What the Heart Remembers

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “Sandwiches it is,” he says, and off they go.

  After they have picked up ham and cheese baguettes he stops at the wine shop, buys a bottle of Chateau Saint-Maur Rose and asks for plastic cups. The shopkeeper gives him a look of chagrin and reluctantly hands him the cups.

  “This fine wine deserves a crystal glass,” he says sourly.

  Andrew laughs. “Perhaps. But today I am picnicking with a mademoiselle who deserves fine wine.”

  The shopkeeper gives an understanding nod.

  Max overhears what Andrew says to the shopkeeper, and the words warm her heart. She is no longer a stupid woman robbed by the man she once loved; she is now a woman deserving of fine wine.

  When they reach the Louvre, they settle on the ledge alongside the pool in front of the pyramid. The fountains are on, and ripples gently float across the surface of the water. He opens the wine, fills a plastic cup and hands it to Max. He then fills his own cup and raises it.

  “A toast to milady,” he says laughingly.

  She raises her own cup. “And to my charming escort.”

  Max means what she says. Andrew is charming. And handsome. Not in the perfect way of Julien, but softer, more casual.

  Most times Max is anxious to hurry inside. Even if she were to have years, there would never be enough time for seeing all there is to see at the Louvre. But today she is in no hurry. They linger over lunch for nearly an hour, talking about anything and everything. He tells her of his years at law school, and she tells him of her previous visit to Paris. Still there is no mention of Julien.

  When she asks if he has ever been serious with anyone, he nods.

  “Liza Berkowitz,” he says. “I was going to ask her to marry me, but…” The remainder he leaves unsaid. For both of them the stigma of being jilted is like a basket of dirty laundry, something to be shoved to the back of the closet and not aired.

  After lunch they enter the museum, satisfyingly full and just a bit giddy. The wine was light and slightly fruity, the kind that goes down easily and leaves a mellow afterglow.

  Max asks if Andrew would like earphones for a guided tour, but he shakes his head.

  “I like to listen to you explain everything.” There is a pause; then he looks down at her with a broad smile and adds, “You see things other people don’t see.”

  What Andrew doesn’t say is that he is enchanted by everything about her, by the sparkle in her eyes, by the way she sees beauty in the curve of an arm or the arch of a doorway. He likes simply hearing the sound of her voice and would be just as willing to listen if she were reading a list of names from the telephone book.

  Max gives him a soft smile. She takes a measure of pride in the fact that he wants her to explain the works of art.

  They spend the afternoon going from floor to floor, joining the throng standing wide-eyed in front of the Mona Lisa and then moving on to the sculpture hall. Max stops in front of the marble Winged Victory.

  “They say this was sculpted two hundred years before Christ was born,” she whispers.

  “Why is she headless?” Andrew whispers back.

  Max shrugs. “When they unearthed the statue, they never found the head. They found parts of the hand, but never the head.” She gives a sigh as if this is a troubling thing.

  When they turn to leave there is a crowd behind them. Andrew wraps his arm around her waist and guides her through a group of Japanese tourists.

  Max is a bit surprised by how much she enjoys the feel of his hand on her waist, and she makes no move to shrug it off. As they move beyond the crowd, she turns her face to his.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  He stops and turns her to face him. “For what?” he asks and pulls her a bit closer. Again his mouth is inches from hers.

  “For saving me from a ruined vacation,” she says.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he says and lowers his face to hers. A thought in the back of his mind screams, Too soon, too soon! but he ignores it and lifts his hand from her waist to the arch in the back of her neck.

  Andrew is only a breath away from kissing her when a tourist backs into him and sends him stumbling forward. His forehead slams against hers and she yells, “Ouch!”

  The tourist holds his hand up. “So sorry, so sorry.”

  “No problem,” Andrew says, faking a laugh. He doesn’t feel like laughing, but at the moment it’s all he can do.

  Max is still thinking of that moment when they leave the museum. She is equally disappointed and glad the kiss didn’t happen. The last thing in the world she wants is mixed emotions over another guy.

  She tells herself that with Andrew it is a friendship. A very good friendship; one she wants to hold on to and keep exactly as it is. Simple. Uncomplicated.

  A small voice in the back of her mind whispers, Really?

  Max

  If Monday you’ve have told me that two days later I’d have the most wonderful evening imaginable, I would have laughed in your face. But that’s exactly what happened. All along I thought I was showing Andrew around Paris, but tonight he took me to a place I’ve heard of a thousand times but never once set foot in. The Bleu Train. It’s in the old Gare de Leon train station, but the way it’s decorated you’d think you were dining at Versailles.

  When I asked how he knew about this place, he kind of blushed. “The concierge at the hotel,” he said. He is so blasted cute when he blushes like that. One minute he’s like this powerful lion who will take care of you and solve all your problems; then the next minute he’s blushing like a shy little boy. He was still blushing when he told me that he had an open-ended business class ticket home and changed it from Thursday to Sunday so that we’d fly back the same day. Isn’t that sweet?

  I hadn’t intended to tell him about Julien, but I did. I don’t know whether it was because of the wine or just the fact that he’s so easy to talk to. I feel like I could tell Andrew almost anything and he’d never be judgmental. He did, however, look sort of sad when I told him I’d come to Paris looking for Julien.

  “Too bad,” he said, then moved on to asking what I’d like for dessert. The one thing I didn’t tell him was that Julien was part of the group who robbed me. That’s too shameful to even admit.

  I have to say, there are moments when I feel kind of attracted to Andrew. He’s not at all what I’d consider my type, but sometimes when he leans close to me and I get a whiff of his aftershave or feel his skin brush against mine I get this tingly sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  Crazy, right?

  Andrew is cute and he’s a great guy, but the truth is I’m still in love with Julien. I know he’s a horrible person, a person who lies, steals and God knows what else. I have every reason in the world to hate him with all my heart, but I don’t. I want to; I swear I do, but I keep remembering the way he could send chills up and down my spine with nothing more than a touch of his hand.

  Julien is a sickness inside of me. All I can do right now is hope and pray that in time I’ll be able to rid myself of him. Then maybe my heart will heal, and I’ll be able to love somebody else.

  After the Storm

  All day Tuesday and again Wednesday Annie, Oliver and even Ophelia work at cleaning debris from the house and yard. Oliver saws the tree trunk into stump-sized pieces and one by one carries them to the far edge of the property where they will eventually be hauled away. Although Annie’s stomach is round and cumbersome, she still bends to pick up the small branches and pieces of shingle ripped from the roof. Ophelia has mopped three buckets of water from the kitchen, and still there is more.

  The storm has left nothing untouched. The storage shed has a broken window. Several trees are missing branches. The huge willow leans like a weary woman, and the early plantings in the garden are gone. In some spots there is a lone plant that has survived, but even those are few and far between.

  The wisteria bushes alongside the house are flattened to the ground. Oliver takes some of the boards from the porch and chops one end
into a point. He uses these boards as stakes and drives them into the ground. He is hopeful that tied to a stake the wisteria will survive.

  A number of times he tries to call Judge Rogers, but even on the landlines the service is spotty at best. When he finally does get through he learns that a string of tornados cut a swath straight through Wyattsville, Dorchester and Burnsville.

  “So far there have been seven deaths,” Rogers says. “Good thing you left early Monday evening; anyone who was on Carlson Road at that time…”

  There is no need for Rogers to finish the sentence; they both know the ending.

  Oliver gives a silent sigh of relief. This is the route he takes home every evening, and most evenings he is an hour or two later coming home. On Monday Annie asked him to leave early. She said Ophelia wanted to come and stay the night.

  Odd, he thinks. Not since the day Ophelia left Memory House has she come back to spend the night, and yet on this night…

  “No,” he mumbles and shakes his head. It’s not possible…is it?

  It is a strange thing to be smack in the middle of a disaster and yet know so little of it, but that’s precisely how it is. There is news coming out of Richmond, which is well beyond the storm track, but Oliver only catches bits and pieces of it on the decades-old portable radio they found in the basement. Gathering the batteries from three clocks and a flashlight, the best he can do is get a scratchy-voiced signal that comes and goes.

  On Wednesday morning a note is posted to the courthouse door saying that all proceedings are cancelled for the remainder of the week. Most of the stores in downtown Wyattsville remain closed. The electricity is still out, and without power credit card terminals and cash registers are inoperable. Before the day is gone the meat in the freezer and refrigerated cases of the Mighty Mart starts to have an odd smell and has to be thrown out. It cannot even be given away because the threat of salmonella is too great.

  By Wednesday evening Annie has checked her cell phone twenty-six times and has gotten the same message every time: Service not available.

  “How is this possible?” she asks.

  Oliver is busy sanding the scratches the tree limb left in the dining room table. He stops for a moment and looks up.

  “The cell tower is probably down,” he says, then goes back to sanding. “We may have to send this out and have it refinished. These scratches are too deep.”

  “So we’ll have it refinished,” Annie says impatiently. “Now about the cell phone, is there any way—”

  “Use the landline.” He frowns at the spot he’s just sanded. “We’re definitely going to have to send it out.”

  “I don’t want to make a call,” Annie says. “I’m waiting for a message from Max. I haven’t heard from her since last Thursday.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure everything is fine.”

  “It isn’t fine if she isn’t answering my messages.”

  “Don’t worry,” he repeats. “We should have power by tomorrow.”

  “If the power comes back, will we have cell service?”

  Oliver shrugs. “It’s hard to say.”

  After a second day of hard work and a candlelight supper, everyone is ready for bed.

  “Let’s call it a day,” Oliver says.

  Ophelia agrees.

  Annie wrinkles her nose. “I’m still worried about Max. I wanted to check my messages before we go to bed.”

  Ophelia again tells her there is nothing to worry about.

  “Max is fine,” she says. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  Annie sighs. “Even so, I’d be happier if she answered my text.”

  “Bring the phone upstairs with you,” Oliver says through a yawn. “You can check it later.”

  Annie carries the phone upstairs and places it on the nightstand beside the bed. Moments before she closes her eyes she checks the screen. Still no service.

  Long after Oliver is sound asleep, she is tossing and turning. It is so unlike Max to ignore a text. Something has to be wrong.

  At 3:40AM Thursday morning a text message beeps. Annie is only half asleep so she reaches out and grabs the phone. It blinks 1 New Message.

  She clicks on the message.

  “Your service has now been restored,” it reads. “We apologize for any inconvenience this disruption has caused.”

  There is no message from Max.

  Now Annie is truly worried. She lights the small candle and carries it out to the landing. She sits on the top step and taps out another message, this time in an email. If this goes unanswered, she is uncertain what she will do.

  Max – We had a terrible storm and our power has been out since Monday night. Have you tried to send a message? I am really worried about you. Did you find Julien? Please don’t be sad if you haven’t. I know you believe you still love him, but 3 years is a long time and if you give your heart a chance you will find a new love. Are you still at the Hotel Vendome? Is everything OK? Text me and let me know. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I am going to track you down.

  Love, Annie

  In the subject line she types IMPORTANT; then she clicks Send.

  Going to Giverny

  On Thursday morning Andrew is at the Vendome before ten o’clock. A white convertible is parked alongside the curb, and in his pocket is a list of places to visit while they are in Giverny. He hopes this day will go as planned. Already it is looking good; the sky is clear and bright, and it is warm for this time of year.

  Max steps out of the elevator just as he enters the lobby.

  “Perfect timing,” he says then crosses over and kisses her cheek. It is the type of kiss friends often share; a greeting, nothing more. He would like it to be more, but now and again she still speaks of the boyfriend she came in search of.

  Over the past few days Andrew feels himself drawing closer to Max, and while he is wary this might be a mistake he can do nothing to stop it. She is unlike any woman he has ever known. There is magic in the ease of her laugh and a fierce intensity in her love of art. When she speaks her words have a simple earnestness; there is no pretense.

  She is a woman he could easily fall in love with, but it is too soon. Much too soon. For now he will content himself with simply being her friend.

  Keeping it casual, he loops his arm through hers and they head for the front door. As they pass the front desk, the clerk gives a nod and a friendly “Bonjour.”

  Andrew opens the car door and waits for Max to sit.

  “I hope you don’t mind a convertible,” he says. “I thought once we were out in the country—”

  “Are you kidding, I love it!” Max looks up and smiles. “If you’d have asked, this is exactly what I would have chosen.”

  He circles around the back of the car, climbs behind the wheel and pulls away from the curb. It is bumper-to-bumper traffic as they wend their way through the streets of Paris, but once they pass La Defense he turns onto a highway. There is still a steady stream of cars, but they move along.

  Paris is a city that has grown beyond its borders. On the outskirts they pass neighborhoods lined with apartment buildings that are strangely similar to those in the city, except many of these terraces are crowded with baby toys and an occasional rack of laundry set out to dry. After several miles the buildings become smaller and eventually are replaced by single-family houses bunched together like tiny towns. Between the towns are long stretches of grasslands and farms.

  “I’ve never been out this way before,” Max says.

  “I’m glad,” Andrew replies. “It’s nice to have a new experience that belongs only to us.” While his words still hang in the air, he thinks this is something he should have left unsaid. It has the sound of a couple moving into a relationship. He is about to swing into an apology when Max turns with a smile lighting her face.

  “You’re right,” she says. “Thinking of it that way makes this trip seem even more special.” She reaches across and gives his arm an affectionate squeeze.

  For a few
moments her eyes linger on his face. He is looking to the road ahead, but his lips have the hint of a smile. The wind has ruffled his hair, and a curl has fallen onto his forehead. She is tempted to brush it back, but the truth is she likes the look of it.

  For a fleeting second she pictures Julien: dark eyes and slicked back hair, a long stride that sometimes left her lagging behind. She gives a deep sigh; it is partly regret and partly relief. Although she cannot say she no longer loves Julien, Andrew is a pleasant change. He has a boyish charm and an easy-going manner that makes him fun to be with.

  Giverny is a centuries-old stone village. The town has risen up around the artist it celebrates, so there is only one main road and it is named Rue Claude Monet. Andrew follows signs pointing the way to the house and garden. When they finally arrive there is not a single parking space left, and the line in front of the house runs the full length of the block. Andrew maneuvers a tight three-point turn, and they head back down the road lined with gardens, historical sites and restaurants.

  “There’s got to be a parking spot somewhere along here,” he says. At the far end of the road he doubles back and turns down Rue du Milieu, a small cobblestone side road. At Le Maison d’hote, he pulls into one of few remaining parking spaces.

  “Want to brave the line or do lunch first?” he asks.

  “Brave the line,” Max answers. As they start toward the road, she glances back over her shoulder at the stone house with its large porch and a patio filled with umbrella tables.

  “This looks like a cute place,” she says. “After we tour the house and gardens, let’s have dinner here.”