I squeezed her frail body. Allee Adair Madewell was going to have her Paris. I owed her that. Life owed her that. Her flight was departing in the early evening after her other medical tests. Tomorrow morning, we would be in the City of Light.
While I spent a good deal of the flight writing on my laptop, Allee spent most of it dozing with her head on my shoulder. Every few hours she would wake up and ask me with the eagerness of a child, “Are we there yet?” Finally, just after the sun rose, one of the flight attendants gave her “final destination” speech, in both French and English, as we were about to land at Paris’s Charles De Gaulle Airport. I gently woke Allee up. This was Allee’s first plane trip. A little nervous, she squeezed my hand, keeping her face literally glued to the window.
“I don’t see Paris,” she said, her voice a little despondent.
I kissed her lightly on her head. “Don’t worry, baby. You will soon.”
We passed through customs quickly. Both of us marked “pleasure” on our customs forms in response to the question about the nature of our trip. Deep in my heart, I prayed that this trip would give Allee the most pleasure she’d ever had.
Marcus met us at the arrivals gate. Allee was both shocked and overjoyed to see him. I had purchased a roundtrip ticket that had gotten him to Paris six hours earlier. I needed Marcus to be here for me. For us. When I broke down and told him about Allee’s condition, I swear, beneath his shades, he shed tears. Allee had become as close to him as a daughter.
“I’m sorry, Mr. M,” he’d choked. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Pray,” I’d simply told him. Yes, pray.
Taking our bags, Marcus escorted us to the limo he’d rented. Though Paris was more of a walking city, I had a feeling we would need the limo more often than not, due to Allee’s health. I helped her fasten her seatbelt, and in no time, we were speeding down the A1 en route to Paris.
I kept my arm wrapped around Allee as she kept her face glued to the tinted window. I knew her heart was racing. Mine was too. Thirty minutes into the ride, Paris came into came into view. “Oh my God!! Paris!” she screamed out. She turned her head and smacked a wet, delicious kiss on my lips.
I’ll never forget the expression on her face as our limo cruised through the streets of Paris en route to our hotel. She was speechless and wide-eyed, like a child in a candy store. When she finally saw the Eiffel Tower, she shrieked and bounced up and down on the car seat as though it was a trampoline.
I had told our family travel agent, who arranged the entire last-minute trip, that there was only one hotel I wanted to stay at—the Hôtel Ritz on the Place Vendôme. While my parents now always stayed at the swanky Crillon, I preferred The Ritz because of its location between Paris’s Left and Right Banks; it was walking distance to everything. And, because this is where my literary hero, Ernest Hemingway, had hung out. When I told Allee that this is where he held court with all the famous artists of the 20’s including Picasso, she freaked out.
Allee’s eyes widened again when we checked into the hotel. I knew she had never seen such grandeur in her life. She studied it like it was a painting, taking in and analyzing every fine detail—from the gilded wall fixtures to the silk-fringed rugs. When I told her I had booked a suite where supposedly Picasso and one of his muses took refuge, she practically had a fit right in front of the check-in clerk.
The amused clerk smiled as he handed me our key. “Enjoy your stay, Monsieur and Madame Madewell.” His words sent a chill down my spine. Our time as “Mr. and Mrs.” was finite. The reality that Allee might die right here in Paris set in. I tried not to think about it.
To say our room was luxurious was an understatement. The hotel, which was about to undergo a multi-million renovation, was nonetheless in top form. A Louis XIV four-poster bed occupied our suite along with many other fine antique furnishings. While she was in awe, Allee was more taken with the fact that Picasso, her idol, had slept here.
“Let’s go to the Musée D’Orsay!” Allee said eagerly after unpacking her bag.
Though neither of us was particularly jet-lagged, I told Allee that we should take a nap, thinking only of her best interest. “We can go there tomorrow.”
“No fucking way, Madewell,” she snapped. “We’re in Paris. We’re going there tout de suite! Maintenant!”
The fiery look in her eyes kept me from saying no. It also reminded me that tomorrow was promised to no one. Especially her.
The Orsay was just a short walk from The Ritz. After fortifying ourselves with double espressos at a nearby café, we strolled there hand-in-hand. Allee’s eyes kept darting around so as not to miss anything. I hadn’t seen her so happy or energetic in a long, long time. Maybe Paris was just the medicine she needed.
While I had been to the Orsay, an architecturally magnificent former Beaux Arts train station, several times before with my family, I had never seen its Impressionist and post-Impressionist masterpieces through the eyes of Allee. It was a whole different experience, one I would never forget. She was a walking encyclopedia, able to rattle off details about each painting from the inspiration behind it and the year it was painted, to the significance of a particular color or paint stroke. Every fiber in her being came alive as she made me see what she saw and love what she loved.
Late afternoon, we stood before Seurat’s masterpiece, Le Cirque. Allee’s voice suddenly grew weary, and she faltered on her feet. “Are you okay, baby?” I asked, steadying her.
She studied the painting, composed of countless dots in a style called “pointillism.” She sighed, “I wish I had as many days left as there are dots in this painting.”
Ironically, Seurat’s premature death at the age of thirty-two had prevented him from completing the painting. A chill ran through me. I hugged Allee closer to me. Her dream of one day being a curator here was not going to happen. Her days were numbered.
We dined that night at a small, charming bistro on Rue du Four on the Left Bank. We shared a delicious pot au feu and a bottle of hearty Bordeaux. We talked non-stop about all the other things we were going to do in Paris and both laughed over the question: Why does the French food and wine in Paris taste so much better than it did in New York? Before we could order dessert, Allee’s eyes grew heavy. “I think I need to get back to the hotel,” she said forlornly. My heart sank. I wanted so badly to believe she was getting better, but, in truth, she wasn’t. It was only a matter of time, but I was going to make that time the best time of her life.
Every day in Paris was a new adventure. Another gift from God. We did everything from walking along the Seine to visiting other famous sites and museums, including The Louvre, The Jeu de Paume, the Rodin, and the Picasso. As we stepped out of the Panthéon, a street vendor handed us a flyer for a discounted tour of the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery where some of Allee’s favorite Impressionist painters, including Seurat, were buried along with Proust, one of my favorite writers. Tears welled up in Allee’s eyes. Having gotten back the results of Allee’s medical tests, that was one place we weren’t going to visit. Death was just around the corner.
Given Allee’s prognosis, we tried to make each day better than the one before and live our lives as if there was no tomorrow. We took photos everywhere we went. In each, we looked like perfectly happy newlyweds who had everything to look forward to in life. When I would later look back at these photos, I would discover the sadness hidden in Allee’s eyes and mine. It was most evident in the caricatures we had done by a street artist in the artists’ quarter known as Montparnasse. When I studied the one of Allee, I noticed the artist had not put highlights in her dark-as-night pupils. There was no glimmer of life in her eyes. He unknowingly—or knowingly—had captured death’s presence.
Every day, Allee grew weaker. She was eating less and less, and she was growing thinner and thinner. When we went to Notre Dame and climbed the steps up to the roof to see the famous gargoyles, she almost collapsed midway. I carried her up the rest of the dark medieval steps piggyba
ck style and carried her back down in my arms. She was light. So, so light.
One evening, I took her on a romantic Bâton Mouche dinner cruise along the Seine. After dinner, which she barely touched, we stood arm-in-arm along the railings and watched the City of Light pass by us. We faced the truth.
“I’m going to miss you, Allee,” I said, stifling tears.
She turned to me and looked me straight in the eye. Her face was stoic. “Stop it, Madewell. With love, there are no goodbyes.”
I crushed my lips into hers and felt her scalding tears against my cheeks. This wasn’t easy. To be dead honest, it sucked.
The next day, I took Allee to my favorite childhood memory of Paris—the carousel in the Jardin des Tuileries, the magnificent garden across the Seine, facing the Musée D’Orsay.
“Oh, Madewell! It’s so charming! It’s like a work of art!” she exclaimed, admiring the hand-painted horses and panels that depicted Paris.
As we stood in line with a group of adorable children, Allee told me she’d never been on a merry-go-round. My poor baby had never had a real childhood! It made me feel good that I could give her this experience.
When the spinning ride came to a halt, we boarded. Allee went for a beautiful horse with a red saddle. I helped her mount it, and instead of getting my own horse, I straddled it behind her. I wrapped my arms around her waist. My shaft pressed against her backside. The carousel began to spin, and as the horse moved up and down, I posted a little, rubbing my cock up and down against her. Holy shit! I was getting hard! Allee spun her ahead around and grinned wickedly, knowing the effect the ride was having me on me. Still holding her with one arm, I discreetly slipped my other hand through the loose waistband of her skirt and then slid it under her panties. Moisture spread on my fingers. My girl was wet! As I continued to ride, my fingers rubbed her clit vigorously. Holding onto the pole, she arched her head back and moaned. If it wasn’t for all children around us, I swear I would have fucked her right there on the horse. I came first and then she shuddered around me. Oh, God, I needed that release, and I think she did too. For the rest of the ride, I nuzzled her neck, “I love you, Allee Adair Madewell,” I whispered in her ear. She turned her head again, and her lips met mine; we kissed passionately. I was only slightly aware of youngsters giggling at us.
Afterward, I bought us ice cream cones. Sitting down on a nearby bench, I marveled at the way her tongue flicked and swirled around the creamy gelato. I wanted that tongue back in my mouth, and that’s exactly where it went after she devoured the cone.
My tongue could have danced in her sweet mouth all afternoon. Finally, after many long minutes, I slowly pulled away. There was something I wanted to ask her. Something I needed to know.
“Allee, what is it like for you?”
“My cancer? It doesn’t hurt—”
I immediately cut her off. “No, I mean sex. Sex with me.”
A wistful smile ghosted across her face. “Always a little different. But always beautiful and intense.”
“What did I feel like inside you?”
“You mean, ‘do.’”
My nerve endings scrunched. I felt bad—beyond bad—that I’d used the past tense. My Allee’s life wasn’t over… yet.
She sucked in a breath of the fragrant spring air. “Oh, Madewell, you fill me. From my core to my heart. And when you make me come with you, you take me to a place outside my body where I’m flying in your arms watching a beautiful sunrise.”
Her words moved me. Christ, I was going to miss her. I thought about asking her what it felt like when I came before her, but I wanted to hang onto the sensual image she’d created in my head. Squinting, I gazed up at the sun-kissed sky and yearned to make love to her right here on this bench so that we could soar together into the heavens. She squeezed my hand, and I knew she was thinking the same thing. My cock throbbed beneath my jeans, but not as much as my heavy heart.
We spent the rest of the afternoon holding hands and silently watching rosy-cheeked children at play. That was something we were never going to have. A pang of sadness swept through me.
Allee broke our silence. “Madewell, I need to tell you something.”
The quiver in her voice made my heart race. Had she taken a turn for the worse? “What is it, baby?” I held my breath waiting for a response.
“Maybe, we could have had a child.”
My eyes grew wide. “What do you mean?”
“Before I had chemo in college, I had my eggs harvested.”
“Meaning…”
“Meaning that some gynecologist extracted eggs from my ovaries and froze them at the City Center for Reproductive Medicine. In case, I ever wanted to have children. It was a long shot, but still…”
“Baby, I thought you said you couldn’t have children.”
“I can’t now, can I?” There was sadness in her voice as she stared blankly at the Musée D’Orsay in the near distance.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Tenderness, not anger, colored my voice.
Allee lowered her head. “I thought if I told you this, you’d ask why I did it, and I would’ve had to tell you about my cancer. And then you wouldn’t have…”
I stopped her mid-sentence and kissed her again. Nothing would have gotten in the way of me loving her or asking her to marry me. No, nothing.
While I held her in my arms, all the breakthroughs in reproductive medicine I’d read about flashed through my head. I was eager to get back to the hotel. Allee, fatigued, was ready. Marcus got us back there quickly, despite the crazy Paris traffic. While Allee napped in our room, I went down to the Hemingway Bar and made a series of phone calls, beginning with Dr. Goulding. By five p.m., I had an appointment with Dr. Ethan Moore, the head of the City Center for Reproductive Medicine, on the afternoon of our return to New York. It was worth a shot.
TWENTY-THREE
On our last night in Paris, I wanted to take Allee for a dining experience she’d never forget. While she rested in the hotel room most of the day, I went to the landmark department store, Galeries Lafayette, and picked out a chic little black dress for her to wear. Though since I’d known her she’d always worn a Size 6, I went with a four because of all the weight she’d lost. I hoped it wouldn’t be too big.
When I returned to the hotel, Allee was propped up in bed, thumbing through a book about Picasso that we had purchased from one of the bouquinistes along the Seine. She looked very pale. Like all the blood inside her had drained.
“What’s that?” she asked when she saw me holding a huge gift-wrapped box with a giant red bow.
“A present.”
Her brows furrowed. She gazed at me sheepishly. She still didn’t like it when I bought her things.
“Open it.” I placed the box on the bed.
She carefully undid the wrapping and the ribbon and lifted off the top lid. When she found the dress beneath layers of delicate tissue paper, her mouth dropped wide open. It was a Lanvin. “Madewell, this must have cost a fortune!”
That translated as “I love it.” “I want you to wear it tonight. I’m taking you to Le Jules Verne for dinner.” It was a fine French restaurant located almost at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
“Will you help me get ready?”
I read into her words. Fifteen minutes later, we were chest-deep in our luxurious jacuzzi tub, soaking in the warm bubbly water. Allee was seated in front of me, her long, now thin legs outstretched with mine. The lights were dim, and I had lit several fragrant candles. The room smelled divine. We hadn’t been intimate like this for a while. She bowed her head as I held up her glorious hair and smothered the back of her neck with kisses. Oh, how I would miss the sweet taste of her! I wished I could bottle it in a jar.
Using the jasmine-scented soap, I lathered up her back and arms and her still full breasts. Letting the bar of soap fall into the water, I groped the soft mounds in my hands, massaging and gently squeezing them. I rubbed her puckered rosebuds in circles with the pads of my
thumbs and then pinched them between my thumb and index fingers, feeling them grow into pointed crowns. I closed my eyes, memorizing the feel of them. She let out a soft moan.
Beneath her buttocks, my cock grew hard and hungry. I wanted desperately to be inside her but wasn’t sure she could handle my drive in her frail state.
“Rub my clit,” she begged.
She wanted me. Still playing with her left breast, I moved my other hand below the water to her velvety folds. I caressed them, wishing she was facing forward so that I could bathe her with my tongue. I thought about turning her to face me, but she did it herself, as if reading my mind. My head dipped beneath the water, and I let my tongue stroke and dip into every hill and vale. Savoring them. The tip circled around her clit, and when I could no longer hold my breath underwater and had to come up for air, my middle finger seamlessly took over.
Clutching my biceps, Allee arched back her head and moaned. Her long dark hair fell gloriously down her back. My eyes, half-moons, stayed riveted on her. Her sunken face had an ethereal quality—a unique beauty—that tugged at my heart.
“You’re so beautiful” I managed between mouthfuls of her ripe nipples. I sucked them tenderly and then trailed kisses down her torso. I could feel every bone of her rib cage against my lips but nothing could stop me. I couldn’t get enough of her. Paris was for lovers. I told her again how beautiful she was.
“You’re so full of shit. I look like crap.”
Even in the shadow of death, she was still the wicked, wisecracking Allee I loved so much. The truth was, she was beautiful to me, and I told it to her yet again.
“Shut up, Madewell. Just make love to me.”
I gazed into her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Splaying her thin, but still muscular, legs, she helped me insert my girth inside her. I pulled her closer to me as she used her hand to edge it in, inch by thick inch. We moaned together. Reaching the hilt, my cock had found its home sweet home. The only place on earth where it belonged. “Oh baby,” I cried out.
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