“Hardly a bucket. Whoops, I’m sorry. It just fell open,” he said, picking up my frosted pink lipstick, blue mascara, and key ring. “Do you sail?”
“Yes, I love sailing. I’ve been doing it ever since I was eight, up on Nantucket. And you?”
“Soccer was my sport,” he said, starting the engine.
“Oh, you’ve got to be tough to play that one. It seems so brutal out there on the pitch – I think that’s the word?”
“I was the right size for it – not one of those American football giants,” he said, as we pulled sharply away from the curb.
I clutched the door handle for balance and surreptitiously regarded his profile as he steered into a sharp corner. Strong brow, a square jaw – maybe French nobility? His hair blew across his forehead in disarray. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick. The anxious thoughts I’d had all week disintegrated as I fell against him, our bare arms touching as we rounded the corners. He laughed and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll slow down.”
Newbury Street was buzzing, and I was buzzing right along with it. Claude guided me from one gallery to the next. We climbed up and down brownstone stairs and stepped into cool, low-lit storefront spaces punctuated with splashes of art-revealing light on the walls. We looked at contemporary American art and wall installations, Toulouse Lautrec posters, seventeenth-century Dutch prints and landscapes as the afternoon wore on. I talked a little about what I saw, tentatively at first, and he asked me questions: What did I think of this print? Was I interested in perspective? Did men’s art differ from women’s? And though I wasn’t super confident about many of my answers, I answered as honestly as I could, pleased that he wanted to know my opinions.
“Gosh – I haven’t looked at so much art in ages,” I said. We stood outside on the pavement, reorienting our vision to the perspectives of real life as our last gallery shut its door and a woman pulled a grating down over a window.
“You must be hungry after all that,” he said. “I am. Let’s catch a bite and something to drink. There’s a great little Italian spot just down the block.”
At the restaurant, he said, “Shall we sit inside? It’s a bit noisy out here.” His skin glowed in the warm light of the setting sun as he held open the glass door for me.
The hostess came up to greet us. “Good evening, Dr. Giraud. Your table is ready.”
They know him – he planned this in advance, I said to myself, feeling shocked but so pleased.
We sat in a bay window, away from Saturday’s early evening chaos. I slipped off my ballet flats to cool my feet on the smooth planks underfoot – and again I wanted to laugh, crazily. It was too good, I was too happy. The menus came, and Claude offered to order the wine and dinner so I could sample his favorite dishes.
“A vôtre santé,” Claude said when the wine came, rolling the stem of his glass as he raised it. We clicked glasses, and his eyes flicked over my features. “You know, I really enjoyed meeting you at your parents’ the other night. Since I arrived last year, they’ve been so good to me. And now that I’ve finished Jack’s fellowship, he’s invited me into his office as an associate.”
“You couldn’t have a bigger compliment.” I fingered my oyster-shell choker as small white plates of assorted meats – salami with chunks of chalky parmesan, carpaccio with porcinis and chanterelles – and salads of beets with pickled cherries and arugula with black truffle vinaigrette arrived.
“I know. I’m so grateful. I’ve decided to stay here and make Boston my home. Here – I made a little assortment for you,” he said. “Try the pickled cherry with the carpaccio. It’s one of my favorite combinations.”
“It looks delicious,” I said, letting the words I’ve decided to stay jitterbug through the dance hall of my mind. I said, “That’s a big move, Paris to Boston. How does your family feel?”
Claude bent his head and spoke softly. “I lost my parents when I was in medical school at the Sorbonne.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. What happened?”
“My father was in the diplomatic corps, and they were flying from Ghana to the Ivory Coast. The plane crashed; possibly something to do with faulty wiring.” I flinched a little at the schoolboy tone of recital; but obviously I wasn’t the first to ask. “It was a traumatic time for me, and as I had no other family there, I decided to come here and start a new life for myself.” Lifting his napkin he touched the corners of his eyes.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. There’s nothing you need to say, really. And enough about me,” he said, shifting gears at once. “Tell me about you. About your plans. Work, art, and everything else.”
I hate those kinds of questions; I simply never have any answers. And as if my brain had suddenly joined forces with my hand in a plan to avoid answering, I spasmed, knocking over my wineglass. Pinot noir splattered the tablecloth like a stab of friendly fire.
“Oh, how clumsy! I’m so sorry,” I cried, grabbing my napkin and jumping up to blot the rivulets streaming across the table. As I lunged, my elbow struck the wine bottle, which toppled over like a bowling pin and spun, spewing the fruit of the vine all over everything.
Wanting to die is no empty expression.
“Waitress, over here, now!” Claude shouted, slamming his hand on the table as he stood. People sitting near us turned to stare. I saw a man halfway across the room laugh and shake his head.
“Here, some napkins from the next table – we can use these,” I offered, moving plates and dabbing at the flood plain.
“Katie, it’s not up to you to clean the table. When I ask for service, I expect to get it. Here she comes, but it’s too late – she’s just lost her tip.”
“But she was busy, and it was my fault.”
Claude’s face was flushed, and he ran his fingers through his hair.
“Nonsense,” he said, as we stood aside and the waitress and a busboy swiftly cleared and then reset the table. We sat down again. Claude ran his fingers through his hair again and seemed to be breathing funny, almost panting. Here’s where it ends, I thought, my heart dropping. But then, as quickly as it had come, the mood lifted and he laughed – and then I did. It was a wonderful disaster!
“Now, of course we will need another bottle of pinot,” he said. “I see what you’re plotting. Waitress! Wine, same one!…
“Where were we – ah, yes, about your plans.”
I felt relieved and happy. I hadn’t spoiled anything, and the way he was looking at me, I felt like a million dollars.
“Well, as I said, I’d like to work in a gallery, but I haven’t had much luck finding a job so far – a lot of people have the same idea.”
The waitress brought the bottle and Claude poured. I took a large gulp of wine and then held my glass firmly with both hands.
“I can’t imagine you not getting hired as soon as you walk in the door. Here, open up,” he said, grabbing a rosemary polenta fry and gently pushing it into my mouth. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Mmm, tasty. I hope you’re right. I want to move out of my parents’ house as soon as I can. Once you leave home, it’s hard to move back. I have two friends from Colby, Beth and Isabelle, who want to room with me when they come back from Europe at the end of the summer.”
“That makes sense – if you like roommates. Here’s to it all falling into place.” We clicked glasses, and his eyes caught mine and reeled me in. “What do you do for fun? Your mother told me you play piano and love opera and jazz.”
“True – grew up with it – but I haven’t listened to music or played since I’ve been back.”
“Why not?”
How could I tell him I didn’t know what I wanted, what I was waiting for?
“I love to cook,” he said, “to create something – it’s so relaxing.” He pulled himself up – his pecs flexed through his polo shirt.
“Me, too,” I said. Sign up for a cooking class tomorrow. “You also love to eat. What’s this one?”
“Crum
bled fennel sausage and broccoli rabe with cavatelli,” he said, feeding me a forkful. “The next to try are duck meatballs with capers. Don’t laugh! Maybe we can cook together,” he said. Then he paused, letting his fork explore the plates. “If there’s no one else in your life.”
“There’s no one special. What about you?”
“Haven’t had the time to think about a relationship, let alone have one, until now… So, out of everything you saw today, which piece would you like to take home?”
“In a make-believe world, the Mary Cassatt pastel.”
“Right, the woman holding her baby,” he said. “That would be easy to live with. What else would you have on the walls of your make-believe world?”
“Well, let me see. I believe no home is complete without a Vermeer.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Vermeers for everyone! If I ever run for office, that will be my slogan. Ah, here’s dessert – my favorite, bomboloni with caramel dipping sauce. And what else?” he continued. “Not on the walls, but, you know, in the home itself. Who would you want there? What type of person, or people, do you imagine?”
You.
“A husband and lots of children,” I said, feeling my face flush. “That’s always been my dream. Being a mother is the most important job there is – I believe that. First I have to get married, of course, and it all seems so far off and, I don’t know, theoretical.” And then I quickly added, “In the real world, I need to get a job and be independent of my parents. Just get out of there! Find a place of my own and be self-supporting, even if working in the art world hardly pays.”
“I want lots of children, too. Being an only child makes you think that way. It’s something we have in common.”
“Exactly! You’re either alone or you’re their complete focus. Too much! When I was little, I used to go over to my friend Suzy’s house to play, and I never wanted to leave – the laughter and play and love between her and her brothers and sisters.”
“Yes, I had two imaginary sisters and a brother that I played with, and finally, when they didn’t appear any longer, I named my pet frogs after them.”
“How sweet!”
“So, if you’re just dreaming, what kind of man could you imagine marrying?”
His face was so close to mine, I could smell traces of wine and chocolate, as if it were his cologne, and the sugar and wine were racing one another to my already levitating brain. I was sliced, toasted, buttered, and loving it.
“Well, I love old movies, and my favorite men were Clark Gable and Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant. I’d dream about my own version of that kind of guy falling in love with me. I know it’s ridiculous.”
“Not at all. I can’t imagine why either Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart wouldn’t have fallen in love with you. You’re a classic redheaded beauty like Rita Hayworth.”
“Wow, what a nice thing to say. I loved her in Gilda.”
“Last one,” he said, feeding me a spoon of chocolate mousse. I opened my mouth and received the sweet soft cloud.
“Oh, look,” he said, gazing out the window. “A full moon. Let’s go see. I’ll get the check.”
Sparkling flecks spattered the night sky, fighting the city lights. We stepped off the curb, gazing up. “Oh, there’s the big dipper.” I pointed to a cluster of stars that looked like a flipped boot of Italy.
“Watch out!” Claude yelled as he grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the way of a speeding bicycle whose front basket was jammed with pink plastic take-out bags. Our curses trailed behind the bike as it sped on.
“Sorry about that,” he said, stroking my arm. “I didn’t want to have to take you to the emergency room on our first date.” He laughed but looked me over carefully.
“I’m fine. You saved me from disaster,” I said. Was I drunk? It seemed as possible, and as marvelous, as anything else.
He slipped his fingers through mine, and we strolled across the street to a small antique shop. He stopped and pointed.
“I don’t like the bronze bust much – looks like a fake Rodin.” I saw his reflection in the window as he moved up behind me, brushing against my silk shirt. I wanted to push back into him and make him put his arms around me, but I stood motionless.
“Yes, it doesn’t have the sharp definition of a real one.”
“Oh goodness – it’s almost midnight. I’ve kept you out too long,” he exclaimed, looking at his watch.
“Afraid I’ll turn into a pumpkin?”
“No, never. I just don’t want to upset your parents.”
I didn’t want to tell him there was nothing he could do that would cause my parents concern. He had been pre-approved.
At my parents’ door, Claude moved close and put his arms around my waist. “I hope we’re going to see a lot of each other, Katie,” he whispered as he put his forehead against mine. “Me, too,” I said. He smiled, let me go – rather quickly, I thought – and walked to his car. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he shouted, and then like a shooting star, he zoomed off into the night.
The next morning, a dozen roses arrived with his card attached: “Thank you for last night. You are amazing and sweet. Claude.”
“What manners, what taste!” my mother exclaimed, placing the flowers on the Steinway grand and then seamlessly shifting into Sister Hildegarde mode. “Remember, Katie, as my mother would always say, ‘Don’t be loose with your favors.’ That’s all they’re really interested in. Make him work for it.”
You call this work?
Over the next couple of weeks, Claude took me to the Public Garden for a swan boat ride, the New England Aquarium to see his favorite penguins, and dinner with easy conversation – never going beyond a touch on my arm, his lips on my cheek, and I wondered, as my attraction intensified, if I was misreading him. Was it a French thing? They’re not like us, are they?
On our fifth date, we drove to Scullers Jazz Club in Cambridge to listen to an evening of Cole Porter. We sat close together in a deep banquette, sipping champagne, empaneled in honey-hued mahogany. The facing windows overlooked the Charles River gleaming in the sunset. As we listened to one song after another, I bent all my mental powers on willing Claude to kiss me, and when we’d finished the bottle, ordered more, and refilled our glasses, he did. I returned the kiss in no uncertain terms. His tongue gently glided into my mouth, and I sucked on it just enough to make him want to kiss me again.
Two nights later he surprised me with tickets to my favorite opera, Tosca – an outdoor production on Boston Common. “It was on your to-do list along with Snoop Doggy Dogg and some art gallery show. I thought Tosca was my best bet – you might never have seen an outdoor production, and I don’t even know what a snoopy dog is.”
“My list?” I asked in surprise.
“It fell out of your bucket basket on our first date.”
He saw that?
We arrived early, and Claude picked out a spot under an old maple tree in full view of the stage and unrolled a blanket.
“A glass of wine and some chocolate hearts?” he asked, pulling a bottle from a small cooler he’d brought. “I decided on a rosé – Domaine Ott – a great French one. Have a taste.” I took a drink. It ran smooth and cool down my throat.
“No, no, not like that! You’re so adorable. Let me show you,” he said, pouring himself a taste. “First, look at the wine. Swirl it around. Look at the color, how it catches the light, comme ça,” he said, twirling the glass. “Then, smell it, like this,” he said, plunging his nose deep into the glass and inhaling. “The swirling aerates it, releases the aroma, opens it up. Now, take a small sip, but not too small. Then take a sip of air and let the wine travel in your mouth, so that your palate can react to the full bouquet. Stop laughing,” he said, laughing. “This is serious.”
“But you look so funny – like a puffer fish. I don’t think I could ever do it.”
“Sure you can,” he laughed. “Promise me you will practice.”
“Okay, I promise. Kiss me.”
I practiced sipping as the music began, and the wine seemed both creamier and crisper than before as Claude took my hand, and I thought, “He knows so much. He seems right about everything. I like him so much.”
In Act Two, I grabbed Claude’s arm and whispered, “This is my favorite aria, Vissi d’arte. She’s saying, ‘I lived for art, for love, I never did harm to a living soul.’ She’s pleading for her lover’s life.”
“You’re really crying.” He brushed away my tears with his fingers.
“I always cry – it’s the hopelessness, the desperation she feels.” I sank against him. The feelings were real, but I’d never felt less desperate in my life, or more hopeful; but my heart was open to everything.
“I’ll never make you cry, my little angel,” he whispered. “I’ll never hurt you,” and he engulfed me in his arms.
After the final bows and bravos, Claude rolled up the blanket and we began walking with the crowd toward the car, discussing the opera’s ending.
“Would you die for love?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “Well – that’s hard to answer, know what I mean? I used to dream about finding someone I loved so much, I would die for him. It happens all the time, at least in opera.”
On the ride home, we talked about his schedule, when we would see each other next, and about his two roommates, who were rotating on different shifts, never leaving the apartment free. Our hands were clasped between the seats, then he moved his hand to my leg, flicked my skirt up, and moved the palm of his hand all the way up my thigh to where I felt very warm.
“Katie, your parents are in Nantucket, so… but if you are uncomfortable—”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “Can you drive faster?”
As I put the key in the lock, my fingers began to tingle and bubbles of excitement ran through my veins: I was filled with champagne. We climbed the wooden steps to the second floor – each one creaking as we moved further up into the darkness, my hand on the banister, his hand on my waist and slipping down, caressing my hip. I took his hand and led him down the hall to my bedroom. It had always been my room, but now with him there, it seemed absurdly, sweetly small; the walls seemed to push us together as we turned toward each other. Claude kissed me, lifted me and laid me out on the bed, which squeaked in alarm at the weight of our bodies. He pulled my shift up over my head and devoured my neck and face and breasts, and I fumbled and yanked the buttons of his shirt, and together we managed the nearly impossible task of getting undressed lying down.
Something To Be Brave For Page 3