One Summer in Montmartre

by Teagan Kearney

  "No, it's fine. I'll see you in a month. I'm going to miss you so much." She dabbed the tears from her eyes. "Thank you. It's been wonderful."

  Louise drew Hélène to her and kissed her. "Write me a long letter full of news from home. I'm so looking forward to your wedding."

  Hélène stood watching her cousin leave, waving every time Louise turned. Then she was gone in the crowd. Hélène envied Louise. She had everything she desired. Hélène could but hope and pray her future held the same.

  She picked up her small case, hoping she'd find a seat. As she turned, preparing to climb into the carriage, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked for a second time to see what had attracted her attention. A man, his face partially hidden by a straw hat, was climbing into a carriage further along the platform. In his hand he carried a brown bag. There was no doubt about it—the man was Luc.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone...." St. John 8:7

  Paris, July 2007

  Anna focused on the needle hot jets of water hitting her back and shoulders. Turning around, she let the heat penetrate and ease the tightness in her muscles. She'd made it to the hotel without running and, more importantly, without losing control in public. Small steps, she repeated, lots of small steps and before you know it, you've made a big step.

  When she'd first heard the news of Jeremy's accident‒a policeman and a policewoman knocking at the door asking for permission to enter, compassion in their eyes as they performed their duty‒days and weeks followed when the smallest thing triggered a crying jag. One time the sight of a silver spoon in the cutlery drawer, a christening present from a grandparent, left her broken and huddled on the kitchen floor as the dinner burnt. Jeremy loved to use it when young and it had become a family joke that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Unexpected episodes like this left her bereft and weeping for hours.

  Jeremy was dead. No new memories of him were possible from the moment she'd received the news. He would never have anything new to celebrate. And she was here, alive. Abruptly changing the shower temperature to cold supplied her version of shock therapy and set her gasping as the water struck her skin. She tolerated the freezing blast for as long as she could before reaching for the tap.

  As she prepared for bed, her thoughts kept circling back to François. Why had his proposition upset her so much? She tried to figure out why his behavior provoked her to the extent it did. Maybe he was breaking through her barriers? Had spending time with him these last couple of days made her more conscious of the widening distance between her and Greg?

  She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and as the memory of his lips on hers came to mind, she watched her skin flush right up to the roots of her hair. Was she such a fool she didn't recognize how tempted she was by the promise he presented? But what was the purpose of such a temporary liaison? Did there have to be a reason for everything, she wondered. Why should enjoyment of the moment, accepting what life offered her, be wrong? "To have and to hold" echoed in her mind. She'd made vows. Vows she wasn't sure meant a lot to her any more.

  Anna felt as if she was engaged in a schizophrenic war. One part of her longed to throw off restraints, to live without wondering what other people thought. The other half battled to keep the principles of loyalty and faithfulness she'd valued the whole of her married life. She sighed, certain of which one would win. A coward was not how she thought of herself, but fear of stepping out of line, of repercussions, maintained the status quo. Tomorrow it wouldn't matter. She and Ingrid would meet up with Greg at the airport and the dilemma triggered by François's presence wouldn't be an issue. He'd be out of her life.

  Nonetheless, this expedition to Paris had been good for her. Her pallor had gone, and her eyes no longer looked haunted. Was Ingrid right? Had her old self returned with something different added? She looked vibrant, alive. How much was the result of researching her story here in Montmartre, and how much to François? She decided both had contributed to the change.

  Maybe she was finally coming to terms with her grief and moving on; something she'd not been able to envision before coming here. In one sense she'd never move on from her firstborn, but she wasn't stuck in that emotionally frozen place she'd inhabited since he died.

  Anna climbed into bed with her notebook intending to write a few observations on this afternoon's visit to the Musée. She'd discovered more than she expected when researching the history of a love affair between an artist and his model. Merci, Luc, she whispered to the artist, picturing Luc standing in his studio painting Hélène's portrait. Tomorrow morning she'd make one last visit. Her eyelids drooped, and she dozed.

  Waking with a start, she looked over at Ingrid's bed. Empty. She glanced at her watch on the bedside table. Two o'clock! Right away she was reliving that night. Life repeating itself. Waking up, finding him not home, the knock on the door. Breathe, she told herself as dread of some nameless disaster squeezed fingers tight around her heart.

  Her heart beat louder, pa dum pa dum, speeding up. Come on, how often have you done this? Breathe in, one two three four; hold, one two three four; breathe out, one two three four; hold, one two three four. She forced herself to continue till her heart rate had slowed somewhat, and the dreadful thoughts ebbed.

  Her imagination had to be reined in, controlled. Because it was late and Ingrid wasn't back, it didn't mean… This wasn't a replay of Jeremy. It couldn't be. She wouldn't allow it. Rustling in her handbag for her mobile, she dialed Ingrid's number. Straight to messaging. She rang again.

  Keep breathing. Breathe in, and release everything with the out breath. She blocked the tendrils of memory seeking to re-establish themselves. That night had been replayed too many times. Nothing has happened to Ingrid, she recited. Nothing would happen. Everything was going to be fine. She was with a nice young man, whose uncle had helped in her research.

  François. He'd been so calm and self-controlled when her bag was stolen, taking charge and sorting out everything. But she didn't have his number. A flash of memory surfaced: Ingrid mentioning Jean Paul's room was two floors above, number 401. She grabbed her dressing gown, snatched up her mobile and keys and hurried out the door.

  Anna ran, slippers flapping against her heels, shoving her arms into the dressing gown sleeves as she sped along the corridor. She tapped the lift button non-stop, fidgeting with the keypad on her phone, repeatedly trying to get hold of Ingrid as she waited, without success. Thankfully, when the lift arrived, it was empty, but it rose excruciatingly slowly. As soon as the doors opened on to the fourth floor, she rushed out checking the door numbers. She spotted François's room, third on the right, straight away.

  She hesitated for a minute suddenly nervous about waking him up in the early hours of the morning, and hoping he wouldn't misconstrue her actions. But getting in touch with Ingrid, finding out she was safe, was more important. And he could do that for her by phoning Jean Paul. That was vital.

  She knocked. No response. She knocked a second time, with more force. Still nothing. The third time, she rapped hard on the door, not caring if she woke everyone in the whole hotel. She heard movement inside the room. Thank God.

  The door opened and François stood there tying the belt of his robe and blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

  "It's Ingrid," she blurted out, her voice high and strangled. "She's not back, and she's not answering her phone. I'm going mad with worry." Her face twisted with the effort of not crying. "I need you to ring Jean Paul. Please."

  "Come in, come in." François, solicitousness personified, opened the door wide. "Here, sit down." He led her over to the couch. "What time is it?" He rubbed his chin.

  Anna perched on the edge of the couch. "That's the problem." She managed to restrain the whine in her voice. She didn't want him to think she was weak, not capable of standing on her own, always needing others for support. This was a practical matter. "It's two in the
morning."

  "Jean Paul!" exclaimed François.

  Anna's eyes widened at the anger lacing his words as he picked up his mobile from a table by the couch.

  "I told him to be home by midnight." He stabbed the phone. "Wait till I get my hands on him." He held the phone to his ear. His forehead creased in annoyance. "No answer," he said, trying once more. This time he left a message. "Listen, Jean Paul. This is François. Anna is here with me and I want you to get back here, with Ingrid, straight away or I promise you'll be on the first train back to Lyons tomorrow." The threat sounded serious. Hopefully it would work. He faced Anna. "I'm sure they're safe," he reassured her, "but I understand you can't relax till you see Ingrid."

  Anna's shoulders started to shake as she struggled to stay calm and in control. Not here, not in front of him, not when she'd been doing so well.

  François strode over to the sideboard, pulled out a bottle of brandy and two glasses and poured two generous measures. "No, no, no. Don't worry. Everything will be fine." He sat beside her. "Drink this." He handed her a brandy with one hand and pushed the box of tissues on the table towards her with the other.

  Unable to stop herself, Anna began to laugh.

  François looked baffled.

  "I'm sorry," she wheezed half-laughing, half-crying, as she dabbed at her eyes with a handful of tissues. "You handle everything so gracefully. Brandy and Kleenex! What more could a woman ask?"

  "This is not the time to answer that question," he said.

  She ignored the hint of mischief as his mouth quirked up at the corners‒she was becoming familiar with that look‒and took a large sip of her drink. The liquid hit the back of her throat, and she coughed as it slid down into her stomach. "Thank you, François. What I would have done without you?"

  "Yes, I must congratulate myself. I think I've done remarkably well seeing as how saving damsels in distress is an occupation at which I'm quite new. But don't forget your daughter wouldn't have gone out if it wasn't for my nephew." As François settled himself next to her, his phone buzzed. He uttered a groan of annoyance as he read the message. "I apologize for my nephew. It appears he has met up with a friend from home and, surprise, surprise, he and Ingrid have gone on to another club. And he was in such a rush to leave, he forgot his door key. He's in so much trouble. But it strikes me that Ingrid is someone who knows what she wants. And she's too old for you to control anymore. You are aware of that aren't you?"

  "No." Anna bristled. She knew no such thing. "If she's under our roof and living off our money, she has to respect our wishes." Both she and Greg shared the same view on this.

  She'd only ever had one serious screaming argument with Jeremy. The summer holidays were approaching, and in less than a week they were due to leave for their annual vacation in France. Jeremy had finished his GCSE exams, and one of his close friends was organizing a group trip to a music festival. Jeremy told her he'd pay for himself, he didn't need any help; and after the festival, he would hop on a plane and join them. He was certainly old enough to travel by himself.

  Jeremy had spoken to her first, figuring that if she agreed, and was on his side, it would be easier to persuade his father. To his chagrin, her opinion was that sixteen was too young to traipse off to one of those music festivals with friends. Greg was of the same mind and Jeremy had sulked for days.

  The night before they were due to leave, Jeremy came into the kitchen in a final attempt to convince her to change her decision. She could see it galled him to the point of absolute frustration to be unable to do what he wanted. The conversation, repeating the same points, incensed Jeremy, and he accused her of making no effort to understand his viewpoint.

  She'd shouted at him that as far as she was concerned he was not an adult, and therefore not free to do as he pleased. He yelled some insult back. She snapped something else at him, telling him to go to his room. He stormed out of the house, slamming the front door behind him. She didn't remember the actual words they said, but what stayed with her long after he walked out, was the look of total disgust, almost hatred, he'd given her in that moment.

  She'd waited up for him. He came in at eleven thirty and stood leaning next to the kitchen door. Physically, he was mature for a sixteen-year-old; tall with his dark hair falling over his forehead, and he'd already begun shaving. He was growing up fast. In a few years he'd leave for uni, and after that he was unlikely to return and live at home. Who knew where his life would take him?

  He pushed his hair back off his face. "Sorry, mum." He walked over to her and kissed the top of her head.

  "You'll understand when you have children," she'd told her son.

  François topped up her brandy. "You British can be so uptight about the important aspects of life."

  She chose not to reply. A tit for tat conversation was one thing she could do without; she let the remark pass.

  "Forgive my asking a personal question Anna, but are you planning to have, what do you call it, counseling?"

  Her back stiffened. What business was that of his?

  "Oh, I had a lot of counseling for what good it did me." She took a large sip of brandy. "My shrink even prescribed medication, which I assure you I took religiously." She wished her earlier mood hadn't been so temporary, so fleeting. Moving on didn't seem to be on her agenda at the moment. "It helped, but as I'm sure you've noticed, it doesn't take much to set me off, does it?" Anna swallowed another huge gulp of brandy.

  "Letting go is the hardest. Guilt comes when you start to enjoy life, because you think if you hang on to your grief, you hang on to them. But if you remember them, they're always alive. That's what memories are for. You never stop loving them, but you do learn to survive without them. And from my personal experience, time is the one thing which truly allows healing to take place."

  They were silent. Both remembering the one person they could never see again—the one person they would have paid any price to have in their arms.

  When François's arm encircled her shoulders, it felt the most natural thing in the world. Her defenses crumbled and dissolved; whatever their purpose, she had no need for them tonight. He shifted closer, and it was the easiest thing to lean in and rest on his chest. She savored the quiet comfort in being close to him. His physicality. She smelled his aftershave. The particular woody tone in its perfume was a favorite. She could feel his heartbeat quicken.

  Something inside of her clicked into place and the paradigm shift, which had been set in motion with the discovery of Luc Marteille's letter, completed its realignment. She'd been the pliant agreeable one. Her family, and certainly Greg, took her for granted, but tonight she didn't want to play it safe. Would there be consequences? She didn't care anymore. Comfy slippers no longer appealed. She'd made her decision; she desired to dance. François was right; she was here, he was here, and this time was theirs to seize and enjoy—if they wanted.

  Anna shifted, looking up and studying him. He looked vulnerable with his lips in a half smile and his expression uncertain. She should remember him like this so she could paint him when she got home.

  "Kiss me," she said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." This was her choice. Hers alone. He took the glass out of her hand, and placed both their glasses on the table, before turning to her. Bending down, he kissed her full on the lips. He carried her into the bedroom laying her on the bed as if she were porcelain and might break if he wasn't careful.

  "Are you sure?" He asked her a second time.

  She smiled up at him before pulling his head down towards her. "I haven't been more sure of anything in a long time."

  Some time later, they lay with legs and arms entwined.

  Anna was euphoric. Whether it was the brandy or surrendering at last to her attraction for François, she didn't care. She was beyond caring. Never having been, or had the desire to be, unfaithful to Greg, had made it impossible to admit her feelings. The truth was she had found François desirable from the first moment they met. Remembering Gr
eg, she smiled.

  "What are you thinking about?" François asked, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw.

  "That this is the first time I've ever been disloyal to my husband."

  He continued his exploration of her lips. "Are you consumed with guilt? You puritanical middle-class English people are notorious for repressing your feelings?" His words were mocking though his tone was gentle. He lifted her hair off her shoulder.

  "No, I'm not. And why do you think of the English in stereotypes?" Anna accused him but couldn't stop smiling.

  "What's so funny?" François said propping himself up on his elbow and twisting a strand of her hair around his fingers, holding it up to the light.

  "Well, I'm thinking that if he doesn't find out what I've been up to, I have no problem with it."

  "I wanted to make love to you from the moment you threw yourself at me."

  "I know." She glared balefully at him before collapsing into giggles, as if she were a young girl, light and free. "And, indeed, you have." She walked her fingers down his chest, letting them rest there. Later she would have to consider what tonight, what making love with him meant to her. But not in this moment.

  "What is it you say?" He leaned towards her, his eyes soft, "My pleasure!" He was about to kiss her when an insistent knocking on the outer door startled him. "Oh merde! That must be Jean Paul!"

  Chapter Eighteen

  It is important not to lose oneself in the world of 'if only'. Opportunities are lost in life, and it is hard to never think what if I had taken a particular road, or made a different choice? Yet regret can function as a warning, preventing disaster, but to dwell on our disappointments for too long disturbs the balance of day to day living.

  Paris, July 1873

  "Ici, Mademoiselle." An elderly gentleman gestured to a place opposite him as Hélène climbed into the carriage. "You're a little pale. Are you feeling ill?"