by Cee, DW
While I reveled in Sandy’s borrowed moment, Jake abruptly pulled off the ring and handed it back to Henri.
“Bon! Merci, Henri”
I had to walk out of the room so Jake wouldn’t notice the tears in my eyes. I knew the ring wasn’t mine, but in my heart, I so intensely wished for a proposal that didn’t happen.
Jake walked out after some time and led me outside, and we left, just like that, for the Louvre.
“Jake. What about my ring?” I asked.
“Huh?” His answer was a bit flustered. “How did you…oh! We’ll pick up the band before we leave.” I was in too much of a haze to comprehend his incoherent thought.
Francois from the hotel had arranged a private tour of the Louvre for us. The docent led us around the entire museum, and even took us into rooms forbidden to the public. The “fix-it” room was the most interesting of these rooms. There were specially trained men and women repairing paintings and sculptures damaged during a move or from natural wear and tear.
Though the Louvre was fascinating, my mind couldn’t leave that private room at Boucheron. My thoughts kept drifting back to the ring, Jake’s glow when he placed the ring on my finger, and a picture of the ring on my finger. Jake noticed my preoccupation at lunch.
“Emily…”
I heard him call me, but wasn’t paying attention.
“Emily!”
“Huh? Yes? Did you need something?” I asked in a fog.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been zoned out all morning since Boucheron. Is something wrong?”
Ugh! He noticed.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” I lied.
“What’s on your mind? You haven’t been yourself. Your body is here but your mind is somewhere else. You can’t even concentrate on your lunch, which is a first.”
It was true. Jake brought me to a gorgeous tea salon nestled in an old green very French-looking building in the Saint Germain area of Paris. The server explained to us that this establishment first opened in 1862. This was the type of beautiful but unattainable storefront Sarah and I would visit and purchase a macaron or two. A stunning window display filled with colorful cake plates and fun pastry boxes showcasing cakes and chocolates and tartes greeted us. Inside, a delicious smell of sugar presented in the shape of millefeuilles and éclairs and cream puffs and biscuits, paralyzed me initially.
This place was famous for their pastries, namely my favorite—macarons. These were their “emblem.” At around thirty euros for an array of macarons, I should have enjoyed them more than my French Laundry meal but I still couldn’t focus. Not my monkfish carpaccio with lemon marmalade or the tray of pastries—just about one of every goody the store had to offer—took me away from that ring.
What to say? Surprisingly, I came up with a legitimate excuse. “I think jet lag caught up with me as well.” I lied again.
I couldn’t explain the obsession with a ring that didn’t belong to me, and a proposal that never transpired.
“OK. You’re being awfully strange.” Though there was a smirk on his face, I couldn’t process beyond our immediate conversation. “You want to go back to the hotel instead of the soccer match?”
“No. I’m fine,” I promised. “Let’s enjoy our lunch and go watch futbol.”
Jake wasn’t kidding when he said that Europeans were fanatical about their futbol. We sat with the French nationals and regretted not having worn the French tricolor—blue, white, and red. We saw half-naked men with their national flag painted all over their bodies, and long plastic horns called vuvuzela blew every third second, and the Europeans, too, had a chant or a song for each play. Even with such a spectacle, I couldn’t get into the game. I was still in a daze.
Maybe it was because I didn’t understand the game.
Maybe it was because the men next to me were drunk and obnoxious.
But, most likely it was because my head was still wrapped around that little, correction—huge—diamond ring.
Who would have thought I’d be so consumed with a ring.
Around midnight, we found ourselves in front of my room, entangled in a kiss good night.
“I guess we have to separate, huh?” I murmured.
“We don’t have to. You choose to. Good night, my love,” was all he said as he walked into his room.
Today’s lesson: Viande et Poisson—Meat and Fish.
We used the stock we made yesterday and cooked many classic French fare. Beef Bourguignon, a beef stew, seared Foie Gras, which tasted amazing even at 8:00 a.m., frog legs, Coquilles, and Loup au fenouil, sea bass in a creamy fennel sauce. All of this was a bit overwhelming to taste so early, but again, I enjoyed every moment of the lesson.
Rather than going straight to Jake’s room, I headed back to my room to give Sarah a call. We had only spoken once since she got back from her honeymoon and I missed her, and wanted to get an update on married life. It was midnight her time, but I thought I’d give it a try.
“Hello?” answered a sleepy voice.
“Sarah!” I answered back cheerfully.
“Emily. Hi! Are you still in Paris?”
“Yeah, it’s our third day here.”
“Is life with Jake as wonderful as you dreamed it would be?”
“Yeah, it’s been incredible. I’m having so much fun. I’m even taking cooking lessons here at the hotel. Jake’s thought of everything for me.” My bipolar mood surfaced with each answer.
“That’s great, but why do you sound like that? Let me guess…he hasn’t popped the question yet.”
“No,” I moped. “What if he decides he doesn’t want to marry me after all?”
“Emily, are you kidding me? This is a man who flew all the way to Japan to reconcile with you. You told me yourself he was miserable without you the past five months. Just be patient and be happy. You’re in Paris, the most romantic city in the world! Being with Jake is what you’ve dreamed of for the last six months. You guys are finally together. Even if a proposal doesn’t happen this week, he’s not going to let go of you ever again. When the time is right he will ask again.” She consoled me the best she could.
“I know. Thanks, Sarah,” I tried to say in a more cheery way. “How’s married life?”
“Incredible!” she answered.
“You two have dated for nine years. Is it really that much different?”
“Married life is more amazing, more intimate, more…everything!”
“All right, I get the hint. I’m sure I’m interrupting something very important. I’ll call when I get back home. Bye.”
Sarah started cracking up. “Bye, Emily. Have a great rest of the trip.”
We hung up and I promised myself that I would change my attitude. My sour disposition wasn’t fair to Jake. When he’s ready, he will ask again.
Jake caught me as I was about to walk out of my room.
“Why are you here by yourself?” His brows creased with worry. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s perfect! I came in to call Sarah. I was just heading your way. Did you get the breakfast I sent over?”
“Yes,” he said with a good morning embrace. “Thank you.”
“What’s on the itinerary today, Dr. Reid? Speaking of, don’t you miss being at the hospital?”
“Nope. Not when I’m with you.” He smiled. “Today, how about we do a little shopping, and then go to the Opera House? Francois sent over a list of specialty shops. There are two large flea markets we can visit.”
“Sounds great!” My chipper face was back on.
Today was a day where I was grateful to have a loaner car and driver from the hotel. At the Saint Ouen flea market in the 18th arrondissement, it took us almost four hours to walk around the entire marketplace. For Sandy, I bought an antique clock, and for Bobby I found an old ink pen. There wasn’t anything to my liking for Nick and Jane so we got in the car and visited numerous antique shops, clothes shops, and shoe and accessory sto
res in Porte de Vanves in the 14th arrondissement. I had better luck there and found a frighteningly racy lingerie for Sarah and Charlie, which Jake begged me to keep for myself, and a cool hat for Jane at a vintage shop.
Next, our driver took us to a most charming group of bookstalls known as Les Bouquinistes. Set against the edge of the River Seine, rows and rows of green metal boites, or boxes, sold old and used books, magazines, prints, posters, and pictures. Over two hundred vendors set up shop across the Seine from the iconic Notre Dame Cathedral.
Upon first glance, every stall looked an identical green color, like the kind one would see in old train cars. We stopped at several bouquinistes before learning that with patience and careful scouring, valuable first edition tomes could be discovered at any random stall. At one particular vendor I found a tattered, leather-bound copy of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities from the early 1900’s while Jake chatted with the owner in mellifluous French. I also discovered Julia Child’s first cookbook that she wrote while living in Paris, and an architecture book of Paris with schematics of all the historical buildings.
This Dickens’ book caused some consternation as I contemplated first, the price, and second, Jake’s reaction to the receiver of this gift. Julia Child’s cookbook, of course, would make a wonderful gift for Nick; Charlie would love the book of buildings. Knowing I would regret not buying these books I brought all of them up to the owner.
Jake broke from his conversation with the vendor, and placed his arms around me. “Love, are those books for you?”
“Um, no.” I dragged my answer.
“Who are you buying them for?”
I gave Jake a timid look. “The cook book is for Nick, the architecture book is for Charlie, and the Dickens’ book is for Max.”
If I looked tentative, Jake looked unsettled.
“This is Max’s favorite book and I’d really love to get his for him,” I explained apologetically.
Jake quickly changed his hurt expression to an approving nod. He accepted my desire to include Max in my list of close friends, and even offered to pay for the book.
“Let me get this for him,” he said. “I need to thank him for helping us get back together. I might still be looking for you if it weren’t for him.”
“Jake, that’s not necessary. Max helped us both. He’ll feel weird if you pay for this. Let me get it for him. You allowing me to do this is appreciation enough from both of us.”
We both looked at each other and I hugged him reassuringly.
“You are the only man I love. This will never change, no matter what happens. Now…can we go have lunch? I’m starving!” Hungry from a lack of breakfast and way too much walking—the driver had spoiled me—we stopped in a tourist trap and ate moule et frites. I polished off every last mussel and fry, then asked the driver to take us into Ile Saint-Louis, one of the two islands in the river Seine so we could eat at the most famous ice cream shop. Sarah and I had visited this shop the last time I was here. They made their ice cream only from milk, sugar, cream, and eggs. Any other flavor added to the base was derived from natural sources such as cocoa or vanilla. Two scoops of chocolate chip ice cream later I was content to go back to the hotel. We had accomplished much.
Back at the hotel, the bellhop helped us carry all our presents up to my room. I sorely needed a nap, but instead got changed for dinner and an opera. I dressed as quickly as possible so I would not be in any compromising position like we were the first night. When Jake came in the room, he looked disappointed that I was ready to go. I chuckled to myself.
“Honey, before we leave, I want to give you something,” I said.
“Oh?” he asked in a naughty way.
I ignored his comment and said, “Put out your left hand.”
I took out a watch from my clutch and placed it on his left wrist.
“What’s this?” he asked in a surprised voice.
“I saw this at the jewelry shop and I had to get it for you. It’s a vintage Patek Philippe circa 1944. I noticed that you were partial toward Patek Philippes, and I thought it would look nice on you. You like it?”
“Emi.” He sounded shocked, appreciative, and above all, touched.
The look on Jake’s face stirred another layer of emotion I’d never experienced before with him. Sadly, I’d never really given anything to Jake. I’d always been on the receiving end. How selfish of me. I could see why Jake fancied giving me presents. His expression of love and appreciation gave me goose bumps. The old adage of it’s better to give than to receive rang true right now.
“When did you get this? I don’t think I ever left your side. Also, this could not have been cheap. Why’d you spend so much money on me?”
He had many more questions but I cut him off and said, “Let’s go or we’ll be late.”
Our dinner was located in the first arrondissement. This two Michelin-starred restaurant was located in an exquisite townhouse of a late duke. This historic location produced the best meal we’d had so far, although it was a quick meal, as we were running late. Our server rushed a rustic risotto with frog’s legs that we shared because we were so full from lunch. I deeply regretted having had so many mussels! For our main course, we both ordered the langoustines in an interesting green tea sauce. Both dishes were divine. I could see why they had earned three Michelin stars since 1973 up till recently.
We rushed out of the restaurant and got to the opera house just in time to watch La Donna del Lago. Being in Paris, there were no English supertitles. It was hard to follow. From time to time, Jake leaned over and whispered the plot to me. After the show was over, we walked over to a local bistro to have an espresso and dessert.
“I didn’t like this opera as much as Carmen. I think I’ll have to study some more French when I get back to the States. I couldn’t understand anything.”
Jake laughed at me. “When did you learn French in the first place?”
“In high school,” I answered.
“You really can’t fluently learn a language unless you live in that country. You want to live in France for a while?”
What an odd question, I thought. Why would I want to live here while Jake was back in the States?
“No. If I were to live anywhere else for an extended time, I’d like to live back in Japan, maybe this time in Tokyo. But, I don’t think I can live too far away from you now so it’s a moot point.” Jake shook his head and laughed at me again.
Today’s Lesson : Legumes—Vegetables
The French made all their food delicious but heavy. My stomach churned at the thought of eating anymore 81 percent pure fat butter. I couldn’t intake so much fat this morning. I participated but didn’t taste test. An espresso was my breakfast instead.
Jake was ready to go when I got up to his room. He wasn’t quite his casual self and seemed a bit on edge. I thought about asking him what was wrong, but instead waited to see what he had planned for the day. All I’d hoped was that we weren’t fine dining today. A salad and Perrier for the rest of the day suited me fine.
My body felt nauseous when I saw Jake pick up a picnic basket full of food from the main kitchen. The chef packed enough food to feed an army. We walked toward the Tuileries Garden and found a peaceful spot surrounded by flowers. I guess Jake was checking off another one of my bucket list—picnic in the Tuileries Garden with someone I was madly in love with. Jake definitely qualified. He laid out an unusually large blanket and placed the basket in the middle. I followed his lead and sat on the blanket and waited for him to break his silence. He didn’t say a word the whole walk over to the garden.
Finally, I couldn’t stand the silence.
“Jake.”
No answer.
“Did I do something wrong? You know I don’t like it when you turn mute on me. I thought you promised not to do this anymore.” I spoke cautiously.
I apparently woke up him up from whatever he was thinking about because all I got was, “Huh? Did
you say something?”
“Jake! What is going on? You promised not to go silent on me anymore. You haven’t said a word since I got to your room this morning. Last time you did this, I didn’t see you for six months.” I was a bit frustrated, but more worried than anything else. I didn’t understand the sudden change in his mood.
“I’m sorry, Love. I’m just trying to figure out all this stuff that the chef packed. I don’t know which is which.”
Sounded strange, but I accepted the explanation.
“Jake, I’m sorry but I don’t really want to eat any more French food. Can we just skip to dessert?”
Whatever I said brought a frantic look on Jake’s face. He began digging through the entire basket and brought out six beautifully packaged small boxes about 1 1/2 x 1 1/2 x 2 inches in size.
“What’s in all these fun boxes?” I inquired.
“The chef made petit fours and placed them in here. They go sequentially. Here is the first one. Open it.” He finally put a smile on his face when he handed me the first box.
In the first box laid a petit four in the likes of a Captain Crunch cereal box. I shook my head a bit trying to find meaning in this dessert, but was a bit lost. Jake saw my blank expression and began revealing his intention.
“I guess you don’t remember how we first met?” He sounded a bit disappointed.
“Oh! Of course. This was the cereal I was reaching for when I bumped into you. Oh, this is so sweet. Do all these boxes contain a memory?”
I took a bite of the dessert and then gave Jake a bite.
“Yum!” we both said.
“It tastes just like Captain Crunch cereal. How fun! OK, I want the next box.”
“Demanding,” Jake said, while reaching over for the next box. He positioned himself in front of me and handed me the next memory.
