What the Heart Remembers

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Andrew’s mouth stretches into a wide smile. “Sounds good to me.”

  It is a long walk back to the Monet house, and the line is almost as long as it was earlier. By the time they enter it is nearing two o’clock.

  Passing by a tiny blue sitting room, they move through the remainder of the house. Max stops to study everything: the Japanese prints hanging on the walls, the family photographs, a small planter, a worn dresser. Andrew watches her. He has no need to see these things for himself; he is seeing them through her eyes, and he is certain they are more beautiful that way.

  In the studio a large window bathes the room in sunlight. When she closes her eyes she can see Monet standing at the easel and can breathe in the smell of turpentine and oils. She leans over to Andrew and whispers, “Can’t you just feel him still in this room?”

  He smiles at the wide-eyed expression on her face. “I definitely feel something,” he whispers back.

  She remains in the studio for almost forty minutes. Other tourists come and go, but Max and Andrew stay. Max studies the smallest detail in each painting and revels in the aura that comes from within the walls. She wants to capture every nuance of the room so that years from now, perhaps when she is as old as Ophelia, she will be able to call this memory to mind and feel what she has tucked away.

  In time they move through to the huge kitchen with its white tiles and copper pots hanging along the wall. From there they step out into the traditional English garden. It is ablaze with narcissi, tulips, daffodils and pansies. Although it is early in the season, even the cherry and crab apple trees are in full bloom.

  Andrew pulls out his cell phone. “Stay there,” he tells Max. “I want to take your picture.” He clicks off four shots then shows her the pictures.

  “Ooh, look at those colors,” she squeals. “Let’s do one together.” Before he can answer she grabs the arm of a passing tourist and asks if he will take their picture.

  He nods and accepts the phone that is offered. “Smile,” he says. He touches his finger to the button and holds it there a bit too long so there is a burst of 11 shots. In every one of the pictures, Max is grinning at the camera and Andrew is smiling down at her.

  Max scrolls through the pictures. “These are awesome. Would you send them to me?”

  “Of course,” Andrew says. “What’s your email?”

  She rumbles through the spelling of Architect-Max-at g-mail then adds, “While you’re at it maybe you should program in my home number. You might need it.”

  “Good idea,” he says happily.

  After strolling through the lanes of flowering plants, they wander over to the Japanese water garden and the mood changes.

  “Here is where he painted the water lilies,” Max says. The sky has become overcast, and the giant weeping willows start to fade into the darkening clouds. Andrew turns on the flash and takes two more pictures of Max. In one she is standing alongside the painted railing of a small bridge. The other is a close-up profile shot with her looking down into the pond.

  When the second flash goes off she is momentarily startled.

  “Oh, darn, I wasn’t looking at the camera,” she says.

  “I know.” Andrew clicks on the photo icon and smiles at the picture he has taken. This is the one he likes best.

  Max then insists they take a selfie. They stand with their heads close to one another, her cheek pressed tight against his. With the phone in his hand, he stretches his arm out and snaps the picture.

  “Let’s see what it looks like,” she says, and he scrolls over to photos.

  The picture is so close it seems distorted. They are both wearing goofy-looking grins. Max laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen. Her laugh is contagious, and seconds later Andrew is caught up in it. They take two more selfies, and each is funnier than the one before.

  The six o’clock chimes have already rung when they make their way out of the garden. The gray clouds are lower now, and the smell of rain is in the air.

  Andrew stops at the gift shop and raps on the glass panel. The door is locked, but the attendant is still inside. She looks up and sees him motioning to the display of floral umbrellas. She points to her watch and shakes her head no. Andrew puts his hands together as if in prayer. Then holds up a ten-euro note and mouths the words For you. Again he gives her a pleading look.

  She laughs, pulls an umbrella from the display and carries it to the door. She opens only the top section of the door and passes the umbrella out.

  “Twenty-five euros plus tax,” she says. He hands her forty euros and tells her to keep the change.

  They are only halfway down Rue du Milieu when the sky opens up and fat raindrops begin falling. Andrew pushes the umbrella up and curls his arm around Max.

  “Stay close,” he says, “so you don’t get wet.”

  The Telephone Call

  When Annie wakes on Thursday morning the first thing she does is check her cell phone. No new messages.

  Before Oliver’s eyes are open she says, “Our cell phone service came back on at three-thirty this morning, and there was no message from Max.”

  He sits up, rubs his eyes then glances at the clock.

  “It’s a quarter till seven,” he says wearily. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep; I’m too worried.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, stifling a yawn. “She’s probably just busy.”

  “No, you don’t understand. When the power came on I sent her an email and said it was important that she get back to me right away.”

  “At three o’clock in the morning?”

  “It was three-forty and anyway in Paris it was nine-forty. Now it’s almost one o’clock there.”

  Oliver turns to her with one eye partly closed. “Maybe she doesn’t want to disturb people while they’re sleeping,” he says and plops back down on the pillow.

  “I’m not sleeping. And besides—”

  Oliver half opens one eye. “I’m sleeping.”

  “No, you’re not,” Annie argues. “What if something has happened to Max? What if she’s in trouble? Or needs help?”

  Oliver lifts himself onto one elbow. “Nothing has happened to Max. She’s a smart girl; if she’s in trouble or needs something, she’ll call. So just relax and let me get another half-hour of sleep, okay?” He drops back and turns on his side.

  “What if she can’t call?” Annie grumbles. “Then what?”

  Before her feet hit the floor she has decided. If she doesn’t hear from Max by twelve noon, she is calling the Hotel Vendome. By then it will be 6PM in Paris. Max will have had a whole day to answer. A day is long enough to wait for a response. If there is no response by then, Annie will know something is wrong.

  Once the power is back on it would seem that life can return to normal, but Burnsville is like a sleeping bear and it is slow to awaken. Now that the danger is past, Ophelia is ready to return home. She mentions this at breakfast, and Oliver volunteers to drive her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a few more days?” Annie asks. With Max gone and unaccounted for, she hopes Ophelia will say yes but she doesn’t.

  “I’ve got to get back,” she says. “Lillian’s birthday is Saturday and—”

  “But today’s only Thursday,” Annie says. “And I was hoping you’d stay with me because I’m worried about Max.”

  Ophelia gives a big hearty laugh. “I told you, there’s no need to worry about Max. She’s just fine.”

  “How can you possibly know that? I’ve texted her three times—I’ve even emailed her!—and she hasn’t once answered me!”

  “Pshaw,” Ophelia chuffs. “Sending messages back and forth across an ocean can’t tell you the truth of how a person is doing. That’s something you’ve got to feel in your bones.”

  “Well, then, how come I don’t feel it?”

  “Because you’re too busy worrying.”

  None of this makes any sense to Annie, and an hour later when she kisses Oph
elia goodbye her face is still twisted into a worrisome frown. As she watches Oliver’s car pull out of the driveway, she hears the grandfather clock chiming. She counts the gongs: ten. Two hours until noon. Annie is uncertain whether she can wait that long.

  There is plenty to do now that the power is back on, so Annie tries to busy herself. Hopefully this will make the time go faster. She gathers the towels used to wipe the storm water from the floor, stuffs them in the washer and adds a cup of detergent. Although she has already cleaned the kitchen she goes over it again, swishing a rag across the counters and appliances. She even wipes the dust from the repotted philodendron sitting on the kitchen windowsill, but none of these things stop her from thinking about Max.

  She eyes the clock hanging above the kitchen door: 11:02. Impossible, she thinks. Surely it has been more than an hour since Oliver left with Ophelia. She pulls the small stepladder from the closet, climbs up and lifts the clock from its hook. Holding it to her ear she listens. The battery is still buzzing and the second hand tick-tick-ticking. She places the clock back on its hook and steps down.

  She stands there for a moment then pulls the cell phone from her pocket and checks. Still no new message. Not even an advertisement or a spam email saying she’s won a million dollars.

  What’s the sense in waiting, Annie asks herself. In Paris it’s already after five, more than enough time for Max to have answered. What’s the difference in an hour more or less? She goes to the desk and pulls out the paper Max has left with her.

  She dials 011 then 33 for France, then the area code and telephone number for the Hotel Vendome. There is a slight delay, but to Annie it seems way too long. Finally the phone connects, and a man answers on the third ring.

  “Bonjour,” he says. “Hotel Vendome.”

  “Do you have a Max Martinelli staying there?” Annie asks.

  “You mean Maxine Martinelli?”

  Of course, Max has used the name on her passport. “Yes, Maxine,” Annie answers. “May I speak with her please?”

  “Mademoiselle Martinelli is out just now.”

  “I’m her best friend,” Annie explains, “and I haven’t heard from her, so I’ve been terribly worried. Have you seen her today? Is she okay? She’s not hurt or—”

  He chuckles. “I would say Mademoiselle Martinelli is very okay. She left here in her young man’s automobile this morning. I imagine they are off for a day of fun.”

  Annie releases a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I was so worried.”

  Again the clerk reassures her there is nothing to be concerned about.

  Not wanting to act like a mother hen hovering over Max while she is off having fun, Annie tells the clerk he needn’t bother leaving a message.

  That afternoon Annie calls Ophelia.

  “You were right,” she says. “I was foolish to worry. Max is with Julien, and they are off having fun.”

  Since this is such a change of attitude, Ophelia asks if Annie has gotten a message or spoken to Max.

  “No,” Annie replies, “but I can feel it in my bones.”

  Ophelia gives another jolly laugh.

  A Late Date

  By the time Andrew and Max reach Le Maison d’hote, the air has grown cold and they are chilled to the bone. The inn with its crackling fire and glowing chandeliers is more than inviting. As they settle into the plush round chairs, Andrew suggests they start with an aperitif wine and appetizers.

  “I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I’m famished.”

  Max laughs. “I’m beyond famished. I’ve already moved on to starving.”

  Whether it is the warmth of the fire or the mellowness of the Dubonnet neither of them can say, but the world outside is all but forgotten. It is only the two of them, leaning into each other’s words, sharing stories and reliving moments of the past few days.

  “It seems hard to believe that at first we didn’t like each other,” Max says.

  “You didn’t like me,” Andrew corrects her, “but I thought you were adorable. Then you hit me with ‘I’m not interested in anything the least bit romantic’.” He mimics her in a squeaky female voice.

  “You do terrible imitations,” she says laughingly. “I don’t sound one bit like that!”

  “Yeah, I guess you don’t,” he chuckles.

  “Anyway, I was within my rights. After all you did call me a loser.”

  Andrew gives an over-exaggerated gasp. “I never!”

  “You most certainly did. When I told you Brianna said I was a loser because I didn’t have a real office, you agreed.”

  Andrew leans forward and cups her chin in the palm of his hand. “No, I agreed you should have an office, but you didn’t give me a chance to finish what I wanted to say. You jumped up from the table in a huff, and that was the end of that.”

  “You had something else to say?”

  He nods. “I was going to tell you I have an empty office that you’re welcome to use for as long as you like.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s Oliver’s old office, but from the look of things he’s not coming back to the practice.” Andrew tilts his head, gives a sexy smile and keeps his eyes locked on Max’s. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  Max leans across the corner of the table to kiss Andrew. She means to kiss his cheek, but he turns and their lips meet. It is intended as a simple thank you kiss, but something happens. They both feel it.

  When she pulls back, Max is blushing.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t apologize,” Andrew says. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

  The aperitifs and appetizers give way to a bottle of burgundy and dinner. He samples the morsels of duck she holds to his mouth.

  “Now you’ve got to try my fillet,” he says. He cuts off a sliver and lifts it to her lips. After the steak he feeds her a mushroom that he claims is as sweet as champagne. As she takes the mushroom into her mouth he sees the joy of this day glistening in her eyes and says, “You look very beautiful tonight.”

  “With my mouth full of mushroom?” She laughs.

  “Yes,” he answers. “Even with your mouth full of mushroom.”

  Outside the rain continues. It rolls off the tiles of the roof and puddles in the pathway. The road grows muddy and the cobblestones slick, but right now this is of no concern. They hear only the crackle of the fire and the soft strains of a violin player who strolls from room to room.

  After dinner there is brandy and petit fours. It would seem that in time they would run out of things to say, but this doesn’t happen. Instead one word leads to another; a single story grows into a tale and secrets are whispered back and forth.

  It is nearing eleven when from the corner of his eye Andrew sees the restaurant owner pacing back and forth. The violinist is gone, and the dining room adjacent to theirs is already darkened. He pulls his eyes from Max, glances around the room then whispers, “We’re the only people left in this restaurant.”

  She giggles and looks around. “Oh my gosh, we are.”

  Andrew signals for the check.

  “I think I’ll run to the ladies room before we leave.” Max stands then quickly reaches out and grabs for the back of the chair.

  “Wow,” she says, “I’m really feeling that last brandy!”

  The sound of rain is louder now; they hear the splash of it cascading off the roof. Until this moment there has been only the warmth of the room, but now she pictures the dark winding roads covered with a slick of rain and mud. She pinches her brows together and gives Andrew a look of apprehension.

  “Are you alright to drive?” she asks.

  “I think so,” he says hesitantly, “but…” He leaves that thought hanging and asks, “Would you prefer we get rooms here and wait until morning to start back?”

  When Max answers her words are pushed together, jittery and nervous sounding.

  “Sleep here?” she says. “I don’t t
hink so. It’s too soon, it’s—”

  “Whoa,” Andrew cuts in. “That’s not what I’m suggesting. With all this rain and as much as we’ve had to drink, I just thought it might be safer if we—”

  “Oh.” Max gives a sigh of relief.

  When the owner returns with the receipt, Andrew asks if the inn can give them two rooms for the night.

  “Non,” he says and shakes his head sorrowfully, “But I have one chambre with two beds.”

  Max’s eyes light up. She looks at Andrew and nods.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  After Andrew signs the register, the innkeeper hands him the key and says the room is left at the top of the stairs. “Number nine,” he adds.

  Max expects a small room with narrow twin beds, but this room has a cozy sitting area, a fireplace waiting to be lit and two wide double beds. Once they are inside with the door closed behind them, there is an awkward silence.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Max says nervously.

  Andrew raises his hands palms out. “You don’t have to worry about me. I would never—”

  “Sully my reputation?” she laughs.

  He chuckles. “I was going to say try something, but sully your reputation works just as well.”

  As they chat Max walks around the room tracing her finger around the lace doily on the dresser and fidgeting with the tasseled key in the Victorian wardrobe. When the wardrobe door pops open she peers inside. There are two fleecy white robes hanging on the hooks. Above them there is a sign that reads, “Pour l’ utilisation de nos invitees”—For the use of our guests.

  “Cool,” she says, pulling out one of the robes. “We can use these to sleep in.” She takes the robe and disappears into the bathroom. Soon there is the sound of the shower, and fifteen minutes later Max reappears. She is wrapped in the robe with her face scrubbed shiny clean and her hair damp from the shower.