What's Not True

by Valerie Taylor

  Once Chris ordered for the both of them in French, mais bien sûr—fish and chips for Kassie, salmon for him—she excused herself for the ladies’ room, which, wouldn’t you know, was up a long mahogany staircase. Halfway up, she turned to look at Chris. He was in deep conversation with a dark-haired lady wearing a white blouse, black miniskirt, and white apron. She looked more like a French maid than a server. Ever the chick magnet. Kassie brushed the green-eyed monster off her shoulder when the lady handed him what looked to be a menu. Hope that’s not the wine list. He should know I want a cosmo.

  For a busy restaurant at a busy time of the day, their meals arrived quickly. So did the cosmo Chris ordered for her. She offered him her fries. No way would she or could she eat all of them.

  “I have two new dresses to fit into.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “One’s blue. One’s black. The blue one’s fancy. The black one’s practical. I can wear it to the meeting tomorrow. Or a funeral.”

  “That’s a happy thought. You’re not thinking the meeting with Mimi is one and the same?”

  “Of course not. Just making a joke. I bought enough black clothes to wear to my mother’s funeral two years ago. In fact, they’re taking up way too much space in my closet at Annie’s.”

  “Maybe you should think about moving them to my place in Charlestown, like you were supposed to before—”

  “We’ll see.” She cut him off, not wanting him to take her down memory lane. She did that too often on her own.

  A suave-looking waiter, not the French maid she’d seen chatting him up earlier, tried to fill their water glasses. But his hand trembled and water splattered on Chris’s side of the table. No big surprise. She figured it was Chris who caught his fancy, not her.

  “We’re good.” Kassie flipped him off politely, not colloquially, with a wave of her hand.

  “You two on your honeymoon?”

  “No, we’re not married.” Kassie smirked and slid her left hand under the table.

  “Not married.” Chris echoed as the waiter turned to leave and tripped over himself, almost falling into the table behind them.

  “You should’ve told him I was your stepmother. He would’ve dumped the whole pitcher on us!” Kassie covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.

  “I trust in time you’ll get past that.”

  “Past what?”

  “Referring to yourself as my stepmother. Once you and Mike are divorced, are you going to call yourself my ex-stepmother?” Chris polished off his glass of wine and poured another. “Isn’t it time to let it go?”

  Stunned, Kassie placed her knife and fork across her plate, leaving half her fish and most of the potatoes untouched. Over the last year, she hadn’t given much thought to being connected to Chris in any way after the divorce. Why would she? Until four days ago, her relationship with him was over. Fini. Did his showing up in Venice jumpstart it for good? Or just for the next few days?

  “We’re not married. We’re not living together. You’re my husband’s son. If I’m not your stepmother, what am I? What are we, Chris? Two former lovers having a fling in Paris?”

  “Don’t make this difficult, Kassie. It doesn’t have to be. We’re two mature adults, granted with some baggage.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I think it’s time for us to put the past behind us, don’t you? Let’s throw all the craziness that was out of our control into the Seine. Let’s keep the good memories that brought us together in the first place and move forward. Together. What do you say?”

  Kassie finished her drink and turned away from his gaze.

  “I love you, Kassie. We can make us work.”

  Oh, God. She smeared black mascara on Le Petit Café’s linen napkin.

  “It’s almost two thirty. They’ll be closing soon. Before we finish shopping, I have to . . .” She pointed toward the ceiling.

  She climbed the staircase again. Through her tears, she noticed Chris had his hands in his pockets. She hoped her non-response hadn’t made him regret finding her in Venice, either this time or the first. She loved him. If she was ever to believe in magic, a future with Chris might be her last shot.

  When she got back to the table, champagne flutes had replaced their drink glasses. Chris stood behind her chair, which he pulled out for her as he touched the small of her back and kissed her cheek. A small light blue box with a white bow prevented her from taking her seat.

  Her mouth felt like sandpaper. She tried to swallow. Nothing doing. Her eyes blinked, fighting another flow of tears, and her left eye twitched.

  “What’s this?”

  17

  Crossing That Bridge

  Kassie and Chris spent the rest of Monday afternoon holding hands, playing tourists and shoppers along La Rue du Commerce.

  It didn’t take long for Kassie to agree with Mademoiselle Uber-Know-It-All. La Rue du Commerce was the best hidden shopping street in all of Paris. Just around the corner from the Eiffel Tower and across the street from some famous gardens Kassie didn’t know the name of, La Rue du Commerce was its own feast for the eyes and the wallet. Its tree-lined street held court to high fashion boutiques, as well as to stores displaying everyday bargains bursting with every shade of red, green, and blue. Inventors of the Pantone color wheel would be proud.

  She came to a screeching halt in front of a baby store. Its windows were adorned in girly pink and baby-boy blue, with just one bright yellow onesie thrown in for accent. Her feet became cemented in place. Her eyes watered on instinct. Her breathing showed signs of hyperventilation. Get ahold of yourself. Too late. A cheery pair of pregnant ladies strolled out of the store, each carrying two white store-branded shopping bags so filled to the brim, Kassie envisioned a little bump on the shoulder of one would be all it would take to knock them both over to the curb like bowling pins. Down girl.

  Chris looped his arm around her waist, pulled her in tight, and led her away to safer environs. A leather store. It was pay dirt for them both. Chris tried on a half dozen jackets, settling on a classic black bomber jacket, its leather softer than butter, if that was even possible. All she could think of when he posed in front of a three-way mirror with his hand in his pocket of his gray jeans and winked at her was Eat your heart out, Karen. He may be your son, but I sleep with him.

  She hadn’t thought much about Karen since Chris surprised her in Venice. She wondered if Karen was as happy that day with Mike as she was with Chris and why images of both Karen and her mother flashed through her mind at that moment. Mother, what are you trying to tell me?

  Kassie shook off the eerie feeling, rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, and focused on leather. Like Chris, Kassie succeeded too. So many shoes and purses to choose from. It would make any American girl giddy. Cleverly, Chris grabbed an empty chair along the front window, giving her time and space to behave like a kid in a candy store.

  She touched and sniffed the earthy, sweet smell of more than a dozen handbags, returning more than once to one that caught her eye—a red crocodile designer label knock-off that would complement both new dresses. At first, she’d put it aside because it had two handles, not a cross-body strap. But when she returned to explore it probably for the fourth time, a wise saleswoman stepped in to rescue her, pulling out a strap that was hidden in an inside pocket, hooking it up, and draping it across Kassie. Sold.

  Finding two pairs of shoes, one black leather and one red to match her new favorite bag that would work with either of her two new dresses, occurred with far less drama. So too, the process of checking out. This time, Kassie paid for her own purchases and Chris for his jacket, shipping costs and all.

  “Where to now? A drink celebrating our shopping extravaganza?” Chris said.

  “How about coffee? The day is young. I don’t want alcohol to slow us down.” With that, Chris spied a Starbucks. Yes, Starbucks, in Paris, where his prepaid rewards card worked with only one tap.

  When Kassie returned from her obligatory trip to the la
dies’ room, Chris was sliding his phone into his pocket. “How do we get back to the hotel from here?” she asked.

  “No problem. Let’s go.”

  Of course, as if right on cue, a car pulled up and Uber Blondie jumped out and popped the trunk. “I see you had much success. Fueling our economy. Merci beaucoup.”

  Kassie hesitated, shook her head, climbed in the back, and gave in. During the ride to the hotel, Bad Kassie took a back seat as well.

  “I’ll be right in, babe.” Chris asked Kassie to wait for him in the lobby of the Hotel de Fais de Beaux Rêves, which she did but with reservations, trusting him, not Blondie. Parting a long sheer curtain, she saw an exchange going down. Something was up between Chris and Tanya. Oh yes, she had a name. On that last ride, Kassie asked. Not just to be included in the conversation. It’s important, you know, to name your adversaries. To put a name with a face. An unforgettably gorgeous face who was at that moment getting a slight shoulder rub from her man.

  “What was that all about?” Kassie tried not to sound as jealous as the bile inside her chest cavity suggested.

  “You’ll see. We’ve got to get a move on. Can you be dressed in an hour?”

  “Where are we going now? I might have nothing to wear.”

  “Mais oui, you do.” Shooing Kassie toward the stairway, Chris stopped by the front desk, giving the bellman a thumbs-up as he joined her. “Remember Cinderella, your dresses? They wait for you upstairs.”

  Kassie showered first. Though a fully equipped bathroom, the tub could only accommodate one at a time, to her dismay. Right alongside Red Sox and Patriots games, having sex with Chris in the shower ranked high on her list of favorite pastimes. She’d have to wait until they were back at his place in Charlestown for that wicked indulgence. A little grin sparkled her eyes as she realized she was warming to the idea that whatever this was with Chris had the potential to last beyond Paris.

  While Chris took his turn in the tub, Kassie put on the lace lingerie she’d bought—or rather, he’d bought—earlier that day. She unclasped the Moissanite solitaire necklace she’d worn for the last year post-gondola and draped it on the bedspread.

  “Here, let me do that.” Chris emerged from what could rightly be called a steam room. He removed the solitaire from the chain and slid on the diamond-accented Eiffel Tower pendant from the light blue Tiffany box. Standing behind her in front of the full-length mirror, he draped the necklace across her chest and clasped it.

  “Now that’s better. The other was lovely, but not as meaningful as this or the gondola. Agreed?”

  She turned toward him, gave him a suggestive smooch, and tugged at the towel around his waist.

  “Later.” He held the towel in place, protecting his jewels.

  Pouting, she mindfully agreed, although the throbbing between her legs had other ideas.

  “Have it your way. Could you get me the blue dress, s’il vous plaît?”

  In front of the mirror again, after Chris snipped off the tags, Kassie slid into the midnight-blue tulip-shaped dress. He approached her from behind, his hands massaging her, starting from near her breast and moving down along her hips.

  “Perhaps I was wrong.”

  Kassie didn’t need to ask what he meant by that. The answer was peeking out of his boxer shorts.

  “Too late. I’m almost ready to go.” She twirled around.

  “As always, you’re right. And gorgeous. Give me a minute.” He disappeared in the bathroom for five, returning with a Cheshire cat grin.

  “You’re insufferable!” She gave him a sweet punch in the shoulder.

  “What? I brushed my teeth.”

  “Liar. Not fair.”

  “I’ll make it up to you later.” He gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek.

  They giggled all the way down the stairs, out the lobby, and into Miss Tanya’s car, whose black leather back seat was covered in red and white rose petals.

  “Isn’t it rather early for dinner? I thought Europeans were late eaters.” Kassie held Chris’s hand as he led them toward the base of the Eiffel Tower.

  “Two seatings. Remember your meeting tomorrow with Mimi? I booked the early one.”

  “Good thinking.”

  She touched her new pendant.

  Just hours before, after lunch at Le Petit Café, she’d held her breath as she opened the Tiffany box, and then she exhaled in utter relief. She prayed her fear the gift contained a ring wasn’t written all over her face, though her leg twitch could’ve easily ratted her out. Chris wouldn’t be that presumptuous, would he? They’d only been reunited since Friday. Under the lunch table so he wouldn’t notice, she’d counted off four, four days, on the fingers of her left hand. Was four days too soon? Crazy girl. You fell in love with him the first time in two. Four days is a lifetime. The voice inside her head tried unsuccessfully to calm her nerves. And I’m still married to his father, no less.

  Somehow Kassie recovered, putting two and two together—the gondola memorialized their first time in Venice and the Eiffel Tower signified Paris. Her response was genuine: “It’s perfect, Chris. I love it . . . and you. I thought—” She was saved from opening her mouth and inserting her foot by the waiter with their bill. And that was that.

  Now, rubbing the new pendant as she often did the gondola, she wished she’d brought the gondola with her so she could see how they looked dangling together on the chain. Like sex in the shower, that would have to wait until they got back to the States.

  Chris picked up their tickets, and they rode the lift to 58 Tour Eiffel, located on the first floor of the monument, which wasn’t ground level as one would imagine when something is said to be on the first floor.

  “I read,” Chris explained after they were seated, “the height of the restaurant is fifty-seven meters from the ground. But to accommodate the open kitchen range over there, they added another meter, making it fifty-eight.”

  “So, does that mean if I wear a hat that’s four inches tall, I can say I’m five foot six? Or more to the point, can I say these three-inch heels make me five foot five?” She leaned down and rubbed the top of her right foot.

  “You okay? Would you like a cosmo before wine?”

  “But of course. My mission continues.”

  Once Chris ordered their drinks and dinner, Kassie reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his. “This is spectacular, Chris. How did you ever get reservations?”

  “Connections. Remember?”

  “By any chance is her name Tanya?”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head no. “The hotel concierge and I have become bons amis.”

  Kassie gazed out the window at the humanity two hundred feet below, if her math served her right. Even for a Monday evening, the Eiffel Tower was a magnet for tourists. From their table for two next to the massive windows, she could see hordes of what looked like mini-Lego characters, with their phones and cameras flashing, fingers pointing skyward. She wished she were wealthy enough to rent out the entire restaurant and invite those who were not as fortunate as she to savor Paris in all its panoramic and gastronomical splendor.

  “Paris is quickly becoming my second favorite vacation spot.”

  “Let me guess. Seattle? No. Hmm. San Fran—?” Chris’s phone chimed before Kassie could answer.

  “You know what? I’m going to shut this invader down for the rest of the week.” He held up his phone, turned it off, and slid it into his pants pocket.

  “And who was invading?”

  “Just a friend. West Coast. It can wait until we get home. Now, where were we?”

  They were exploring their roots, their genesis, their raison d’être. Starting with Venice, six years ago. It would always be Venice. Yet, over a span of five years they’d taken their love affair primarily bicoastal, and so they reminisced—she about their spontaneous meeting at the Space Needle in Seattle, he about a lascivious weekend at a B&B in Napa, both about a roll in the sand on a beach on the Cape, their literal undercover meetups in
and around Boston and the apartment in Charlestown that was supposed to be theirs, but ended up as his . . . alone.

  Ultimately, their romantic walks down memory lane arrived at the doorstep of Annie’s condo just about a year ago to the day. There was no way of ignoring the elephant that would forever occupy a seat at their table, even if both the seat and the elephant were invisible: Mike. Mike and Karen’s forty-year secret had brought father and son together, splitting Kassie and Chris apart.

  Regrets? In retrospect, hell yeah. They’d allowed Karen and Mike’s buried past and Mike’s illness—all of which they had no control over—to separate them for a goddamn year.

  “We sound like victims,” Kassie said.

  “Aren’t we, though?”

  “Perhaps. Past tense.” Kassie poked at her profiterole, knowing full well how uncomfortably full she’d be if she indulged and scoffed down the entire dessert as she really, really wanted to do. Instead, showing unusual restraint, she wiped off the fork with tines shaped like the Eiffel Tower, opened her brand-new red handbag, and plopped it in.

  Rather than feeling melancholy about their past, reliving the journey that rekindled their love made Kassie calm, bullish on the future, and playful. “I’ve got you back in my life, and the prospect of something mysteriously exciting at work.” Kassie raised her champagne flute; they toasted, and she slugged back the inch or so that was left. If there were a fireplace nearby, Kassie . . . or Bad Kassie . . . would’ve given hers a heave-ho.

  When she returned from the ladies’ room—again—Chris asked if she’d like to take a ride to the top of the Tower.

  “Maybe another day. I should get ready for tomorrow. We have five more days—”

  “One last stop before we head back, okay?”

  Surprised, and a bit relieved, there was no Tanya waiting to whisk them away, Kassie hooked her arm through Chris’s as he navigated the evening crowd to a taxi stand.

  “Pont Neuf,” she heard him attempting to whisper to the driver.

  “Are we going to jump off the bridge? A new twist on Romeo and Juliet? The Riccis versus the Gaineses. Whatever will your mamas and papas say when we show up in Boston together again? I’m nobody’s favorite, except for perhaps Mike.”