Someday in Paris

by Olivia Lara

  *

  Vincent must’ve felt something was different about Dominique because he kept pestering her with questions until she decided enough was enough. Her husband had the right to know and she needed to tell him, in a selfish sort of confession.

  So she did. She told him she had been exchanging letters with a man she believed, somehow, had Alexander’s soul or spirit. Simpler yet, with a man who was similar to Alexander.

  He reacted badly. Which was to be expected.

  ‘I thought we were done with this nonsense. It’s been ten years, for God’s sake. What will it take for you to just get over him? Do you think I’m stupid? Or blind? Don’t you think I know how many times you’ve gone to bed crying because of him? How you turn your head on the street after men who look like him? Don’t you think I know why you agreed to marry me?’

  ‘We both knew, going into this marriage, we had pasts that were most likely going to stick around,’ said Dominique, trying to calm him down.

  ‘Stick around, yes. But this is not sticking around. This is meddling and interfering and taking over our lives. Your heart is closed, Dominique. It has been closed for a decade. You only ever had room for one person and since he’s been gone you’ve been desperately trying to get him back, no matter what the cost, no matter in what shape or form. We were doomed from day one.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Vincent. You know how much I care for you.’

  ‘Care? If I hear that word one more time, I’m going to be sick. Tell me you love me if you want to convince me. Tell me you love me more than you love him.’

  Dominique’s eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t tell him that.

  ‘Tell me the biggest dream of your life is not to see him walking through that door right this second. Tell me that if he walked in, you wouldn’t leave me behind like a used carpet.’

  Dominique raised her eyes and looked at him, desperately looking for the right words.

  ‘I would never do that, Vincent. We are married; I made a vow to you. No matter what you think I wish or dream—’

  That last remark seemed to infuriate him even more. ‘I don’t need your sense of duty and your pity. I need your love.’ He fell into a chair, with his head in his hands, sobbing. She took him in her arms, and they stayed like that for a long time.

  *

  For days after their fight, she struggled.

  What was she doing? She had to think of Anne, she couldn’t be that selfish. And Anne needed and deserved a father and a mother, a loving family. And she had to think of Vincent too. It broke her heart to see how she was hurting him.

  The more she thought about it, the more it seemed there was only one mature, responsible option: to try and make things work with Vincent, give her marriage another chance.

  They decided they would move to Colmar, to be close to Anne who was starting her first year at La Rolande in the fall. Dominique would take the head curator position at the Unterlinden and Vincent could work on the book he had been talking about for years.

  Dominique bought the house from Constance, who reluctantly accepted her money. But Dominique wouldn’t have it any other way. She was going home, to the house she loved so much, in the town that meant so much to her, with her husband and their daughter. This has to be a real chance we’re giving our family, no more skeletons in closets, no more baggage, just a fresh start, she conditioned herself, realizing they wouldn’t stand a chance otherwise. Wondering if they stood a chance at all. But they had made a vow; they had made promises to each other. She had to at least try. Really try.

  Dominique knew what that meant. Alexander had been gone for over a decade. He was gone. And she had to stop seeing him in every man she met or talked to. Anthony was not Alexander; he was just another man. She had to stop. It was time to say goodbye to Anthony.

  But it wasn’t easy. She felt despair and emptiness thinking about cutting all ties with him. She couldn’t explain it, but he was her hope. Hope in something that couldn’t be. The poor man had no idea; he must have wondered why she kept pouring her heart out to him in tens of letters.

  With a heavy heart, she wrote one last letter. White lies weaved with hard truths.

  Dear Anthony,

  Please forgive me for the long letter you’re about to read.

  Years ago, I lost someone dear, someone I loved more than I thought was possible. After that, I went through hell and back for a long time and never thought I would pick myself up again. But I did, with the help of a kind, caring man who later became my husband. He offered me what I had been missing: a sense of belonging, love and family.

  Recently, I came dangerously close to losing my husband. All this will surprise you but the reason I almost broke up my home is you. No, it’s not your fault and it’s not you – Anthony Peltz. It’s you as I perceived you, as I imagined you. You have a lot in common with the man I loved and lost, and I was confused. I missed him so much and I was hanging on to some shred of hope that he wasn’t lost. That I could make him come back to me.

  I am so sorry to have dragged you into my unfinished business, but I am writing to tell you I have decided to give my marriage a real chance. To truly do that, I have to give up once and for all this fantasy I have created. I have to let you go; you and everything that you have meant to me – even if it was only in my imagination.

  I will hand in my official resignation from the European Restoration Initiative separately.

  Dominique

  Dominique left the letter to be forwarded by the European Restoration Initiative office at the Louvre as she arrived that morning and did her best not to think about it for the rest of the day. Impossible to do when her heart was filled with doubts and uneasiness.

  How could she feel this bad if she’d done the right thing? She’d chosen family over loneliness; she’d chosen reality over a dream. She’d only said goodbye to a stranger, a man she’d never even seen. Why did she feel so heartbroken?

  When the post was brought to her later that day, she found a letter from Anthony.

  Dear Dominique,

  You might not understand this now, but you must trust me. I need to leave for a while, to get my life in order.

  I haven’t told you a lot about myself but there is a reason for that and while I cannot tell you that reason now, I believe deep down in my heart it is for the best.

  For years now I have been the ghost of the man I used to be, and I can’t go on like this. I need to take my time to somehow accept everything that’s happened to me and, if the stars align, to try and rebuild my life, without regrets and guilt.

  I have made many mistakes, some out of fear, some out of good intentions gone wrong. I just hope it’s not too late to fix them. I am sorry I cannot say more or give you more right now, but out of respect for you and your family, I feel I am doing the right thing.

  Anthony

  What that meant, Dominique had a hard time grasping entirely. On the same day, they were both telling each other goodbye. In different ways, with different words and for different reasons but that day was an end. The end of something that never even started, she thought and quickly wiped away her tears.

  DOMINIQUE

  5 SEPTEMBER 1974

  COLMAR

  Dominique and Vincent tried to make it work in Colmar. But no matter what they did, nothing seemed to make things better between them. The atmosphere was always tense. He couldn’t get past what she had told him about Anthony, despite hearing again and again that they had stopped all communication.

  Although, on the surface, she chose Vincent, Alexander was still in her heart. She hadn’t let him go. She’d said goodbye to Anthony, yes, but never to the hope. Never to the dream. And Vincent knew it. He felt it. They were never alone. Alexander’s ghost was always around.

  More late-night fights followed in the next few months and things got much worse after Anne went to school. The gap between them widened. As time went by, their relationship seemed to go from bad to worse, until one day they sat down a
nd had the conversation. With terrible sadness, they both admitted they were unhappy, lonely, and tired and, as painful as it was, it was time to move on. It was time to get a divorce.

  Dominique often wondered why she had told her husband about Anthony and with such vivid detail. Subconsciously, she knew she had been looking for a way out. Out of their marriage and out of their perfectly rich and artificial Parisian life.

  Vincent was right: she had never loved him like she loved Alexander.

  ‘Was it all a lie then? Your marriage,’ Lisa asked her one day.

  ‘No, there are more types of love in this world than we could ever imagine.’

  ‘Are you happy it’s over?’

  ‘Happy? I’m not happy, but I am at peace.’

  ‘How is Anne taking it?’

  ‘Better than I thought. She’s such a big girl now. She heard us fighting, and she knew we were not happy, and she felt guilty. I think she felt we stayed together in the last year, at least, for her. But she has her school now, which she loves, and her friends, and I will see her every other weekend, when she’s not staying with her father.’

  ‘Are you coming back to Paris?’

  ‘No. Vincent is, but I have decided to stay here, in Colmar. This is where home is. Always was. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.’

  DOMINIQUE

  9 OCTOBER 1974

  COLMAR

  With Anne away at school, Dominique found herself alone for the first time in years, and feeling lost, but she desperately refused to become a victim of her own decisions.

  She didn’t know what to do but dedicate all her time and energy to her work, to transforming the Alsatian museum into a veritable art institution. The Unterlinden had been in dire need of repairs ever since she was a child and the art collection needed heavy restoration as well.

  Dominique knew it was in her power to make it happen. She used the money from her inheritance to restore the old Unterlinden Museum and its entire art collection. And outside of the work she was already doing with Marmottan and the Louvre, she started helping Unterlinden’s big brothers – Moma, Palazzo Reale, and Tate – with their restoration efforts. Anything that prevented her from having time to think. Or be sad. Or imagine impossible scenarios.

  *

  On Anne’s first weekend back from La Rolande, Dominique took a break from the museum renovation, and they both decided to declutter the study. It was long overdue.

  ‘Why do you need all these books? Nobody’s touched them in years,’ said Anne.

  She wiped the dust off one of them. ‘I think we should give some to charity.’

  ‘What books?’ asked Dominique absentmindedly.

  ‘Old stuff, adventure novels, a few art books but not like the ones you have in your library. I think it’s mostly junk.’

  ‘Sure, give them away.’

  ‘Do you mind putting them in the hallway on your way out, Maman?’ she asked.

  Dominique nodded, got the books and left the room. The door to the hallway was closed and the pile of books made it impossible for her to open it properly. She tried a balancing act, which failed miserably, all the books landing on the floor. She picked them up, and among them she found some of the books she had read as a teenager. Painting, restoration, Impressionism, books she’d forgotten she had.

  Among them, a large envelope.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ she asked out loud and opened it.

  In it, she found a book covered in yellow paper and a letter.

  And on the outside of the letter it said, ‘For Zara, from Leon.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ asked Anne.

  ‘I’m fine. I just need to go upstairs for a minute,’ she said.

  In her room, Dominique sat on the bed and opened the letter with trembling hands.

  Dear Zara,

  Here I am, back in Colmar, for the third time. It’s been five years since I met you that evening in the museum. Five years when I couldn’t forget about you. I think about you every day, still. I sometimes wonder why you left without a word and worry you might still be upset with me for missing our meeting. I hope I am wrong. I hope you found it in your heart to forgive me. I miss you. So much. I never thought I would feel this way, but here I am. Oh, how I wish I made it to Colmar that day.

  I know what happened to your mother. I am so sorry you had to go through that alone. I would’ve wanted to be there for you. How I wish I had the chance to tell you how much you meant to me. How much you will always mean to me. I don’t know what life has in store for me, but I know that because of you, I am better. I want to do better.

  I also find myself often thinking about you and wondering if your life in Paris is glamorous and amazing, as you deserve. I hope it is. If I close my eyes, I can see you there, spending your time in museums, making magic happen. I can’t wait to hear about you one day and all the amazing things you have done.

  I don’t know when or if you will ever get this. Know that whenever that happens, nothing will have changed for me. I’ll still be the same person I was that first day in Colmar. Even if it’s fifty years later.

  Zara, I hope that wherever you are and whatever you do, you are happy and please, never ever give up your dreams.

  And I hope that one day I will see you again. Or see you for the first time. It’s strange, isn’t it? I don’t even know what you look like, yet I do. How could I not? You’re in my heart. You are part of me.

  Here’s something to remember me by. I know Monet had always been mine, but I’ve always felt he brought us together and I want to give him to you. My godfather said this book can change lives. It changed mine because it brought me to you. I want you to have it. And perhaps, somehow, someday, it will bring you to me.

  Always and forever,

  Your Leon

  She quietly sobbed. ‘Leon,’ she whispered.

  Slowly, with great care, she held the book in her arms. How much she had loved that book and all that it represented. She hadn’t seen it in twenty years.

  On the first page, the initials she knew by heart.

  A.P.

  L.P.

  Incredible. It was the exact same copy from the Unterlinden Museum. The one that had disappeared. How did it end up with Leon? How was it his?

  The yellow paper covering it was frail and torn at the corners and barely holding on. Such an ugly cover for such a beautiful book. She ripped it, and underneath, untouched, the water lilies cover shone in the sun like an old friend saying hello. On the left inner cover, she found a handwritten note that had been protected all those years by the yellow paper.

  June 8, 1954

  Dear Leonard,

  Give this book to your boy. When the time is right, it will change his life.

  Your friend,

  Jean Jacques D’Angers

  Leon’s letter and that inscription. The words floated in front of her eyes, like magic.

  My godfather: Jean Jacques D’Angers.

  Wait, JJ was Alexander’s godfather. Was it possible?

  Her conversation with JJ before he died:

  ‘Who’s Leonard? I’ve never heard you talking about him.’

  ‘But you did, a long time ago. Leonard, Alexander’s father.’

  Leonard, Alexander’s father. Leon Price. Alexander Price.

  The blood drained from her face. ‘Leon. Alexander,’ she repeated. Like a robot.

  Leonard Price. L.P.

  Alexander Price. A.P.

  It was never Vincent. It had never been him. No, that couldn’t be. Vincent wouldn’t have lied to her like that. And for so many years. Why would do such a thing? But he had, hadn’t he?

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized she had no doubt about it. Deep down in her heart, she knew. And somehow, she’d always known it. She could only truly love one man. And Leon, the boy she fell in love with when she was just a child was Alexander, the man she fell in love with when she grew up.

  She’d loved only one man her entir
e life. How could she have been so oblivious to the signs, so stupid, so blind not to see the similarities? Yes, she had no way of knowing what Leon looked like but what about art? What about Monet? What about restoration? It was all there, finally clear after all those years of wondering. Same personality, same passion, same… so much ‘same’. Her heart should’ve known. And it had, but her mind refused to believe it could happen. Fate did everything it could, but fate can’t forcefully open somebody’s eyes; people need to open them on their own.

  Dominique wondered how it was possible they had both missed recognizing each other. Had neither of them wanted to believe destiny had played such a role in their story?

  Yes, she had loved one man for twenty years and at that point she knew she would always love him. Only him.

  What she felt for Anthony Peltz could only be explained one way.

  *

  ‘Oh, Mamie. What did you do? Did you run after him? Did you show up at his door?’

  I smile. ‘No, I didn’t. Remember, it was all in my heart. There was no proof, no certainty. Only what I felt. As always.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I wrote him a letter.’

  ‘And what did he say when he wrote back?’

  ‘He never did write.’

  DOMINIQUE

  12 OCTOBER 1974

  PARIS

  It had been a couple of months since Dominique had seen Vincent. He went back to Paris while she stayed in Colmar. They promised each other they would stay friends, maybe for Anne’s sake, maybe even for themselves, since they had so much history. Just because their marriage hadn’t worked didn’t mean they would stop being in each other’s lives. He said there were no hard feelings; she said the same.

  But now, after Dominique had realized the truth about Leon, she wasn’t so sure about what kind of feelings she had towards her ex-husband. One thing was clear though. She had to see Vincent right away. She wanted to hear it from him. His side of the story. There had to be an explanation. Because, as things stood then, she didn’t know if she could ever forgive him for what he had done.