He handed it back and sat patiently, waiting for me to say something or put it on my finger. I looked at the elegant ring, cradled in the palm of my trembling hand. “I love you.” I did. I absolutely loved him. I slid it on my finger, but it was too big. I inhaled my disappointment. Or was I putting it on the wrong finger? He hadn’t actually asked me to marry him.
“This isn't a fairy tale, chère à mon coeur. We’ll have it sized, that is all,” he said, comforting me. He finally asked, “Would you like your Champagne?”
“Not to be dimwitted, but are you asking me to marry you?”
He threw his head back while chuckling. “Yes, of course, Kathy!” He pulled me in for a hug and said, “I was so nervous that I forgot to ask. I’m sorry. Yes. Would you marry me?”
My poised and composed Frenchman was nervous. The thought made me smile. “Yes! And I would love some Champagne.” I stretched my hand out before me and enjoyed the light bouncing off the diamonds.
“May I offer my congratulations?” The flight attendant had discreetly returned.
“Yes, you may,” I answered but kept my eyes on him.
***
“Hey! Is that why you were looking at me funny?”
“What?” He looked at me with sleepy eyes.
“Oops, sorry. I didn’t realize you’d managed to fall asleep.”
He shook his head. “Just dozing.”
“I thought maybe you were looking at me funny last night because you knew you were going to propose today.
He opened his eyes as a smile stretched across his face. “I was wondering if I should mention it to your mother but decided you ought to be the first person to know. Well, you and Jean.”
“Do you know Jean Dousset?”
“Not really. I was joking.”
“Not that I would have wanted you to ask permission, but it’s times like these I think about my father,” I said. “He’s out in the world, living his life, and he doesn’t even know I exist. Moments like this feel… incomplete.”
“I would imagine.”
1:42 PM, Saturday, April 16
The Sweet Hello, the Sad Goodbye
SURROUNDED BY MY friends, on this lovely spring day, I stood at the center of the cemetery a quaking mass, from shaking hands to wobbly knees; all of me was responding to my fear of facing this reality, feeling so much sorrow. When we had talked about my coming here, I’d realized that, though years had passed, part of me felt like I did about someone I’d broken-up with: like he was gone, but I might run into him some day. Being here was forcing me to face the ultimate reality of his death. Trying to maintain some control, I focused on the large stone church in the distance, at the end of a long swath of tidily mowed grass, flanked by a twiggy hedge of hydrangeas.
“Seven springs have come and gone since Mikkel was buried here,” I said to myself. It was excruciating to be here. Hillary had taken on the task of contacting Mikkel’s parents and locating his gravesite amidst the hedges, grass, beech trees, and paths.
She squeezed my hand. “When you’re ready, it’s this way, Kathleen.”
I bit my lip, gulping down a breath and nodding, because, if we didn’t move, I would run and run until I was back in Paris, fleeing this overwhelming sadness. She led me some distance along a ribbon of asphalt and then guided me to a small path made of brick. Amid the grass and daffodils, at the end of the walkway, lay five irregular-shaped stones inscribed with names. Midway, I stopped, closed my eyes, and listened to the gentle riffle of the leaves blowing in the soft wind. The breeze tried to dry the tears that burned a trail down my cheeks. I focused on the sun warming my back, the sound of a lawnmower droning in the distance, and cars swooshing past, somewhere nearby.
“All right?” Marian asked worriedly.
I turned my back to the inscribed stones. My voice broke as I spoke. “I need to be alone now.” Pointing at benches underneath a tree not too far away, I assured them I would call if I needed them.
I carefully turned back, clutching a bouquet of flowers I’d brought. My palm throbbed around the woody stems of white dogwood and delicate stems of small purple blooms. I stopped before the stones and slowly scanned the engravings. My eyes finally landed on Mikkel’s name. The fifth stone. The rightmost, in a gently arcing row. My feet moved sluggishly toward “him.”
I dropped to my knees, banging them on the brick, and embraced the pain, because it reminded me I was alive with so much to live for. With shaking hands, I placed the flowers in front of the stone while my tears continued to flow. Running my fingers gently over the letters of his name and dates of birth and death, I rocked back and forth, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I apologized for questioning his love for me when he hadn’t called. I released my guilt for going on with my life without him, because, for so long, it had felt wrong. And for losing the baby—I had felt guilty about that; I had lost that chance to keep a part of him here for me and his parents to treasure.
How can it be that the tall, rugged, handsome young man with the easy smile who captured my heart and soul has been reduced to a place marker? How can a stone represent his existence to the world?
I felt like I could blow apart in the breeze.
Eventually, exhausted and depleted, I began to speak to him. I told him about my life and wondered aloud what might have been, had he lived. I spoke of the baby neither of us would ever know. Sitting on the ground, with my knees pulled up to my chest, I rubbed my lips against my soft denim jacket and let memories run freely through my mind, all the many experiences I’d locked away. When my body began to ache, I chuckled and said to him, “I’m not as young as I once was!” I wiped my face and blew my nose.
Rising to my feet, I noticed, through the shadows on the ground, that the sun had moved quite a bit. Four new shadows came into view and merged with mine. My friends stood in silence beside me, staring at the stones, lost in thought, their sorrow for my loss deeply etched on their faces.
A distinctly masculine voice cleared his throat. A handsome older couple was standing nearby.
“Mr. Sørensen, Mrs. Sørensen.” I would have known him anywhere. He was the older version of Mikkel, the man he was meant to grow into. I couldn’t name the emotion that ran through me as I captured this glimpse.
“Kathleen?” the woman asked, kindness ringing in her voice.
Mikkel’s parents gathered me in their arms, speaking soothing words that I did not understand but that comforted me as I cried anew.
I heard Marian ask, “Hillary, did she know they were coming?”
As I looked into Hillary’s steely-blue eyes, her spine stiffened in resolve.
“No. They needed to meet her as much as she needed to come here. I called them to let them know when she’d be here.”
Eventually, I stepped out of their embrace and wiped my face on a tissue.
“He was right—you are stunning!” Mrs. Sørensen said, smiling happily at me. I returned her smile and saw where his cheerfulness came from. He and his mother shared the same spirit. “The first thing he told me about were your eyes. Extraordinary.”
I smiled at her words while I searched for my own. The ones I needed to say most poured out. “I really loved him. A forever kind of love. Maybe a young girl’s love to start, but it would have grown, flourished.”
Mikkel’s parents nodded, acknowledging my pain and loss. “He loved you the same way. You were his future. We could tell in every word he spoke about you,” Mrs. Sørensen gently offered.
A lengthy pause followed where I imagined what the future might have been. Family parties at the holidays, tables surrounded by children, grandchildren, and summers with grandparents. Love.
The moment I returned to the present, I introduced the girls to Mikkel’s parents. We wandered up and down the paths of the cemetery as we talked about life and how it had unfolded, including my recent engagement. Eventually, we stood in front the enormous church. Mikkel’s mother, holding my arm, said, “He told us you had very big plans
for your future. He would be overjoyed you followed your dreams.” She paused for a long moment, looking uncertain, then asked, “May I ask? Why did you pick the flowers you put on his grave?”
For the first time that day, I felt my eyes crinkle from happiness at a silly but treasured memory. “I called him Thor. He was so… blond and huge. He always laughed when I did. Sweet William is the flower Norse mythology associates with Thor. The dogwoods are native to Washington State, Seattle. They seemed appropriate—a part of me will always belong to him, be here with him.”
Glazzhuset Club
Lounging in the sitting room of the suite we shared, we talked about tonight’s plans.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Hillary asked me again. “We’re here for you, not to party in Aarhus.”
She and I sat side by side, so I leaned in and gave her a hug, while I bobbled my head indeterminately. “Yes. No. It isn’t going to change anything by staying in. Besides, I think we could all use a distraction.”
“Do you think of him often?” Tiziana asked from where she sat nearby.
I stared at her, trying to find the right words. “The summer Mikkel and I spent together was unlike any other time in my life. In many ways, I went from being a girl to a woman. I learned what it meant to love someone so completely that my happiness gave way to his—his needs were as important, if not more important, than my own. In those last weeks together, the world was ours, and there were no limits, no impossibilities. Afterwards, after he died, I would forget and see someone like him and get excited, or come across something I wanted to share with him and then be jolted back to reality. I still think of him, sometimes too often. I believe I always will. But now maybe less, since I don’t have to hold it all inside.
“Sébastien knows all this,” I continued. “It’s important to me that all of you understand that I feel the deepest love for Sébastien. With him, I started out a woman, after the world had lost quite a bit of its glitter, its shine. The golden summer sunlight that engulfed everything while Mikkel and I were together… I feel it again. I feel the perfectness of it. It’s impossible to explain. All I know is that I’m genuinely happy, and I never thought I would be again. That’s why I got so angry at the christening. I wanted to live. I didn’t want to think about the fact that maybe I still had issues to work through. I’m sorry.”
Charlotte launched herself at me, squeezing me fiercely. “I cannot imagine one moment without Liam. I don’t know how you did this. I’m so sorry.” She sniffed loudly, wiping tears away. “If it matters, helps in any way, I believe love comes to us in many ways. I believe both were meant for you. Seeing you today… I felt every ounce of your love for Mikkel. I love Sébastien, and I’m grateful to him for the love and peace he gives you.”
Her words made me radiate happiness. When the other two dogpiled on the loveseat where Hillary, Charlotte, and I sat, I knew I had the best friends ever.
Once the melancholy air had been replaced by laughter, we set about glamming up for the evening. Not sure what sort of establishment we would find, we picked “elegant-casual.”
The tall blond man working at the concierge desk looked gobsmacked when we strolled across the hotel lobby, so dynamically different in style and attitude. He cleared his throat and tugged his tie as we approached.
Marian, emboldened by the man’s behavior, did the talking. Reading his nametag, she said, “Frederik, we are in desperate need of a drink! Where would you recommend we go?”
Promptly, he recommended we visit Åboulevarden, the street in Aarhus most famous for its nightlife. He managed to pull himself together and mark a few bars on a tourist map, which he then handed to Marian.
Winking at him, she thanked him profusely. “If you get off work anytime soon, come find us!”
Out on the sidewalk, Charlotte asked, “How far? Choose somewhere close. These heels are killing me. My feet got wider with the pregnancy!”
Long accustomed to Charlotte’s penchant for the highest heels one could find, Marian and Hillary scanned the map while Tiziana and I buttoned up our coats; Charlotte tottered around to keep blood moving through her feet.
“Here’s one. Listen to the translation. ‘Down the street from the Römer Bar, nightlife lovers in Aarhus find the Glazzhuset (glass house) club at Åboulevarden 1. This is a fun place for everyone over thirty. The Glazzhuset consists of several stories with very different styles of music. There aren't too many youngsters at this nightlife location.’”
“Sounds perfetto,” Tiziana exclaimed. “Let’s go!”
***
A few hours and an equal number of bottles of wine later, Marian was drunk enough to ask, “So, Kathleen, you believe the two of you would have married?”
Hillary and Charlotte shot her a dirty look; the day’s tension had only just begun to fade away. I patted Marian’s hand, letting everyone know that it was okay. “Yes, Marian. I do. I think we would have married and had a great life together.”
“Feck.”
I chuckled at her remark. “Yup.”
“You love Sébastien with the same certainty. Amazing!” Marian lounged back against the bolster on the faux-leather couch, propped up on an elbow with her legs crossed at her heels. Any more alcohol in her and she would slither to the floor. “All I can say is you are fecking lucky to have loved two men that much. Me, only the one. I’ll die old and alone.” Just then the waiter passed by. “Oiy! We need another bottle of wine.”
Tiziana and Charlotte were sitting upright in their chairs, eyes gleaming brightly with curiosity. “Marian! Who’s the one?” Charlotte gasped.
Knowing she’d let the cat out of the bag, Marian sat up straight, ready to do battle. “Declan Parker. We have a longstanding tradition of hooking up once a year for a weekend whilst attending the concert at Slane Castle.”
“So, not Michael?” Hillary asked softly.
Marian reached over and squeezed Hillary’s delicate hand. “Never Michael. He’s a handsome bastard, that’s for sure. Sadly, I’ve been in love with Declan for forever, and he sees me as his bit of stuff, once a year.”
Not letting it go, Charlotte asked how long it had been going on. “Seven years.” Marian kept her answer brief, as the waiter had arrived with the bottle.
“Seven years!” Hillary squawked uncharacteristically then stopped herself from saying more until glasses were filled and the waiter had fled Marian’s leer.
Tiziana cut to the chase. “Do you really love him, or is it just sex?”
“Love or sex? Both obviously. But love? Must do. I told him so last August.”
“You told him?” Charlotte asked. “Marian, I swear to God, quit making us pull teeth and tell us the salient details.”
“Well, I would love to tell you more, but just after I made my grand declaration, I fell asleep. When I woke up, he was gone, which wasn’t at all good, since we were meant to spend the day together. And before you ask, I’ve not heard nary a word since.”
“What are you going to do, bella?” Tiziana asked in a tortured voice.
“Hope he shows up in June for the next concert.”
“I cannot fucking believe it,” Hillary exclaimed, surprising us, as she and the word “fuck” did not often cross paths. “You have an on-going ‘weekender’ with a man, never tell us, plus, you fall in love with him, and you’re content to sit around and wait for June to see if he shows up?”
Charlotte put a restraining hand on Hillary’s arm, as though Hillary might throw herself at Marian.
“What can I do? He left me after I told him I loved him.”
“Are you sure he was even awake? Maybe he’d fallen asleep,” Hillary snorted at her.
Marian bolted upright and said, “Christ and all that’s holy!” Her eyes darted back and forth. “I never thought of that. But then, why did he disappear? Never respond?”
6:00 PM, Saturday July 30
You Said What?
THE LAST OF the picnic supplies were unloaded by th
e crew while the guests lingered on the deck for one last afternoon cocktail. Tiziana called to the hard-working men, “Grazi! Take a break, have some wine or beer. Relax. Grazi, grazi!”
The men called their thanks, and, from the looks on their faces, it was obvious they were completely smitten and devoted to her.
Sprawled on lounge chairs, the rest of us, sun-kissed from a day of playing in the sun, sought the shelter of the shade. Sean, now ten months old, crab-crawled across the deck as fast as his little body could move. Liam sat at one end, leaning against Charlotte’s legs, while Des sat in the shade by the bar. Both called for him to come to them.
Marian whispered to me, “Heard any more on the Canadian woman and baby?”
“They’ve just finalized their agreement. He’s paying child support and bought her a house or something like that. Visitation rights are in place. Not exactly ‘happily ever after.’”
She looked pensive.
“What about you? How are you feeling?” I dared ask.
“Getting there.” But I knew she wasn’t. The concert hadn’t taken place, and there hadn’t been so much as a peep from Declan. She continued, “I should say, I’ll get there. There’s a bloke out there for me.”
Further conversation was interrupted when Tiziana announced, “Dinner is at 8:00. We should meet here around 7:15. Ladies! Dazzle your men.”
***
I was settled in the shadows of the deck, leaning against the railing with Sébastien nuzzling my neck, when Tiziana strolled onto the deck. I put my finger in front of my lips to warn him. We slunk further into the darkness and watched her wander around, checking the Champagne bottles sitting in ice, each green glass bottle wet with condensation. She went to each table, fiddled with the elegant bouquets of brightly colored flowers, and made sure the chairs were neatly organized around the deck.
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 28