book. “Jason and Martha.”

  Who are they? Mattie wondered, scanning the small lobby for a place to sit down, seeing her image reflected repeatedly in the huge gilt-flecked mirrors lining the walls. She hadn’t realized how tired she looked. “We’re from Chicago.”

  “I believe we have another guest from Chicago staying with us,” the woman said.

  “Chicago is a big city.”

  “Everything in America is big, no?” Chloe Dorleac gave them another of her indulgent French smiles, though clearly she was bored with the conversation, and pushed a blank form across the desk. “Could you fill this out, please?”

  Mattie took several measured steps toward a dark green velvet love seat that sat in a small alcove in front of the window overlooking rue Jacob. I’m in Paris, she thought, feeling the cushions balloon around her as she sank into the small sofa. “I’m really here,” she whispered under her breath, glancing over her shoulder at the narrow, busy street that was everything she’d imagined, and more. “I did it. We did it.”

  Would she be able to navigate that street, with its constant parade of pedestrians, cars, and motorcycles, without the need for her cane? Probably not. But at least the cane was better than a wheelchair. She’d used wheelchairs at both airports, and discovered she hated them. Wheelchairs create barriers, however helpful they are designed to be. Your whole perspective changes. You are always looking up at people; they are always looking down. If they acknowledge you at all. Even the customs official at Charles de Gaulle airport had virtually ignored her, directing all his questions at Jake, even the ones concerning Mattie, as if she were a child incapable of intelligent response, as if she had no voice of her own.

  She was going to lose her voice soon enough as it was. She had no intention of surrendering it prematurely.

  Mattie felt movement, looked up, saw Jake approaching, a worried look on his tired face. “Something wrong?”

  “Apparently our room won’t be ready for at least another hour.”

  “Oh.” Mattie tried to keep the worry out of her voice. She tried smiling without moving her mouth, like Chloe Dorleac, but the result was an expression more pained than indulgent. The truth was that, as much as she was thrilled to be here, as anxious as she was to see every inch of the city, Mattie desperately needed to lie down, at least for a few hours. Her legs felt as if she’d swum across the Atlantic, her arms as if she’d flown over by herself. She’d barely slept all night, unable to find a comfortable position despite the first-class seats. She’d nod off occasionally, only to jolt awake a few minutes later. What she needed now was a chance to recharge her batteries. What she needed was a few hours’ sleep. “I guess we could go somewhere for a cup of coffee.”

  “I think we should stay here,” Jake said. “Apparently, there’s a lovely outdoor courtyard right in the middle of the hotel, and it has some comfortable lounge chairs where we can curl up and maybe sleep for a bit until the room is ready.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Jake helped Mattie to her feet, guided her through the lobby toward the tiny courtyard, a postage-size enclosure containing several uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs and one rather weatherbeaten chaise longue. “Well, it’s not exactly the Ritz,” Jake said.

  No, it’s certainly not, Mattie thought, but didn’t say. The Ritz-Carlton was a lifetime ago. For both of them. “It’s charming. Very French. C’est très bon,” she said, as Jake helped her into the flimsy lounge chair. “Very comfortable.” She was surprised to discover this was true. “But what about you?”

  Jake sat on the edge of one of the nearby wooden chairs. “Perfect,” he said, though the pinched look on his face told Mattie otherwise.

  She smiled, sleep already tugging at her eyelids. He’s as exhausted as I am, she thought. The last few weeks couldn’t have been easy for him, regardless of what he claimed. To take a leave of absence from the firm, to put his career in jeopardy, his life on hold, how many men would do that? Especially for a woman they didn’t love. Jake was already talking about where they’d go on their next trip. Hawaii, he’d suggested. Or maybe a Mediterranean cruise. She was a very lucky woman, Mattie thought, allowing her eyes to drift to a close, smiling at the irony of her thoughts. She was dying, her husband didn’t love her, and she was the luckiest woman she knew.

  She awoke with a start, almost tumbling from the chair. It took Mattie a moment to remember where she was, that she was actually in Paris, in the courtyard of a charming little French hotel, waiting while her room was readied. How long had she been asleep? She looked around the small enclosure, the sun falling across her eyes like a lazy chiffon scarf. Mattie squinted toward Jake, but there was a woman in a floppy beige hat occupying his chair. Mattie smiled, but the woman was engrossed in the guidebook on her lap and didn’t notice. Mattie heard voices, noticed a man and woman leaning against one wall, conversing easily in French. She tried to recognize a familiar word or turn of phrase, but the couple was speaking much too fast, and Mattie quickly abandoned the attempt. Where was Jake? “Excusez-moi,” Mattie said to no one in particular. “Mon mari—” No, that was no good. “Qui a vu—?” What exactly was she trying to say? “Damn! This isn’t going to work.”

  The woman in the floppy beige hat looked up from her book. “It’s okay. You can speak English.” There was a laugh in her voice, a voice that was strangely familiar, maybe because it was so reassuringly American.

  “I was wondering if anyone had seen my husband. He seems to have disappeared.”

  “Yes, they have a way of doing that. But no, sorry, I can’t help you. You were alone when I got here.
About five minutes ago,” she added before returning her attention to the book in her lap.

  Mattie tried to push herself into a more upright position, but her hands refused to cooperate and she was forced to lie back, pretend to be comfortable. An audible sigh escaped her lips.

  “Are you okay?” the American woman asked.

  “Fine. A little tired.” Mattie struggled to make out the details of the woman’s face, but the combination of the sun in her eyes and the woman’s floppy hat made it difficult.

  “Just arrived?”

  Mattie glanced at her watch. “About an hour ago. What about you?”

  “I’ve been here a few days.”

  “Anything to recommend?”

  “I’ve just been walking the streets mainly, trying to get reacquainted.” She waved the guidebook in her lap. “I haven’t been here since college.”

  “This is my first time in Paris.”

  “Well, the first time is always special.”

  Mattie smiled agreement. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

  “We’re very lucky with the weather. It isn’t always this nice in April.”

  “Are you here with your husband?” Mattie asked, eyes straining toward the lobby. Where could Jake have gone?

  “No, I’m traveling alone.”

  “Really? You’re very brave.”

  The woman laughed. “Desperate’s probably a better word.”

  “Desperate?”

  “Sometimes you want something so badly, you just have to take matters into your own hands,” she said.

  “I know that feeling.” Mattie smiled. “I’m Mattie Hart, by the way.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. The sun flashed across the woman’s face, turning it a ghostly white.

  “Cynthia,” the woman said, removing her hat, unleashing a barrage of wild red curls. “Cynthia Broome.”

  • • •

  “Where were you?” Mattie struggled to her feet as Jake entered the small enclave and walked toward her, a large brown paper bag in his arms.

  “I decided to do a little grocery shopping.” He indicated the contents of the bag with a nod of his head. “Some bottled water, some biscuits, some fresh fruit.” He kissed Mattie’s forehead. “You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to disturb you. When did you wake up?”

  Mattie checked her watch. “About twenty minutes ago. I met a nice woman. Turns out she’s the one from Chicago the dragon lady mentioned.”

  “The dragon lady?”

  “That’s what Cynthia calls her. Cynthia … God, I can’t remember her last name. Something useful.” Mattie shrugged. “Oh, well. It’ll come to me eventually. She’s here by herself.”

  “Very brave.”

  Mattie smiled. “That’s what I said. I was thinking maybe we could ask her to join us one day.”

  “Sure, if that’s what you’d like.”

  “Well, maybe if we run into her again.” Mattie looked toward the lobby. “You think our room is ready yet?”

  “We’re on the third floor,” Jake said, escorting her toward the tiny elevator beside the winding staircase at the end of the lobby. “The bags are already in the room.”

  “It’s like a bird cage,” Mattie marveled as they squeezed inside the minuscule space, Jake pulling the wrought-iron door closed after him. Several seconds later the elevator bounced to a jerky halt on the third floor, where half a dozen rooms were grouped around a small landing, its dark blue carpet fading and frayed.

  Jake used the large old-fashioned key to unlock the door to their room, pushing open the heavy door to reveal a small but beautifully appointed room overlooking the street.

  “It’s lovely,” Mattie said, eyes falling on the thick, downy cotton pique comforter all but enveloping the wrought-iron double bed in the middle of the room. Impressionist prints lined the walls. A small armoire sat beside the window. The en suite bathroom featured a mosaic reproduction on the floor of Renoir’s Girl on a Swing. “I love it.”

  “I see the French aren’t big on wide-open spaces,” Jake remarked, walking to the window, trying to pry it open.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It seems to be stuck.”

  “Is that a problem?” Mattie bit down hard on her tongue. Of course it was a problem. How could she be so insensitive? “I’m sorry, Jake. We’ll change rooms.”

  “No, don’t be silly. This is fine.”

  “It’s not fine. I’m sure they have other rooms.”

  They didn’t. Jake called Chloe Dorleac, who informed him the hotel was all filled up, and no other rooms would be available for several days. “The dragon lady says that Americans are always complaining it’s too noisy with the window open, so they haven’t bothered to have it fixed,” Jake told Mattie, lying down beside her in the middle of the voluminous white comforter, which bounced around them like a parachute. “It’s okay, Mattie. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” He stared at the ceiling. “My mother doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “The Eiffel Tower was built in a record two years for the 1889 World Exhibition,” Mattie said, reading from the guidebook, as she and Jake sat on a nearby bench looking up at the magnificent cast-iron structure. The temperature was a pleasant 72 degrees, and they’d changed out of their traveling clothes into inadvertently matching uniforms of khaki slacks, white shirts, and lightweight jackets. “The tower was never intended to be a permanent feature of the city, and only its potential use as a radio antenna kept it from being torn down,” Mattie continued in amazement. “However, in 1910, it was finally saved for posterity, and each year it attracts over four million visitors.”

  “All of whom decided to visit this afternoon,” Jake said.

  Mattie smiled. “The tower weighs over 7,700 tons and is 1,050 feet high. It’s made up of 15,000 iron sections, and 55 tons of paint were needed to repaint it. Its nickname is the ‘staircase to infinity,’ and it sways no more than five inches in high winds. Three hundred and seventy people have committed suicide here by jumping off the top platform, which is 906 feet from the ground.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I mean, it should be a cliché, but it isn’t.”

  “It’s beautiful,” he agreed.

  Mattie stared with growing envy at the seemingly endless number of people waiting in line for the slow-moving elevators. She and Jake had calculated it would take at least an hour to get to the front of the line. There was no way she could stand for that long, and climbing the hundreds of stairs to the top was obviously out of the question, so she and Jake had retreated to an empty bench to wait for the crowds to thin out. So far, they showed no sign of doing so, but Mattie was happy just to sit beside Jake and wait.

  There was nothing like people-watching, no matter where you were, she thought, her attention captured by a pair of teenagers kissing with great abandon under a magnificent cherry tree. Another couple was locked in a passionate embrace beside a small kiosk, yet another as they walked along the busy pathway in front of the tower, seemingly oblivious to all but each other, just like the famous photograph by Robert Doisneau. The city of love, Mattie thought, eyes focusing on Jake.

  “It says here we can avoid the long lines for the elevator by visiting the tower at night,” Jake said, reading from a pamphlet he’d picked up.

  “Really?”

  “Apparently it’s even more romantic at night,” Jake said, “because it’s all lit up.”

  “Could we do that—come back later?”

  “How about we come back after our boat ride on the Seine?”

  Mattie burst into tears.

  “What it is, Mattie? If you’re too tired, we can just wait here. I didn’t mean to push you. We can do the boat ride another night.”

  “I’m not too tired,” she assured him through her tears. “I’m just so happy. God, talk about clichés.”

  Jake wiped her tears away with a soft
stroke of his fingers.

  “What about you? You must be exhausted. At least I slept for a few hours at the hotel.” Mattie knew Jake hadn’t even closed his eyes.

  “I slept on the plane,” he reminded her. “What’s the matter? Think I can’t keep up?” Jake jumped to his feet, then helped Mattie to hers. “Just a minute,” he said, corraling a passing Japanese tourist, dropping his camera into the man’s startled hands. “Could you take a picture? Un photo? You just press down here,” he added, quickly positioning himself beside Mattie in front of the magnificent tower, draping a protective arm across her shoulder. “One more,” he directed, his hands instructing the young man to turn the camera into a vertical position. “Great. Thank you. That’s going to be a great picture,” he said after retrieving the camera and returning to Mattie’s side. “Ready?”

  Mattie slipped her arm through his as Jake slowly led her through the crowd. She caught sight of a woman in the floppy beige hat and was about to call out, but on closer inspection, she saw that the woman looked nothing at all like Cynthia Broome. Broome. Yes, that was her name. Cynthia Broome. From Chicago. “Ready or not,” Mattie said.