by Hazel Gaynor
“It’s beautiful,” I gasped.
Clara shook her head as she stared up into the clouds. “It may be beautiful, but I am not going up there in that thing.”
“Come on, Clara,” I said. “Live a little. It’s perfectly safe.”
“This way, ladies.” Malraux directed us to a ladder beside the basket of the balloon. “Mr. Miller, perhaps you could climb in first and lend a hand to the ladies while I assist them on the ladder.”
Daniel climbed inside effortlessly, and I followed, clambering over the edge of the basket with ease—but I’d underestimated the distance to the bottom of the basket. With a thud, I landed in a heap. I laughed at myself as I dusted off my slacks.
“Let me help.” Daniel held out a hand. I took it and let him haul me back onto my feet.
Suddenly he was very near—near enough for me to see the thick fringe of lashes framing his dark eyes. Near enough to pick up the scent of his cologne: bergamot and leather.
As he met my eye, I stepped back quickly.
“We need to help Clara,” I said, looking over the edge of the basket.
I held out my hand to my sister. Her forehead was creased into a worried frown, and I felt another wave of sympathy for her. She was trying to be brave, despite how difficult it was for her.
“Must I really?” she said. “Can’t you two go without me?”
“It’ll be great fun, you’ll see,” Daniel encouraged. “And it really is perfectly safe. Look, we’re tethered to the ground.”
She glanced at the tether rope but shook her head. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“You can, Clara,” I encouraged. “Come on. I’ll be right here and so will Daniel.” I watched her shift from one foot to the other, her golden-brown eyes fixed on the large balloon overhead. Desperate, I tried another tack. “Do it for Violet. You promised, remember?”
In seconds she had climbed the ladder and hoisted herself up over the edge of the basket, crashing into me. I caught her in my arms as we both stumbled backward.
“Alright, here we go, everyone,” Monsieur Malraux said, pulling a lever.
A roaring sound erupted as a flame poured from a spout overhead, and slowly the balloon began to lift into the air. Our guide chattered on politely, giving us details about the impressive engineering, a little about the history of balloon flight, and other interesting facts.
“The frame is made of aluminum,” he remarked. “The balloon canopy is pure silk. There’s a simple gas contraption here that fills the balloon with heated air. This”—he gripped a lever—“is how we control how much air goes in and out of the balloon, and in turn determines how high or low we are.”
As we climbed higher, I was glad for my scarf and warm overcoat. Just as we’d been warned, the air grew colder as we ascended and the soft breeze turned to more of a steady wind. I gazed down at the distant Paris skyline. The Seine glittered in the sunlight and the magnificently shaped steel of Eiffel’s tower gleamed. My heart filled with gratitude for Violet’s wonderful gift and her insistence we see the world. I felt myself changing, my view expanding, and I knew it would make me a better journalist.
“It’s marvelous!” I shouted, my cheeks stiff from cold and from smiling. I peered down at the factory and the assistants waiting near the pegs, ready to pull in the ropes should we need help. I took in the treetops that looked softer and smaller, the verdant sloping hill behind the factory on the outskirts of the city.
“This is wonderful, don’t you think, Clara?” Without tearing my eyes away, my hand reached for hers. Only she wasn’t beside me. She was cowering in the corner, hunkered down. “Oh, Clara, you’re missing it! You need to see this. For your sketches.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Take my hand,” I said, reaching for her.
Daniel crouched down beside her. “Why don’t we have Maddie stand on one side of you and I’ll stand on the other,” he said softly. “Make you feel a bit safer, perhaps?”
Clara glanced up at me and after a moment of searching my face, looking for the sister she knew would protect her even if we didn’t always see eye to eye, she nodded and stood. She gripped my hand tightly and allowed Daniel to stand at her elbow to steady her.
As she caught sight of the view she gasped. “It’s beautiful.”
I beamed at her, so proud she’d beaten back her fear and so happy to share the moment with her.
I looked at Daniel, who winked to acknowledge our shared success, and I felt my smile broaden.
“Thank you,” I mouthed silently.
He nodded, his own happiness evident from the gleam in his eyes.
We floated for some time, suspended above the ground, until at last we began to descend. Clara returned to her protected corner but remained standing this time.
I took out my journal, wanting to capture the sensation of flying on the page. My writing didn’t have to all be hard politics and scheming businessmen; sometimes I liked to write more elegant prose, as I’d done in my descriptions of Paris. Perhaps, one day, I would surprise everyone—surprise myself—and turn my hand to writing a novel.
“What’s that?” Clara asked as I pulled the journal from my handbag.
“My journal. I wanted to write down our experience,” I replied.
She moved toward me and reached out. “Not your journal. That!”
I followed her gaze but saw it too late: the corner of a pale blue envelope, peeping from between the pages of my journal.
Edward’s letter.
I’d forgotten I’d put it there. How could I have been so stupid?
Before I could stop Clara, she’d yanked the envelope free.
Her eyes widened as she flushed a deep shade of red. “You took it? And I assume you read it, too.”
Cringing at my carelessness, I edged around the basket to stand beside her. “I didn’t mean to take it, and then I forgot about it. I’m sorry.”
“You had no right, Madeleine! I thought it was lost!”
Embarrassed to have been caught, and with really no defense, I changed tactics. “He cares for you, doesn’t he?” I pressed. “But do you care for him the same way?”
“Of course I care for him. He’s a friend,” she replied, exasperated. “It’s just a letter, Madeleine. Just words on a page. That’s all.”
She didn’t look angry—she looked devastated, betrayed. And I felt sick to my stomach. We’d started to build something between us, if only a little, and I’d ruined things. Again.
She pushed the envelope into her coat pocket. “Don’t talk to me!” she said, moving to the other side of the balloon next to Monsieur Malraux and Daniel, who both politely tried to pretend they hadn’t seen the entire drama play out between us.
“You’re always interfering, Madeleine,” she continued. “Even with your Manhattan apartment and your so-called ambitions, you haven’t grown up at all, have you? You’re still a child, poking through your big sister’s things. What actually is it that you want from life anyway, because whatever it is, you don’t seem to be getting very far with it.”
Her words stung.
I wanted to be taken seriously by a proper newspaper. I wanted to prove to my family that I wasn’t the oddity or the perpetual disappointment they’d always believed me to be. I wanted, for once, to make them proud, to have them turn to their friends and say, “That’s my daughter,” and “That’s my sister.”
I closed my eyes and felt the breeze tug at my hair as the silence enveloped me. I’d enjoyed the thrill of the balloon ascent, but it was, after all, just a passing distraction. An amusement. Reality was waiting for me below, back on solid ground, and Clara was right: I might know what I wanted from life, but I wasn’t getting very far with it.
Something had to change. I had to change, no matter how difficult that might be.
Clara
After the events of the balloon ascent, Madeleine and I spent our final few days in Paris apart. I didn’t know—or particularly care—
what she was doing and enjoyed my last peaceful hours in the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. While I was pleased to have Edward’s letter back, not least because I now had a way to contact him in Venice, I couldn’t believe Madeleine’s betrayal—and yet part of me wasn’t in the least bit surprised by it. She’d often been caught going through my things when we were younger. Why would that change now? I’d been silly to believe—to hope—she would act differently, and while I was furious that she’d been so deceitful, and mortified to think of her having read Edward’s intimate confession, my greatest reaction was one of bitter disappointment that she’d proved herself to be exactly the same interfering Madeleine she’d always been. I wished I could share more of Paris with her, just as Violet had shared the city with Margaret so many years before us, but perhaps I wished for too much.
“Can you ever forgive me?” Madeleine asked as we ate dinner in silence at the hotel restaurant on our final evening.
I was surprised by her emphatic apologies. It wasn’t like Madeleine to admit she was at fault so readily.
“I don’t think I can, actually. No,” I replied without looking at her. “What you did was unforgivable.”
“Please, Clara. I shouldn’t have read the letter or kept it from you. It was just there, among the newspapers on the desk, and then you came back into the room and I took it without really thinking, and before we . . . well, before we became friends again. Then I just forgot about it.”
I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin, pretending I wasn’t affected by the use of the word “friends.” In truth, I wanted to let go of some of the bitterness of the past. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of letting her off the hook so easily. Not yet.
“When will you ever learn not to go digging through other people’s things?” I asked stiffly.
“I’ll never go through your personal things again. I swear,” Madeleine replied, raising her hands in defeat. “Even if you do leave them lying around to tempt me. But going through other people’s things . . . come on, Clara, I’m a journalist. I dig for information. It’s what I do.”
“You don’t have to do it at another’s expense!” I countered. “You upset people and cause difficulties for them. Surely there are ways to go about it that aren’t quite as deceitful.”
Refusing to meet my gaze, Madeleine pushed a wedge of roasted potato around her plate. She’d hardly touched her meal. It was unlike her not to finish every last bite, and more often than not, mine, too. A sure sign that she really was sorry.
“But I don’t suppose there’s much to be gained by prolonging the argument,” I conceded at last. “What’s done is done, and we still have to take the rest of the journey together. I’m prepared to put the incident aside, for Violet.”
“So, I’m forgiven?” She raised a hopeful eyebrow.
“Not forgiven, but I won’t bring it up again because Violet would want us to bury the hatchet and try to get along.” I put my napkin on the table. “Even though you make it exceptionally difficult,” I added.
“If you want to tell me about Edward, I . . .”
“I don’t,” I said, holding up my hand to end the conversation. “I don’t want to talk about the letter, or Edward, again.”
I might not want to talk about it with Madeleine, but the truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Edward or the fact that he planned to be in Venice the following week. It was too late to try to put him off, not that I really wanted to. Was it so wrong for two friends to spend a morning at an art gallery together?
As we were finishing our meal, Daniel spotted us and approached our table.
“Ladies, I’m so glad I caught you. I wanted to wish you both farewell and a happy journey to Venice.”
I thanked him for his help in the balloon, and Madeleine shook his hand.
“Where to next, Mr. Miller?” I asked.
“I’m not entirely sure. I’m waiting for a new assignment at another theater, somewhere in Europe. Possibly something in Austria, but there’s also a chance I might return to America.”
“Oh?” I didn’t mention that we also planned to be in Austria. I’d enjoyed Mr. Miller’s company but didn’t want to see him turning up at every place we visited.
“Things are becoming increasingly unsettled in Europe,” he added, “and while there’s no need for alarm, I’d advise you ladies to be careful.”
Madeleine nodded her understanding, and I got the impression she wanted to speak to him in private. They’d gotten along like Laurel and Hardy, and I suspected they were sorry to say goodbye. I excused myself for a moment, and took longer than necessary in the bathroom.
By the time I returned to our table, Mr. Miller had gone.
“Say your farewells?” I teased.
“You didn’t need to excuse yourself,” Madeleine said. “I’m perfectly happy to see him go. I enjoy his company well enough, but I certainly don’t need him hanging around all the time.”
I didn’t believe her for a minute.
I arched a brow at her but changed the subject. “Do you think he’s right about things becoming increasingly unsettled? Are you sure it’s safe for us to stay in Europe?”
Madeleine hesitated.
“I wouldn’t say it’s perfectly safe,” she replied at last. “But neither is New York City. We’re being sensible, and careful. And I also think Daniel is being overly cautious. A lot like you. I’m following the news closely. If I think we need to leave, I’ll say so. Until then, let’s keep going.”
I really did want to keep going. Paris had already surprised me, but not in the way I’d expected. The sights were awe-inspiring, the food and wine delicious, the lights on the Seine made the city shimmer, but what had surprised me most was the way I felt about being away from home. I recalled Auntie Nellie once saying her trip around the world wasn’t remarkable for what she’d seen and experienced along the way, but for how she’d felt when she returned home. I hadn’t understood the sentiment when I was a young girl, intimidated by this brash, outspoken woman who was a friend of my grandmother’s, but I was beginning to appreciate what she’d meant. I thought about the pocket watch Violet had given me for luck before I’d left New York. I had looked at it at least a dozen times during our time away from home, the inscription Never turn back seeming to speak directly to me, urging me on even when I doubted myself.
I studied Madeleine’s expression and decided that I’d have to trust her to look out for us both, despite my reservations. For all her faults, I knew Madeleine wouldn’t put me in harm’s way intentionally.
“We need to think about Venice, then,” I said, changing the subject as I placed Violet’s second letter to us on the table. “Shall we?”
Madeleine nodded.
Opening the envelope, I removed a single sheet of paper, and began to read the letter out loud.
My dearest girls,
You are ready to leave Paris and move on, to bella Venezia! A city that has my heart, and I hope it will enchant yours, too.
Life doesn’t always run in straight lines, and you must never believe anyone who tells you otherwise. Frank Bell was the love of my life, but there were others. One in particular, who also touched my heart. Most women will tell you (if they’re being honest) that they have loved more than one man in their lifetime. Despite the commitments of marriage, most of us also hold a flame for another. We make our decisions and choices, and we live with them. I wouldn’t change my marriage to Frank for all the world, but I wouldn’t change what came before it, either.
Frank knew all about Matthias Morelli—there were no secrets between us—although perhaps he never fully understood how important Matthias was to me, or how he changed my life so completely. We met in Venice, during the trip I won to Europe. Margaret wanted to visit Rome, but I insisted on Venice. It’s as if I knew I had to go there, that I knew Matthias was waiting for me.
I don’t know if he is still there—if he is still alive, even. I do hope so. It will mean the world to me to know I have this
last chance to say the things I should have said to him all those years ago.
With all my love to you both,
Violet
Madeleine’s mouth fell open in shock. I stared at her, too stunned to speak.
“Violet had a love affair before she was married to Grandpa Frank,” she said eventually. “Well, I didn’t see that coming!”
Violet was a beautiful young woman in the old photographs she’d shown us, prettier even than our mother, so it wasn’t unexpected that men should find her alluring, but she’d never once mentioned this other man. Why would she, I supposed.
“I’d assumed Matthias must be an artist Violet admired, or someone who’d helped her and Margaret on their journey,” I said. “But if that were true, why would she go to the trouble of sending us to find him?” I shook my head. Perhaps we had underestimated her.
“We don’t know her at all, do we?” Madeleine stole the words right off my tongue. “We thought we knew everything about her, but we don’t know what she keeps hidden inside her heart, or who she was before she became a mother and grandmother. I wonder what else she’s been keeping to herself all these years. What a woman!”
“I guess we all have our secrets,” I agreed.
“But given how much she loved Grandpa Frank, it’s hard to imagine there was ever anyone else.”
My thoughts flickered to Charles, and then to Edward. “Oh, I don’t know that it’s such a surprise. Is it really possible to fall in love only once?”