Mad Mad Love ~ The Remembrance Trilogy: Complete Box Set Holiday Edition

by Kahlen Aymes

  Meredith laughed. “They expected you six months ago, babes. But don’t worry, I told them it’s temporary and that you’re there because you’re an ace. You’ll show them how to get things done and that will be that. Unless… you decide you want to stay for good. In which case, Monique will be fired.”

  My face screwed up at her nonchalant dismissal of another person’s worth. “No, Meredith. I promise… that won’t be the case.” Without giving her room to form an argument toward her cause, I asked when I could expect Andrea and Mike.

  “Flying out tomorrow. John was sure pissed that I’m taking all of you. It’s beyond me why he’s scrambling. He knew it was coming.”

  I wasn’t sure my New York publisher did, considering I had no intention of taking this job, given Ryan’s and my plans. I could understand how he would be put out, and I felt a flash of guilt for the short notice. “I’ll call him. That’s the beauty of wireless. I can still do my job from here, if I need to.”

  “Honey, that’s admirable, but concentrate on the job at hand.”

  “I want to be busy, so I don’t mind working for both of you.”

  “Me first, John second. Got it?”

  “Got it, but he would disagree. I did promise to do the fill for February. Two pages shouldn’t be difficult. How is that issue stacking up here?”

  “Shitty, I’m sure.”

  “Your confidence is overwhelming.”

  “You have no idea,” she answered blandly. I could hear her pulling on a cigarette then blowing it all out.

  “I’ll try to think of a feature we can use in both. That way, I can ease into it and, hopefully, not piss anyone off over here.”

  “Who cares? Piss off whoever you need to, as long as you get the job done.”

  After I hung up, I returned the call from my parents. I’d planned to make light of it all and just say I had an emergency fire, but when my dad told me Ryan called him, I had to come clean. Thank God I didn’t have to speak to my mother, but he made me promise to call her later in the week.

  I dressed in jeans, a heavy wool sweater, and kept the make-up to a minimum. I didn’t feel like taking the time, and I didn’t really care what I looked like. I hoped getting out and exploring Paris, most specifically the Louvre, would lighten my mood and spark my creative juices for the magazine article. My stomach felt empty, but somehow not hungry, so I didn’t bother with breakfast. I donned knee-high black leather walking boots and pulled on my long wool coat and mittens, shoving my phone into my purse and heading out of the hotel into the biting cold January air.

  The city was far less bustling than New York, filled with sidewalk cafés and a lazy atmosphere that I welcomed. The street seating was, of course, abandoned for the warmth inside. It would be nice to visit again in the spring. Meredith said there was no place on earth like springtime in Paris. Again, my thoughts landed on Ryan and our plans to come together. Loneliness out-shadowed any wonder that I’d momentarily been able to conjure for my day’s adventure.

  The bitter wind whipped my hair into my eyes, and my gloved finger curled around a piece that found its way into the corner of my mouth. I pulled up my GPS app on my phone and entered the current address and that of the Louvre. It was northeast of my hotel and across the Seine River, but less than a mile. The wind would make my ears ache, but I chose not to hail a cab. My time in New York conditioned me to walk blocks and blocks without hesitation, so I didn’t give it a second thought. I passed the French Institute, admiring the architecture, and promising myself to visit before I left the city. Today, though, my heart needed the more direct diversion that the Louvre and its magnificent contents would provide. I could just wander and keep to myself, which was all my fragile state could handle.

  I hoped getting lost in the works of Michelangelo, da Vinci, Degas, and Monet would occupy my mind and ease the ache in my heart. I felt sick inside. Leaving just made a tough situation worse. I knew it even before I left, but I just couldn’t stay. The abyss between Ryan and I made it difficult for me to tell him where I was, and I would be no better off than when I left. I sighed, telling myself that he needed the distance to gain perspective as much as I did.

  I wasn’t even sure what I expected Ryan to say to Jane, but after the bathroom scene at the gala. I was done with her. I couldn’t feel sorry or empathetic anymore. The conflict I felt was now centered around Ryan, alone.

  Despite my whole self-talk about perspective, I did want him to come after me to miss so much he wouldn’t rest until he found me. Making him work for it was selfish, it would be detrimental to his residency, and there was no way I’d want his career to suffer, no matter what was going on between us. Ever. Even if I lost him completely, I’d never wish him anything but the very best. In that moment, I made the decision to call him later that night and tell him where I was. I had so much weakness where he was concerned, yet when we were together, he gave me so much strength. Longing just to talk to him became overwhelming.

  My eyes filled with tears, and as quickly as one fat drop fell onto my cheek, I hastily brushed it away. I turned onto the bridge that would take me across the Seine and to the museum sitting at the end of it. I could see it from here, and its magnificence was nothing less than I expected.

  I drew a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. I’d never questioned that Ryan and I would be together forever, and I wanted to trust that. Except, this shit with Jane was the first time he’d chosen not to be available to me. Even in college when we were friends, and his girlfriends came and went, I knew that if I needed him, he’d drop everything in a heartbeat. That knowledge and my sketchpad were the only two things that held my heart together on those long, solitary evenings. Now, here I was again, with my art and uncertainty. I felt sad because I had to do something this drastic to motivate that kind of devotion.

  I couldn’t begin to guess what he’d do now. Had I done enough damage to make him walk away from me? I didn’t want to consider it, but my heart sank to the pit of my stomach. My brain reeled so much I felt dizzy with it.

  Seriously, I shouldn’t have been surprised when he didn’t call me this morning. Isn’t that what I’d asked of him? It wasn’t like him to give up all control and accept it without a fight, so doubt dug away at me. Would he throw it all back in my face? Ryan was proud and stubborn, but we’d always been connected on some celestial level that was a force stronger than either one of us. I closed my eyes, my throat beginning to tighten. I clung desperately to that connection, praying it would be strong enough to get us through it all. I stopped and grabbed the metal railing on the bridge for support as regret washed through me. I shouldn’t have left.

  I wanted to turn right around and go home, but Meredith would be angry that I started something I wasn’t prepared to finish. It would certainly put my job in jeopardy, and if God forbid, Ryan and I did break up, work was all I’d have to get me through it.

  The cold wind once again whipped my hair back and pushed the remnants of my tears back toward my ears. Angry at the mess I’d created for myself, I wiped them away with my cashmere glove and straightened my spine.

  I continued on my way, noticing many couples on the bridge despite the icy temperature. Some passionately kissing, some talking or laughing, but all wrapped up lovingly in each other’s arms. As I drew closer to the center of the river, I noticed the railing and fence were covered from top to bottom with all shapes and sizes of padlocks. Glancing around, I watched the couples and lifted a few of the locks to inspect them one by one. Some were expensive and some the dime store variety. All of them had two names and a date written with marker or scratched into the metal; some adorned with ribbons, yarn, or charms. I placed my elbows on the top of the fence and leaned over to look down at the murky water.

  The couple standing next to me were obviously tourists, speaking in German. I observed them in my peripheral vision without looking at them directly. The young man put the padlock onto the fence, kissed the key then offered it to his girlfriend. She took it
in her hand and gave it her own kiss. In a romantic gesture, the man placed his hand over hers, and laughing, they flung the key into the Seine. I’d never felt more alone than I did in that moment. I literally ached for Ryan to be beside me; to slide my hand around his bicep and lean my head on his strong shoulder. I swallowed back the lump of emotion in my throat. It should be us throwing our own key into the river below.

  It was obvious from the expanse of locks on both sides of the bridge, and the many couples adding to it, that this was a long-standing lover’s tradition. I wondered about the details of how it originated, whether it was connected to some mythical legend, and if the city would let them remain in place. Obviously, it was a pledge of unbreakable bonds symbolized by a lock that could never be undone since it was nearly impossible to recover the key. It would be so easy to burst into tears and sob my heart out. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself or impact the happiness of these couples. I left the happy couples behind me and hurried on to the museum, the whole time fighting the emotions trying to erupt from within.

  Two hours later, the gravity of what’d I’d done to Ryan by leaving without telling him, was still too fresh to allow thoughts of anything else. The subject of Jane seemed impossible for Ryan and I to discuss without blowing up at each other. The pain of not being able to talk to him, with the same ease that we communicated about everything else was the root of the problem. More than Jane’s blatant attempts to take him; I was completely devastated that the intimate closeness we shared did not apply to this.

  I was tired, and longed for a coffee shop that would allow me the Sunday ritual that had always made me feel close, despite the distance. I found one close by and ordered Ryan’s soy cappuccino double shot instead of the iced coffee that was my usual. It was a small comfort, but it was something.

  It was much stronger than I was used to, but I sat with my hands wrapped around the cup, gazing into the blazing fire from the central, stand-alone fireplace. The pipe that served as makeshift chimney ran directly up to the vaulted ceiling. How ironic that our choice of drink mirrored each of us so well: Ryan’s so much stronger than mine. At least, that’s how I felt sitting here, uneager to return to my empty hotel room and the even emptier bed. At least here, I could imagine he was also having coffee at the Hill of Beans near our house or even in the hospital cafeteria. My mind couldn’t help reminding me that Jane was, no doubt, at the hospital tagging along after Ryan like a dog. I deeply resented how she invaded my thoughts of him, as she invaded our life together.

  It began to get darker, the sun dropping to a place low in the sky and shone pink and orange in the violet sky below the edge of the clouds that were moving to the east. I looked forward to seeing the blue sky again tomorrow. In New York when you looked up, the sky got lost in the metal, bricks, and glass of the towering mass of buildings. The big expanse of sky and the art were my two favorite things about Paris so far.

  I pulled out my phone, and though it was almost seven in the evening, it would be two o’clock on Sunday afternoon in New York. I was unsure if Ryan would get the message, but I had to send it anyway.

  Having coffee and thinking of you. I know things are messed up, but I miss you…

  I waited for twenty minutes for a response that never came and finished Ryan’s cappuccino, feeling bereft.

  “Mon belle… Pourquoi avez-vous l’air si triste?”

  I looked up to find a very finely dressed gentleman bending slightly at the waist as he inquired of me. I could tell by the inflection in his voice he was asking me something but I had no idea what. I took in the fine wool material of his black suit and the silk of his sienna tie, just the briefest shade darker than his shirt. I scrambled to pull up the English/French dictionary on my iPhone. I only knew a few basic phrases and had no idea what he’d just asked.

  “Um…” I beseeched him with my eyes. “Pardonnez-moi. Could you repeat that?” I asked, stupidly mixing French and English. I ended up shaking my head in wry amusement. “Je ne parle pas Français.” I grimaced at my horrible accent. I shrugged apologetically and shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “May I sit with you, mademoiselle?” He asked in perfect English, his accent impeccable. “I have been admiring you for quite some time as you sat here with your thoughts and felt I had to ask why you appear so sad.”

  The man was handsome, with salt and pepper hair, cut short, and he had an immaculately groomed goatee, his clothing and shoes as expensive as his carriage demanded they be. I sat in silence as he sat down before I had the chance to answer.

  “It’s Madame and I’m simply missing my husband, but thank you.” I grabbed for my coat but the man put up his hand to stop me.

  “Ah, he is a lucky man. There is no need to run away,” he began with a charming smile. “You are quite beautiful. Your husband is insane to leave you to wander cafés alone.”

  “I’m meeting up with him for dinner soon. He had to work today, and I wanted to visit the Louvre,” I lied, completely unprepared for such a situation.

  “Ah, yes. It is amazing, is it not? It should not be missed while in Paris. You are American?” he asked, lifting his arm and signaling for the waiter. “Can I get you another café?”

  “No, thank you.” I studied his clear eyes with their light laugh lines. He had a fatherliness about him that settled me. It would be nice to lose a little time before facing my lonely hotel room. “But, if you don’t mind… I am interested in the locks on the bridge. Will you tell me about them?”

  He flashed a brilliant smile. “But, of course! First, I insist on introducing myself. My name is Étienne Lemieux. And, you are?” He proffered his hand. I marveled at the French language that made mere names sound like poetry.

  “Julia Matthews.” I took his hand, and he gently raised it to his lips for a soft kiss.

  “The pleasure is mine, Julia. Americans are always fascinated by our customs of love.”

  My fingers fiddled with the napkin in my lap.

  “Before I get into the story, what brings you to Paris?” His accent curled around each word like a lover.

  “Work, I’m afraid. I’m a creative director for Vogue.”

  “Ah. Very impressive. So is that your interest in the locks? A story for your magazine?”

  I stopped and met his eyes, as the first smile in what felt like forever lifted the corners of my mouth. “You know what? That’s a fantastic idea.” I chuckled.

  “Most Parisians know about the locks, so how will you make interesting, eh?”

  Étienne lifted his hand again and a waiter promptly appeared. He ordered for both of us and soon more coffee, sparkling water, and an assortment of fancy little sandwiches and pastries appeared on the table.

  “Personally, I would choose a different venue for dinner, but you look like if you don’t eat you’ll blow away,” he teased. “S’il vous plait.” He offered the sandwiches. I’d just told him I was meeting Ryan, and though my stomach rumbled painfully, I shook my head. I’d order something from room service.

  “No, thank you.” I felt at a loss not knowing the language. I had the translator app on the phone but had yet to use it, except in the cab from the airport. “Forgive me. I always feel visitors should use the language of the country they are visiting, but I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t quite gotten the hang of things.”

  Étienne took three sandwiches for himself, setting them on the small lunch plate in front of him. “Nonsense. Europe is a close community. We know many languages here. Come. You must at least try a sweet. We have the best pâtisseries in our city.”

  I obliged, choosing a fresh fruit tart, and using my fork, cut into it for a small bite. It was extremely delicious.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn French and Spanish, since both of those languages are used on my continent, but I never seem to have the opportunity,” I admitted sheepishly.

  “The best way is to simply immerse yourself in the culture.” He waved away my apology. “You are here now, and you wil
l learn quickly. Now, for the story about the locks. You know Paris is the city of love, yes?”

  “I’ve heard that, yes.” I smiled and took another small bite of the decadent dessert.

  “Are you a romantic at heart, Julia?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “And, your husband? Does he lavish you with romance? All women are beautiful and deserve to be worshiped.”

  I let out an embarrassed giggle. “Ryan is romantic, yes.” The day was turning out to be much better than I’d thought it would. Ryan would be horrified that I was sharing dessert and coffee with a complete stranger, but we were in a public place, and I didn’t feel the least bit threatened. It was so much more appealing than sitting here alone.

  “Yes, well, lovers from around the world come to Paris and go to the bridges to pledge and seal their love for all eternity. They write their names or other words of love on the lock, place it on the fence, and then fling the key into the river.”

  “I did see some of them doing that.”

  “Well, it’s said that the only way to break the seal of love pledged this way is to retrieve the key to unlock it. Nearly, if not absolutely, impossible.”

  “I thought so,” I admitted. “Bridges? There is more than one?”

  He nodded. “Ah, yes. Two. One, Pont de l’Archevêché is for lovers, and the other, the one across from the Museum, Pont des Arts, is for committed love.” He laughed gently. “I’m sure you can guess that one is much more crowded than the other.”

  My heart warmed at the story, but I cast my eyes downward to hide the pain behind them. “Yes. There can be many lovers, but only one true love.”

  His icy eyes widened, slightly. “Ahhhh. I can see you have found him, already. There is no mistaking the soft glow about you. Whoever he is, he is very lucky, indeed.”

  “My husband, of course.”