An Autumn in Paris

by Alix Nichols

  Nat bats her eyelashes. “How do you mean?”

  “Julie is eight months pregnant,” Thomas says to me. “She can hardly move because she’s put on twice the recommended weight.”

  I wrinkle my face. “That sucks.”

  Thomas gives Phil a withering this-doctor-isn’t-happy look. “Been stuffing herself with too many of your pastries—”

  “They help quell her morning sickness,” Phil says in his defense.

  Thomas quirks an eyebrow. “She hasn’t had morning sickness in months.”

  “Julie loves my croissants,” Phil mumbles, hanging his head. “How can I say no?”

  Fred lets out a terrified scream and drops his glass. Luckily, it hits the counter, which saves it from breaking. The fake spider flies out and lands in Yacine’s glass. The guys, including Liviu, roar with laughter.

  Nat lifts her eyes heavenward before turning to me. “Promise you won’t form an opinion about my brother based on this bit of idiocy. He tends to regress around his pals.”

  “I promise,” I say.

  “He’s a good person,” Nat continues. “I suggest you observe him in his natural habitat among the sick critters he helps.”

  I laugh. “Already done. In fact, that’s how we met. He took care of Liviu’s dog.”

  Chewing her éclair, Nat makes a grunt of approval.

  Fred, now fully recovered from his ordeal, announces that our lunch break is over, and the musicians are requested to transfer to the garage. The public is welcome to sit in if they can commit to behaving themselves.

  Nat, Liviu, and I set our chairs by the wall and wait silently for the jam to begin.

  Thomas goes to the impressive drum set and picks up his sticks. Yacine begins to strum a guitar, Phil runs his fingers over a keyboard, and Fred blows into his saxophone.

  Liviu leans forward, mouth agape. I haven’t seen him this excited since the day we adopted Baloo.

  I smile, thinking back to Nat’s concern that I might find Thomas too puerile. If only she knew! This is the first time I’ve seen the lighthearted, silly side of him. Far from damaging his image, it adds to his already considerable charm.

  I’m in quicksand up to my chin now.

  Thomas surveys his friends. “All set?”

  They nod.

  He gives Liviu and me a wink before turning back to them. “One, two. One, two, three, four.”

  Was Marius puerile? I surprise myself wondering.

  Marius loved to prank his friends. He rode his moped like a daredevil. He enjoyed a good brawl, too.

  In his crusade against bullies, he didn’t just stand up to them. He sought them out. He’d spread the word at his school and in the neighborhood that anyone who was being harassed should come to him. And they did.

  Marius would hear them out. Then—immediately if possible—he’d confront their “tormentor.” He’d find them and call them names. If the supposed bully was a girl, he’d order her to stay away from the “victim” or she’d regret it. If it was a boy, he’d punch him in the face. In his righteous anger, Marius never stopped to talk to the accused, never bothered to hear out their side of the story.

  In Marius’s world—like in Liviu’s world and for most teenagers—things were black or white with nothing in between.

  As Thomas and his friends launch into a funky, upbeat version of “Summertime,” I have a lightbulb moment. Marius was in his eighteenth year when he died, which is much closer in age to Liviu than to me today.

  I believe he would’ve outgrown his youthful absolutism and turned into a principled yet sensible man. But he didn’t get the chance. And I never got the chance to know him as such a man. To know him as an adult.

  With difficulty, I force myself to concentrate on the present and the music Thomas and his friends are playing.

  They aren’t half as bad as he’d made them out to be. I don’t play any instruments myself and have little musical culture, so I’m hardly a competent judge. But the notes I hear are pleasant and well-timed, and there’s definitely a groove to what these four are doing.

  Thomas seems to be the unofficial leader of the band. He sets the tempo and makes sure they’re all on the same page. When each has taken a solo, they make eye contact with Thomas and end the song. They debrief quickly and play another one. I recognize some of the tunes.

  Their performance is uneven and as they flounder through the less practiced pieces, Nat cringes. A couple simply fall apart. Still, it’s fun to watch them play off of each other and share in their joy when they get it right.

  When they’re done, Liviu jumps up. “May I try the drums?” He gives Thomas a beseeching look. “Please, please, please?”

  “Come here.” Thomas waves him over.

  Liviu rushes to his side.

  “It’s pretty easy,” Thomas says. “All you need to do is count four beats—one, two, three, four—and hit the drums.”

  “Show me?”

  Thomas nods. “On count one, play a hi-hat,”—he taps one of the mounted cymbals—“and a kick.”

  “A kick?”

  “It’s the bass drum.” Thomas points to one of the drums. “You play it by hitting this pedal with your foot.”

  “OK.”

  “On beat two, play a hi-hat and a snare.” Thomas taps the same cymbal and the drum between his knees. “On three, it’s back to hi-hat and kick, and on four, it’s hi-hat and snare again.”

  Liviu nods, miming the moves.

  Rising to his feet, Thomas hands Liviu the sticks. “Go ahead, try.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Liviu practices under Thomas’s guidance while the other guys cheer.

  Discreetly, I wave to Thomas and point to my watch. We have a train to catch back to Paris. It’s Monday tomorrow, so there’s no wiggle room for changing plans, like we did yesterday.

  “I’m afraid we need to go,” Thomas says to Liviu.

  I stride to my budding Ringo Starr. “Sorry, kid.”

  Reluctantly, he climbs down from his stool.

  “You’re welcome to play Thomas’s drums again after our next jam,” Fred offers by way of comfort. “Or anytime you want.”

  Liviu glances at me, his eyes lighting up.

  Before I can open my mouth, Thomas says, “Done deal.”

  Nat springs up from her chair and pokes Thomas in the chest. “I don’t know about the next jam, but next time you’re in Bordeaux, which should be in a week, Maman would love to meet your new friends”—she sweeps her hand from Liviu to me—“if that’s agreeable to them.”

  Before I find something to say, she adds, “Think twice before you decline a gastronomic three-course Sunday lunch in the pure Bordeaux tradition.”

  I smile politely, careful not to make any promises.

  “So, how was the jam?” Thomas asks, and I’m grateful he isn’t pushing for a commitment. “How bad were we?”

  “Better than I expected,” I say.

  Nat studies her nails. “You did massacre half of your songs.”

  The guys’ faces lengthen.

  I wince with sympathy. “There’s room for improvement, for sure, but I’m confident you can do it. You have what it takes.”

  Fred tilts his head. “And what’s that?”

  “A garage,” Nat offers.

  Stifling a giggle, I glare at her before turning back to the guys. “Mojo.”

  23

  Thomas

  On the train ride back to Paris, I debate if I’ll be able to wait until tomorrow to talk to Dana. By the time she’s fed Liviu and sent him to bed, it’ll be after nine. Too late to discuss something so important.

  Patience is gold, I tell myself. It always pays off. I’ve already waited an entire day. I can wait one more.

  “May I see you later tonight?” I ask Dana when we say goodbye in front of her door.

  Patience, my ass.

  She suggests a walk with Baloo around nine thirty.

  That’s a good sign, right? Even though I would’ve pr
eferred her to come to my place so that we could talk in private. And maybe do a little more than talking… But what I need to focus on is that she didn’t say no.

  At home, I take care of chores and try to work on the papers I need to prepare for my accountant. But concentrating proves impossible, so I begin to pace.

  Halting before Armelle’s portrait on the dresser, I pick it up. “Forgive me, my darling. I didn’t think there was room in my heart for someone new, not this soon, but… life has a way of teaching us things about ourselves.”

  The apology reminds me of Yacine’s adage: Life’s a bitch. I always tell him that his statement doesn’t make much sense from a vet’s perspective. Bitches are no different from male dogs, or people, for that matter. They’re mean sometimes, but mostly, they’re benevolent.

  My door buzzer sounds.

  Dana! She must’ve changed her mind about coming to my place. It bodes well. It can only bode well.

  I rush to the door and answer the intercom.

  “Thomas?” a woman’s voice says. It’s a very familiar and special voice. But it isn’t Dana’s.

  As if in a trance, I mutter, “Come in,” and open the apartment door.

  The elevator doors screech. And then she’s there, on my doorstep. Not an apparition, not a zombie.

  My fiancée. Armelle, in flesh and blood. Her striking, model-grade beauty scalds me as it always did. Except this time the effect doesn’t last.

  I step backward and motion her toward the main room.

  “You look shocked to see me,” she says with a smile when I plant myself in front of her.

  My voice comes out low and coarse. “That’s because I am shocked.”

  The questions spinning inside my head are so many that I’m at a loss which one to ask first. So, I just stare at her like a half-wit and wait for her to explain everything.

  “I’m back,” she says. “I went to Bordeaux first, but you’d moved out. Then I found your new address.”

  “When? When did you… get back?”

  “Last week.”

  “Last week?” Jesus. She’s been back for a week! “Did you go to my parents? My friends? Your friends? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Because nobody knows I’m back,” she says. “I stayed in a hotel. Thomas, I was such a mess! I wasn’t ready to see anyone.”

  I take a breath. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I didn’t want to. I wanted to be with you physically for this conversation.” She takes a step forward. “And for our reunion, I hope.”

  “Where were you before you went to Bordeaux?” Where were you for a whole damn year?

  “In Italy,” she says. “I was held there against my will.”

  “By who?”

  “A bad guy.”

  I rub my forehead, trying to wrap my head around what she just said. It’s what I always thought, what I told everyone. My mom, my dad, my friends, the police. That she was taken, held somewhere by force. I was right.

  “Have you been to the police station?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I wanted to see you first, to talk to you.”

  “I’ll take you there.” I grab my jacket from the back of a chair. “If you want that bastard arrested, there’s no time to waste. We’ll talk later.”

  But Armelle doesn’t budge. “I’m not going.”

  I give her a quizzical look.

  “My ordeal—it’s still too fresh,” she says. “Can’t you understand? I’m too scared. I’m not ready. Now that I’m free, all I want is to be with you.”

  A huge wave of guilt sweeps over me. Here is my fiancée, free from her captor, seeking comfort and support from me… And all I come up with is to drag her to the police station?

  I close the distance between us and give her a tender hug. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. I’m so glad you’re back!”

  “I need you now more than ever!” She throws her arms around my neck. “I need you to help me forget what I’ve been through, to pick up the pieces.”

  “I’m here, Armelle. I’ll be here for you.”

  I forbid myself from thinking what this means for Dana and me. Armelle is back. She’s alive and seemingly unscathed, at least physically.

  That’s all that matters.

  24

  Daniela

  After dinner, Mami goes back to Amanda’s. Liviu sits down to finish his homework, and I take Baloo, who’s more jittery than usual, out for some fresh air.

  With the potty business out of the way, I dial Manon.

  Pick up. Pick up. Please, pick up!

  I really need my best friend’s level-headed talk now.

  “Louloutte!” her cheerful voice sounds in my earplugs.

  I exhale with relief. “Hey, louloutte!”

  “How were Giverny and Bordeaux?”

  “Great.” With no clue where to begin, I just repeat like an idiot. “Both were great.”

  “Did you get back late from Giverny on Saturday?” she asks with fake innocence in her voice.

  “We drove straight to the Montparnasse Station this morning.”

  There’s a silence.

  “How curious,” Manon finally says, her voice bursting with mirth.

  “After the gardens on Saturday, Thomas took us to dinner,” I say. “And then it was getting late, and there was this fantastic wine we wanted to finish… So, he booked us into a hotel.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  I halt, letting Baloo greet a drop-eared cocker spaniel. “I don’t know what to do, louloutte.”

  “I do. Marry him.”

  I would’ve slapped her hand if she were by my side instead of across town. “Please, Manon. Can you be serious? You know how complicated my life is.”

  “I know no such thing!” She huffs. “You’re a single mom of a boy and a dog. He’s a single vet who clearly likes you. And your boy. And your dog. I call that a match made in heaven.”

  “What if it doesn’t work out?” I chew at my lip. “I can’t help thinking he’s too good for me, you know? That this whole thing is too good to be true.”

  Manon growls so loudly I yank my earbuds out until she calms down.

  “It’s time to stop with that bullshit already, louloutte,” she finally verbalizes her frustration. “Stop putting yourself down like that. You’re a survivor, you’re pretty, you’re strong, you deserve just as much admiration—more!—than anyone I know.”

  I repeat her pep talk inwardly, trying to etch the words into my brain.

  I’m a survivor.

  I’m pretty.

  I’m strong.

  “You deserve better than Nico and Kevin.” she says. “You deserve someone like Thomas.”

  “Kevin wasn’t violent.”

  I know it’s a lame argument. Why would it convince Manon if it doesn’t convince me? Incredible as it may seem, I find myself concurring with her. I do deserve better than Nico and Kevin.

  Manon snorts. “Well done for him, but that’s hardly a sufficient basis for a relationship, don’t you agree?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Oh, good. That’s a start.”

  There’s a soft thump. I picture her plonking herself onto the bed and stretching out on her back. She likes to talk on the phone in that position.

  “So, what makes you think your relationship with Thomas won’t work?” she asks.

  “His fiancée is still missing, for one.”

  “It’s been over a year.”

  “Right.”

  Baloo stops in his tracks and pulls on the leash. I realize one of his fur friends is across the street, wagging her tail at him. We cross so they can greet each other properly.

  “I guess I’m just scared,” I say.

  “Of what?”

  On a long, heavy sigh, I make an admission. “I’m scared he’ll be so good to me that I’ll forget Marius.”

  “You have a warped way of honoring his memory, louloutte,” Manon says. “It�
�s almost like a cult.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think he needs your devotion, or wants it, where he is now?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m sure he doesn’t. I’m sure he wants me and Liviu to be happy.”

  When I hang up with Manon, my mind is made up. There’s no denying how much I like Thomas, both as a friend and as a lover. There’s no denying what he’s come to mean to me in such a short time. And here’s the final bit of truth: I’m ready.

  I’m ready to let a man into my life who one day might have my heart. A man who has a good chunk of it already, if I’m entirely honest.

  Marius, my darling, I hope to God you understand.

  Suddenly, I’m so eager to talk to Thomas I briefly consider hightailing it to his building and ringing his buzzer. But I remind myself that Liviu needs to be in bed by nine. So, I head home.

  At nine thirty, I’m out with Baloo again.

  Thomas is already outside my building. He looks nervous. Well, that makes two of us.

  We start walking down the street. I open my mouth and shut it again, seeing his expression. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

  He lifts his eyes to me. “My fiancée just came back.”

  “Armelle,” I say stupidly as if he has more than one fiancée.

  He nods.

  Over the next quarter of an hour he tells me about her sudden appearance on his doorstep earlier tonight. He tells me she must’ve been through terrible things. As soon as she’s ready to open up about it, he says, he’ll take her to the police. And if the cops are just as unwilling to investigate as they’d been before, he’ll take matters into his own hands and find the bastard who held her.

  His fists clench when he says that.

  I tell him I understand. My head is turning and there’s a ringing in my ears. In truth, I understand nothing right now.

  It begins to drizzle.

  “Baloo hates rain,” I say. “I need to get him inside.”

  “I need to get back to Armelle.”

  We say goodbye and go our separate ways.

  Armelle is an orphan, I remind myself. The closest thing to family she has in the entire world is her fiancée, Thomas.

  I have Liviu, my mom, my friends.