Now
And that was it,” Shelley told Paolo. “That’s all Max told us about Isabelle.”
“And Julien?” he asked softly.
She frowned. “What about him?”
Paolo reached under his collar and hooked his fingers around a gold chain.
Shelley thought she heard a wind chime. A tiny one.
Paolo drew the chain from his neck. A weathered locket dangled from it. Charms clinked against the round gold shell.
She swallowed hard. “Where … where did you get that?”
“It was a gift … from Nonno.” He clutched the locket, his fingers trembling around it. The charms rattled louder.
Shelley steadied his hand with hers. The locket grew quiet. Paolo did not. Shelley heard him drag every breath into his lungs, each one heavier and more ragged than the one before it. Her own breath caught in her throat, and she realized she was breathing just as hard.
“I cannot remember a day when this was not around my neck. Nonno told me that it was my father’s.” Paolo’s voice shook. “But now … I believe it might have been someone else’s.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
His neck, Shelley thought, seemed to be straining under a much heavier weight than the thin chain that hung from it.
“Shelley, I think Julien was …”
Shelley willed Paolo to stop speaking. There were certain things that were never meant to be put into words: your age after you turned twenty-five, your weight after the holidays, and how the man you married could possibly be more than two centuries old. She jumped out of her seat and ran to the lavatory, hoping to outrun what Paolo was going to say next.
Absurdity and possibility collided against each other and bounced off the walls of the airplane’s lavatory. Shelley ducked and hit her head on the stainless-steel sink.
Paolo knocked on the door. “Shelley? Is everything okay?” Concern replaced the trembling in his voice.
She found his question highly amusing. Max was Julien and she was anything but okay.
“Shelley?”
“I haven’t flushed myself off the plane, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She had in fact tried to but had only squeezed half a foot into the bowl when Paolo’s theory about Julien and Max had ricocheted over her head like shrapnel. Shelley unlocked the door. Paolo stood outside, the locket tucked beneath his shirt.
“You better not. You can’t bail out on me now.” Paolo eyed the reddish bruise forming on Shelley’s forehead. “Do you, uh, need some ice for that?”
“No.” She brushed past him and marched to her seat. She pulled out the in-flight magazine and flipped blindly through its pages. Max’s voice and his stories rang in her head. She was certain that they had grown loud enough for the other passengers to hear. She forced herself to look at the magazine. Sand. White, like baby powder. And palm trees. Boracay. She slammed the magazine shut and took a deep breath. “If Max was Julien, and I’m not saying that he was, why would he tell complete strangers about his story? Why would he risk letting his secret out?”
“It wouldn’t have been much of a risk, would it?” Paolo said. “I mean, you and I can now see the similarities between Julien and Max—his sense of family, his protectiveness …” He paused, tracing the shape of the locket beneath his shirt with his thumb. “But I don’t think any tourist would believe that their tour guide was actually sharing with them an autobiographical account of events that happened more than a century ago, right? To them, what he shared was just a story.”
Shelley’s chest tightened. Max had left her with more than just one story—each gilded with razor-sharp details waiting to carve out more of the husband she remembered. “Paolo, Julien was just one of many men and some of them weren’t like Max at all.”
PARIS
Five Years Ago
The tour group trailed Max out of the cemetery like a procession of mourners leaving a funeral.
“Why so glum, campers?” he asked. “I told you we needed to get the end of our story out of the way. Now that that’s done, it’s all tales of randy sex and comedy from this point on. Well, at least most of it is.”
“Max, what planet are you from?” Brad said. “I mean, really, how many happy pills did you pop this morning?”
“Yeah,” Dex said. “And where can I get some?”
“Turn left down that street and look for a man in dark glasses,” Max said. “Tell him I sent you. He’ll give you a good price. As for the rest of you, we’re off to our next stop.” He offered Shelley his arm.
She clung to it, eager to leave the cemetery and its ghosts behind. “Where are we going next, Max?”
Max stopped. He opened his backpack and took out a small leather drawstring pouch, then handed it to Shelley.
“What’s this?” She felt the weight of the bag in her hands.
“Go on, luv. Open it.”
Shelley dug into the pouch. Her fingers brushed against something cold. She pulled it out. Louis XVI turned his gold double chin up at her. She poured more of the gold coins into her palm. “Are these real, Max?”
“Of course, luv. You can pass it around so the others can have a closer look,” he said.
“This is no small change, Max,” Simon said. “Why on earth are you carrying this around with you?”
Max shrugged. “Pocket money.”
“Seriously, Max,” Jonathan said, “whatever is all this gold for?”
“A bribe, or at least it was intended to be one.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Dex said. “And what exactly was this bribe for?”
“Patience, mate, patience. You Americans are always in a rush.”
“I’m guessing you’ll keep us in suspense until we get to our next mystery stop, then?” Shelley asked.
“Does my lady protest?” Max touched her chin lightly with his fingers, grazing her lower lip with his thumb.
A current ran from Shelley’s lip to her crotch. “Not … not at all. By all means, lead the way, good sir.”
“But first a slight detour,” Max said. “Our morning’s adventure has made me rather thirsty.”
The group stood on the stone bank of the Seine. Shelley watched the wide brown river ripple in the wake of a bateau-mouche. Tourists waved at her from the boat’s glass-covered deck.
“So, who else is up for a drink?” Max asked.
“Max, you disappoint me,” Shelley said. “Are you telling us we’ll be joining one of those river cruises that come with free lunches? That hardly qualifies as off-the-beaten-path in my book.”
“I agree, but this might.” Max shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun bouncing off the river. “Here’s our ride.”
The name Isabelle was painted on the side of the red barge. Shelley wondered if it was a coincidence.
“Quick!” Dex grabbed her by the shoulders and angled her in front of the approaching barge. He raised his camera. “Say ‘cheese.’ ”
“Er, cheese.” Shelley knitted her brow. “Dex, don’t you want to be in the picture? I can take your photo if you’d …” Bright green billowed at the corner of Shelley’s eye. She turned in its direction.
The emerald sundress blew in the wind, clinging to the tall fiery-haired woman who emerged on the barge’s deck.
“Miren!” Max waved at her.
Miren waved back as the barge came to a stop beside the embankment. Max led the group aboard. He gathered Miren in a tight embrace and lifted her in the air. Miren laughed and ran her fingers over Max’s smile. Her years creased at the sides of her green eyes but did not diminish her beauty.
Shelley bit her lip and considered reporting a certain wayward member to the Poultry Club of Great Britain.
Max set Miren back on her feet. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet the owner of this fine boat, Ms. Miren O’Loughlin, the finest Irish lass on French waters.” He held Miren’s hand as he walked over to the group.
“Welcome aboard the Isabelle, floating pub by night and my humble abode by day,” Mi
ren said.
The group introduced themselves and Max guided Miren’s hand to shake everyone else’s. Shelley realized that Miren was blind.
Miren ushered the group to a hatch leading belowdecks. A bulky, stern-looking man nodded hello from the helm then quickly turned his attention back to steering the barge.
“That’s Paul-Henri, the Isabelle’s captain,” Miren said. “He’s fairly new here and still painfully shy, I’m afraid.”
Shelley followed Miren down the steps and through a narrow corridor. Miren opened a red door. If not for the portholes that ran along the length of its dark oak walls, Shelley could have sworn that she had strolled into her neighborhood pub. All that was missing was Charlie, her favorite bartender. She could have used a pint’s worth of his time to rant about the stunning copper-haired woman whose arm was still linked with Max’s.
The group gathered around the bar. Shelley hopped on a stool. She looked hopefully at the stool next to hers. She clenched her teeth when Max followed Miren behind the counter. Dex took the empty seat.
“So, what can I get everyone?” Miren handed out bowls of peanuts. “Guinness all around?”
“Thank you, but I think it’s too early in the day for me to be drinking,” Jonathan said. A peanut disappeared behind his white beard.
“I’ll have a pint, dear,” Rose chirped.
Jonathan choked on a half-chewed nut. “Oh, all right. I’ll have one, too.”
“That’s the spirit.” Brad grinned.
“How about you, luv?” Max asked Shelley.
“Well, you know what they say—when in Paris do as the Irish do,” Shelley said. “I’d hate to be the only one not sick all over your van tomorrow.” She knew, however, that she would not feel the slightest bit guilty if she contributed her share of bile onto the Volkswagen’s green shag carpet. Seeing Max standing next to Miren did not bring out her considerate side.
Miren smiled and began pouring beer into mugs.
“Ah, yes, the dreaded hangover,” Max said. “Did you know that in Myanmar the phrase for hangover means ‘clapper of the temple bell’?”
“On second thought, I’ll have a Coke,” Shelley said. Jealousy was not worth a pounding migraine.
“Trust me,” Max said, “no one has to worry about hangovers or clanging bells with Miren around. In fact, that’s why we’re here. There’s a little potion she makes that I’d like all of you to try.”
“It’s what this old tub is famous for,” Miren said, beaming, “that and our perfectly poured Guinness and potato pancakes. This is the only place the blokes can drink themselves under the table and not worry about their heads exploding in the morning—thanks to Max and his secret recipe.”
“Well, it’s not my recipe, really,” Max said. “It was Adrien’s.”
The name was familiar, Shelley thought. Where had she heard it before? Then she remembered that she had not. She had seen it. The memory crept back to an elegant cursive, painting gold letters on an olive leaf. It was one of the names on the mosaic in Isabelle’s tomb.
“Who’s Adrien?” Simon asked.
“Isabelle’s great-grandfather. It is his story we shall entertain ourselves with next,” Max said. “But first we drink.”
Shelley watched Max help Miren prepare their drinks with choreographed ease. She wondered how many times they had done this before. She felt a pain in her throat thinking of what else Max had done—and might still be doing with this woman.
“How about a toast?” Brad asked Miren.
Miren raised her mug and smiled broadly. “To your wives and girlfriends,” she said, “may they never meet.”
The group laughed. Shelley did not.
Miren drained her mug in one swig and licked the froth off her upper lip. “Excuse me for a moment while I whip up Adrien’s little potion.” She left the bar through a door in the back of the room.
Max leaned his elbows on the counter in front of Shelley. “Miren’s an old friend.”
“Of course.” Shelley immediately regretted her clipped tone. “I mean, yes, that’s lovely. Old friends are lovely. I have a lot of old flames, er, friends, myself.”
Brad nudged Simon’s knee under the counter. “Why don’t we finish our drinks outside? I’d like to take some pictures from the deck.”
“Uh, okay.” Simon shrugged and got to his feet.
“Splendid idea,” Jonathan said. “I think we’ll join you.”
“Max, would you be a dear and call us back in when Miren returns?” Rose asked.
Dex sipped his beer.
Rose tapped his shoulder and smiled. “Coming, Dex?”
“Oh. Um, sure.” He stood up. “Shelley?”
Shelley shook her head and dove into her beer. The rest of the group filed out of the room.
“Darts?” Max asked Shelley.
“Sure.” Picturing Miren’s face on the dartboard, she thought, could be mildly satisfying. She walked over to the corner of the bar where the dartboard was set up. She picked up a dart, got a feel for its weight, and threw it directly at Miren’s nose.
“I used to live on this barge,” Max said.
Shelley flinched. She could have sworn her dart was headed straight for the bull’s-eye, but somehow it had made a U-turn and pierced her chest. Or at least it felt that way. “So … you and Miren used to live together. I suppose this was before you took your vow of celibacy?”
“Lived together? No, no, luv. I didn’t even know her back then,” Max said. He threw a dart. It landed next to Shelley’s. “I sold the barge to Miren and her husband, Rhys, when I got tired of bobbing along canals.”
“Miren’s married?” Shelley tried not to look too happy.
“Was,” Max said. “Rhys died a year ago.”
“Oh.” She took another sip of her beer and winced. Guilt left a fishy aftertaste.
Max pulled their darts off the board. “He had been sick for a while,” he said. “That’s why he and Miren bought this barge from me. They wanted to squeeze in one last adventure doing the most absurd thing they could think of. A floating Irish pub in the heart of the wine-drinking capital of the world fit the bill. I gave them the hangover recipe because I thought they would need it after their business sank to the bottom of the Seine. As you can see, they proved me wrong. Rhys lived long enough to show his doctors that a dream and a pint a day can sometimes be better than what they used to shove up his veins.”
“It must be difficult for Miren, though, with Rhys gone.” She threw another dart. It landed on the wall. Aiming was harder without a compelling target. Her chest felt heavier as she thought about Miren sailing alone down the Seine.
“The pub keeps her busy. She once told me that the love Rhys gave her was enough to last her several lifetimes.” Max threw a dart. He hit the bull’s-eye. “Do you believe that’s possible, luv?”
Shelley was about to disagree when Miren walked into the room. In her experience, love, or what passed for it, was like a good beer buzz. Fizzy and fleeting.
Miren balanced a tray of shot glasses half filled with a dark green liquid. “Have your friends abandoned ship, Max?”
“They’re on the deck,” Max said. “I’ll call them back in.”
Shelley stowed the darts away. “Can I help you with that, Miren?”
Miren smiled. “That’s all right. Just grab a glass for yourself.”
Shelley took a glass from the tray. She gave it a sniff and gagged. The smell, she was certain, would have made vomit vomit.
“Horrid, isn’t it?” Miren said. “Don’t worry, it tastes even worse. But the way my regulars drink it, you’d think it was nectar from the gods.” She set the glasses down on the counter.
“In front of each of you is the beginning of our next tale,” Max said when the group had taken their seats at the bar. “But there is something we need to do first.”
Miren reached under the counter and pulled out a basket of eggs. “Crack an egg into your glass right before you drink it.” She broke an e
gg on the rim of Dex’s glass and poured the egg in. “Like so.”
“Um … thanks, I think.” Dex took his glass from Miren. He arched a brow at Max. “Does our travel insurance cover voluntary poisoning?”
“I’m afraid not,” Max said.
Dex took a deep breath. “Oh, well. Bottom’s up.”
The group gulped down their shots. Coughs and colorful swearing (mostly by Rose) racked the bar.
Shelley could still feel the liquid making its languorous course down her throat like an oyster clinging to life. “Now I know what all your gold coins are for, Max—lawsuit settlements,” she choked. “You can start with mine.”
Max grinned. “I truly apologize, luv, but I just wanted everyone to get their money’s worth and have the most authentic experience possible.”
“Yes, well done, Max. Very authentic. Do let me know if this story of yours involves guillotines, okay? I’m rather fond of my head,” Brad said.
“I’ll do my best to remember that.” Max turned to face the group. “I’m sure you’d like to know what you have just bravely imbibed. As I mentioned earlier, the credit for this wonderful elixir goes to Adrien. He and his business partner, Antoine, were wealthy wine merchants in the 1700s who discovered that plying both poison and cure made for a very profitable enterprise.”
“I can believe that,” Simon said. “That’s how Bill Gates did it.”
“Touché,” Max said. “It was also because of this creation and their generously discounted wine that they managed to become fixtures at the French court despite their lack of royal pedigree. They became particular favorites of a cake-loving queen who often requested the pleasure of their company at her frequent gambling and drinking parties. The queen’s impending misfortune, however, proved to be somewhat contagious.”
“Why?” Dex asked. “What happened to them?”
“Well,” Max said, “it was ultimately because of these parties, or rather what happened after them, that the luck of our protagonists was altered considerably.”
Chapter Six
Birthdays and bribes
Before Ever After Page 7