Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  “Ooh, are you going to regale me with tales of Heloise and Abelard? Of the former royal residence turned into a prison during the French Revolution? Or will you show me the statue of Henri IV because for some reason that’s greatly important?”

  My eyes widen as I glance at her. “Such sarcasm. I’m ridiculously impressed. I had no idea you had such a store in you.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “I think it might be the champagne I had at Elise’s.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t save any champagne for me,” I tease.

  “Do you like champagne?”

  I whisper conspiratorially, “Love it. Maybe even more than a pint. Don’t tell a soul.”

  She places one finger on her lips, sealing our little secret. Then she gestures to the buildings and the streets. “Truth be told, I don’t mind those historical details. I’ve studied guidebooks about Paris, and I read about Heloise and Abelard, and I think if some romance writer wants to pen a completely taboo story, she ought to do a modern retelling of a nun falling for a man. Now, that would be risqué.”

  I hold my free hand up high, as if I’m lighting up a marquee. “The Vixen Nun. I can see it now.”

  “Starring Blaze Dalton as the modern-day monk.”

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you that Blaze also moonlights as an actor.”

  “Naturally.” She brings the ice cream to her mouth once again and hums her approval after a long, lingering lick.

  With the strength of an army, I tear my gaze away. “So, you don’t like traditional tour-guide info?”

  “Oh, I do like it, actually. But I like the odd little tidbits even more. In fact, I already went to Notre Dame, but my favorite was the elephant.”

  I bring my hand to my heart. “The elephant. Seriously, you need to stop talking right now.”

  “Why?”

  “If you say anything more, I’ll think you’re perfect.”

  She scoffs. “Because I liked an elephant?”

  “No. Because you noticed the elephant.”

  Joy shrugs as we amble down a cobbled street so picturesque it could be in a movie. Planters hang from window shutters, and an old-fashioned ironwork sign perches above an antique shop. Ivy has had the courtesy to crawl across nearly every building wall. “I like learning about what’s right in front of me, but also what’s undiscovered. However, I suspect you prefer the latter. Why don’t you show me something on the Île de la Cité that I won’t find on every single walking tour? Like that one.” Lowering her voice, she tips her forehead across the street. A man wearing trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt walks backward, talking animatedly to a group of a dozen or so tourists, all snapping pics on mobile phones or cameras as he tells them a story of how Marie Antoinette served time as a prisoner in the Conciergerie.

  Nothing wrong with history. I love it. But I also love what’s not in the books.

  Evidently, Joy does, too, and this little discovery is like a burst of electricity in my chest. I’m buzzing with awareness and possibility because it feels like she knows me. Like she’s speaking the language of my heart. “I’ll show you something that people rarely see.”

  We finish our cones as we stroll past a café with a chalkboard menu and mint-green chairs placed on the sidewalk. Joy stops to take a photo, then she studies it on her phone. She lifts her eyes and tugs the fabric of my shirt.

  “Look!” She points to the awning.

  I study it briefly, finding nothing noteworthy. “It’s a red awning. Is this another pink door for you?”

  “No, silly. Look higher. There’s an angel carved into the stone above the awning.”

  I squint, finding it. A small little fellow with wings and a bugle, occupying no more than six or seven inches.

  Once more, Joy takes a photo. “I saw an angel my first day here, but that was on a door knocker. It’s so random. I love how completely random this is.”

  “I’ve never noticed it before. Nor have I seen any angel door knockers,” I say, scratching my jaw.

  “Maybe there are angels watching over the city,” she muses.

  I arch a skeptical brow. “You don’t seem like one of those angels-are-watching-over-us people,” I say as we resume our pace.

  “I’m not really. As a scientist, I’d be more apt to think the planets were watching us. But some people do believe in angels, and I like knowing what people believe because it helps me understand the world better. And now I shall post that chubby little dude on Instagram,” she says with a flourish, raising her arm then stabbing her finger against the phone with panache. “Hashtag: their eyes are everywhere.” She adopts a spooky laugh.

  “Beware of angels,” I intone, my voice going dark, too.

  We make our way to the edge of the island, to the royal palace that became a court and a one-time prison. There, I show Joy one of my favorite gems, situated on an obscure side of the Conciergerie.

  But I don’t even need to direct her to see it. She’s the rare person who looks up long enough and high enough to see what’s in front of her.

  An ornate gilt medieval clock, lavishly decorated in gold and set against a royal-blue background, the twin statues of Law and Justice framing the timepiece.

  I gesture to it. “This is the city’s first public clock and its oldest public clock, given by Charles V to the city of Paris in 1371. But it’s hardly included on tours, even though it mattered so much more to French people than a statue of a king.”

  “Why did it matter so much?”

  “Because before 1371, Parisians were pretty much wandering around wondering what the hell time it was,” I say with a chuckle.

  She laughs, too. “See? I like those details. Tell me more. Why didn’t anyone know the time?”

  “No one could afford their own clocks, and watches hadn’t been invented. A big public clock like this helped the citizens know when the baker, the butcher, or the tailor opened and closed.”

  Joy shakes her head in amazement. “We take so much for granted.”

  “And before then, there were only sundials.”

  “But then you don’t know what time it is when it’s cloudy,” she adds.

  “That’s the rub.”

  Her brow knits, and then she snaps her fingers. “I swore I saw one the day we found my apartment. I’m not even sure it was working.”

  “The city is full of sundials, too. Some are useless and don’t work. Some still tell time in the most ancient of ways. It is a little-known fact that Paris is the French city with the greatest number of sundials. There are about one hundred and twenty around the city.”

  “Why so many?”

  “I’m sure there’s a logical reason. Like scientific societies met here or were studying the stars, but I have my own theory.”

  “Yes? Do tell.”

  “We’re obsessed with time,” I say seriously, then I train my gaze on the golden arrow ticking its way around the seconds. “Not just Parisians. It’s part of being human. We waste time, and we want more of it simultaneously.”

  “And yet, we rarely spend it wisely. We often simply squander it.”

  Her thoughtful tone hooks into me. All these ideas I marinate on she already knows the answers to. “I think we’re searching for lost time. We don’t ever find it, but that doesn't stop us from hunting for all our lost hours.”

  “Maybe that’s why there are so many sundials,” I speculate. “Maybe the French knew sooner than anyone else that we would always be seeking more time. There is literally never enough.” For a quiet moment, we stand in front of the clock as its hands tick forever forward. “What I love most about these little curiosities is picturing everyday life in this city—like when the baker is open.”

  “Which reminds me how glad I am to be alive today. I love knowing the time, and I love knowing thoroughly modern details that Google tells me, like what’s the nearest boulangerie that’s still open?”

  I smile at her, and translate her question into French. Then I point at her purs
e. “Now ask Google.”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lip but does as told, taking out her phone and speaking the question into the search engine, as I repeat the words in a low voice for her. She’s stilted as she speaks, and her pronunciation is nothing to write home about, but it gets the job done, because the pleasantly robotic voice answers from her phone in French.

  “The nearest boulangerie is on the corner of Rue de Lutèce and is open until six.”

  Joy thrusts the phone in the air, victory-style.

  “Très bien,” I tell her.

  When she tucks her phone away, she says, “Whenever I hear the time, though, it reminds me that I still feel sort of lost in time. Like when I first came here.”

  “How so?”

  “From jet lag at first, but also there was this constantly hazy feeling of being neither here nor there. I’d left America, but I didn’t feel truly here, either, but caught someplace in-between. Was I seven hours ahead, or seven hours behind? Even though I’m acclimated now, I hardly feel like I’m grounded here in Paris.”

  “You’re still converting the hours back to US time?”

  She nods, and a sad look passes over her eyes. “Maybe I always will.”

  “That’s not a bad thing. Your family is there. Your point zero is the United States, and all your references are across an ocean.”

  “But I’m here,” she says, her pitch rising as she digs her heels in, “and I want to feel like I belong.”

  My eyes roam her body, her silhouette framed by the river behind her. Her red hair blows in the breeze. She is an oddity, a bold, bright, brash American woman in this European place that’s both ancient and thoroughly modern. Paris is full of curiosities, and I’m pretty sure she’s one of them. “I think you belong here,” I tell her with a warm smile.

  Her eyes light up, glittering. As I look into them, it occurs to me they’re a color I’ve never seen before. The green is vibrant, but not overwhelming. Those are not emerald eyes. That would feel unreal, like a template for fake contacts. Hers are a sage green, and I can’t look away.

  I swallow as if I can drink down this flare of desire I feel for her that’s physical but also something more. There’s some fine thread connecting us, though I don’t know what it is. I’m not sure how to name it.

  Or if I want to.

  All I know is I like it—too much for my own good.

  “I can show you all the sundials I know of,” I say, and the words come out like gravel. I clear my throat. Fuck, it sounds like I invited her to bed. Maybe that’s what I meant to do.

  “I would love that,” she says, tapping my arm. She squeezes my bicep. “But I’m going to need to teach you something. It’s not fair that you’re doing all the work.”

  “It’s not work. It’s all pleasure.” Especially with her hand on my arm.

  “Be that as it may, I will have to take my turn showing you something you might not know about this city. Like exploring the flower markets?”

  I’d pretty much say yes to any place she wanted to take me right now. “You smell like a flower. Like some tropical plant,” I blurt out.

  Taking her hand from my arm, she runs it down her neck. I want that hand to be my tongue. “It’s a new perfume. Do you want to smell me?”

  I nearly wobble in my shoes. I want to smell her, taste her, touch her. I want to lick her from her ankles to her thighs. I want to press my lips to the hollow of her throat.

  “I do,” I rasp out.

  She lifts her chin and gently taps the side of her neck.

  I dip my head toward the crook of her neck, bending until my nose is inches away from her bare flesh. The scent of lush gardens floats into my nose as I close my eyes and draw a deep breath. My skin heats, and my bones hum. My nerve endings snap to attention.

  Along with other parts.

  My nose brushes against her skin, and a quiet noise seems to escape her throat. A hitch in her breath. As I draw one more delicious inhale, that sound shifts to a murmur, and I can picture her wrapping her hands around the back of my head, yanking me close, and urging me to lavish attention all over her neck, up to her ear, then to those lips I don’t want to resist.

  But I do resist.

  I step away. “It’s getting late. I believe you still have scissors and a laundry-drying rack to procure.”

  “And I thought you were an expert errand avoider.”

  “It is a top skill of mine, but I can’t wait to hear you ask for scissors in French.”

  She blinks. “I have to perform in French for you?”

  I laugh. “Yes. Hop to it.”

  She’s not half bad at the store when I teach her how to ask for the items she needs. Once we leave, she fixes me with a serious stare. “I really owe you after all you’ve done for me today.”

  I shake my head. “You showed me something I’ve never seen before. That’s pretty impressive.”

  She scoffs. “Spotting one little angel statue hardly compares to you treating me to ice cream, a clock, and your astonishing switcheroo skills when it comes to words.”

  “I don’t agree. I think we’re even.”

  “Hardly,” she says, doubtful.

  “Look at it this way—you kept me company on a Sunday afternoon when I might otherwise have been tempted to do something dreadfully boring, like dishes.”

  “If you say so.”

  “By the way, what is that tropical flower you smell like? My nose is terrible. I can’t distinguish scents at all.”

  “Was it a flower?” A flirty little smile crosses her lips. “Or was it the scent of the Sunday afternoon when you devoured ice cream and wandered through the city until the clock ticked close to twilight, and your companion wondered how she could ever thank you?”

  My throat goes dry. My skin heats.

  This woman.

  We stop at a street corner along the Seine. I step closer to her, savoring the view of her pretty face for one last moment. A streetlamp glows softly behind her, a halo of light framing her copper hair. “If you insist, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me somehow,” I say, then I do what the French do. I kiss her right cheek then her left, catching one final inhale of today, then I say good-bye.

  The truth is she doesn’t owe me a thing. As I walk home, I let my mind replay the afternoon with her. Someday, when I’m searching for lost hours, these are the ones I’ll want to find.

  13

  Joy

  * * *

  “What time does the nearest cheese shop close?”

  I pose the question to Google in French as I near my office building on Thursday of that same week.

  Like a responsive robot, she answers me. “The nearest cheese shop is on Rue Cler, and it closes at five.”

  Tra la la.

  I’m learning French by osmosis. I’ve been picking it up and not even realizing it, and now, look at me. Owning the cheese deets. Paris, I’ve got you figured out.

  With my phone close to my mouth like it’s a mic, I chat more with Google until I reach the entryway to L’Artisan Cosmetique, where I tuck my handy-dandy new friend into the side pocket of my Kate Spade bag. Before I know it, I’ll be conversing with my colleagues in the elevators, in the halls, in the break room, all thanks to this magical, fantastic device known as a smartphone.

  Smart indeed.

  Heck, I probably won’t need Griffin soon, and that’ll honestly be for the best. That man is temptation made flesh. It’s not just that he’s handsome. It’s not only that his accent makes me want to hump his leg. It’s that he’s so damn attentive. He listens to me. He cares. And he does it in a way that goes beyond his responsibility as a translator. He does it as a friend.

  But even though I wanted to haul his fine body against mine when he drew his nose along my neck the other day, I resisted. Relationships are messy stews. They boil over, and then you’re left cleaning up a big old spill of something you don’t even want anymore. Besides, getting close to someone makes you lose sight of what you wan
t in life.

  I’m so damn lucky that I have this chance to focus on my career, and I don’t want to torpedo it by letting a little thing like lust overwhelm me. Whoever said you can have your cake and eat it, too, clearly was never involved with a man like Richard.

  I shudder at the mere thought of his name then steer my brain toward happier ground.

  Like chocolate tarts and that fantastic new pair of royal-blue wedge heels I picked up yesterday on sale at the shop on the corner. They look fabulous with the red skirt I’m wearing today, if I do say so myself.

  I head inside my building and press the button for the elevator, letting thoughts of flirty British men, and inconvenient American men, and my own mistakes in staying too long fall out of my head, like leaves fluttering to the ground.

  When I reach my floor, I find Griffin chatting with Marisol, and a flare of jealousy ignites in my chest.

  I stop in my tracks, trying to process why on earth I’d feel envy. He’s effectively a contractor with our company. She’s signing off on the checks to pay him. It’s only natural they’d chat. I’m sure it’s a simple conversation about work forms or payday.

  When I reach them, I say hello, and they both shift to English, which pisses me off for some odd reason.

  “Good morning, Joy,” Marisol says. “We were chatting about how awful running can be.”

  I furrow my brow. They’re supposed to be discussing paperwork.

  “I’m training for a marathon,” Griffin says, a frustrated look in his pretty blue eyes. “Had a brutal run this morning. The kind where I ask myself why the hell I’m doing it.”

  I didn’t know he was running a marathon.

  Marisol sighs heavily, chiming in, “It was the same for me. I’m a runner, too, and it was just one of those days.”

  The flare inside me burns brighter, turns hotter. It scalds my skin. I hate running so much, and I hate that Griffin is bonding with my HR manager even more, and the thing I detest the most is that I’m having this kind of incendiary reaction to them having a conversation. “Well, you should take up people watching. That’s my favorite form of exercise, right after shopping,” I say with a practiced smile, and it’s only when I stroll toward my office that I realize the words came out more haughtily than I intended.