by Ava Miles
“I hope Brother Evan is gone now,” she said in a husky voice.
“Completely.” His stare curled her toes.
“Then let’s put away these groceries so you can sweep me off for my first-ever kiss in Paris.” She grabbed the fabric of her dress and made a swishing motion like she imagined the belle of a ball would.
“I thought we’d walk tonight,” he said, taking the rest of the groceries from her and putting them in the refrigerator. “Paris is the most beautiful city in the world to walk in.”
She could feel the romance already. “I’d love that.”
“And I plan to kiss you near the Pont Neuf,” he added in a husky tone. “It’s my favorite bridge in all of Paris.”
“I’d love that even more,” she said, and when he offered his arm to her, she took it with a smile of pure anticipation.
***
Evan navigated Margie along Boulevard Saint-Germain, letting go of her hand a half dozen times so she could sprint to a shop window and ooh and ahh over the display. Right now, she was exclaiming over the Ralph Lauren window display. The female mannequin was wearing a gorgeous gold dress, and he had to fight the urge to usher her inside, find her size, and have her try it on so he could buy it for her.
“You weren’t kidding about the people here making art out of their show windows,” she said. “I still remember you telling me that. I’ve been seriously thinking about what I want to do with mine. I have some ideas.”
“I’m glad it sparked your creativity,” he said. She had done that for him.
Once she was finished marveling at the display, they continued to stroll along the busy streets. People were already out in the cafes having a coffee or pre-dinner drink.
“I’ll have to bring you back to this place,” he said, nodding his head to the green café in front of Brasserie Lipp. “Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald used to come here.”
“They did?” she asked, stopping to peer into the restaurant. “I’d love that.”
He angled them across the square past the Cathédrale Saint-Volodymyr-le-Grand so she could enjoy the art displayed on the Rue de Saints-Peres leading to Quai Malaquais.
When they reached the Pont de Arts Bridge, she just had to go up and read a few of the locks that lovers around the world had signed and left to represent their feelings for each other.
“It’s so beautiful,” she exclaimed with stars in her eyes, touching one of the many locks cascading down the metal railing. “There’s so much love here. Can you feel it?”
For the first time, he could. He’d always found the display kind of corny, but the look on her face made him want to find the closest peddler to buy a lock for them. Reaching out a hand to touch her face, he said, “I do now.”
Her face seemed to glow.
“Come on. Pont Neuf is the next bridge.”
Her breathing shattered, and she looked away, as if searching for the spot. When she met his eyes again, she said, “Don’t let me dilly dally anymore. Not until later.” So she was thinking about the kiss too.
His throat grew thick. “Okay, I won’t.”
When he finally led her down the back stairs off Pont Neuf, her hand tightened around his as if she too could feel the tension, the passion gathering between them. Some people missed the stairs leading to the little inlet in the middle of the Seine, but it was one of his favorite places. The park benches lining the slender field of grass were already filled with other couples and families enjoying the day. He led her down the sidewalk right along the edge of the water.
When he reached the willow trees whose branches were dancing in the wind, almost like they were beckoning them closer, he turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He’d never anticipated a kiss like this before, and it seemed as if everything in him was rising with a force greater than himself. He felt like Edison must have when the lightbulb had first worked. When Henry Ford had cranked that first car.
“Margie,” he said softly because he had to say her name just now.
And then he lowered his lips to hers as she rose on her toes to meet him.
Something electric sparked and fanned out between them, and he couldn’t hold back. He wrapped his arms around her waist and crushed her to him. She gave a breathy sigh, and he moaned into her mouth, wanting more. She opened to him like a Paris rose, beautiful and delicious, and he savored every slick slide of her tongue on his. He supped at her lips like she was his last glorious feast, like she was the key to paradise itself.
She was his paradise now, and there was no end to the feast. Not even when they finally separated.
Her green eyes glowed, and inside them, he could see everything she was and would ever be. A piece of eternity seemed to hang in the air between them, and he traced her face.
He brought her hand to his chest. Let her feel his heart beat as they watched each other. It was the most passionate kiss he’d ever experienced. He saw her swallow thickly and knew she felt as lost as he did.
“Oh, Margie,” he finally whispered and buried his head in the curve of her neck, inhaling cinnamon and feeling the branches of the willow trees twirl around them almost as if in delight.
She traced another heart against his chest, and this time he understood what it meant. It was her way of giving her heart to him.
“That was the most beautiful kiss any woman could ever hope for,” she whispered.
He realized she didn’t say “first” or “Paris.” This kiss had defied time and place.
“It was the most amazing kiss anyone could ever hope for,” he said in a husky voice.
She looked up at him, and the willows seemed to cradle them in a lover’s embrace.
“How about we stay here for a little while?” he asked.
“I’d love that.”
And so they remained in an embrace as the wind wrapped the willows around them and the Seine rushed by, as powerful and special as this growing force between them.
***
Margie felt like her entire body was filled with the unctuous ribbons of river water flowing through the city. She’d never had a more magical kiss, and she didn’t think it was Paris. It was Evan.
Her head rested on his arm as they left the tiny inlet and strolled along the Seine toward Notre Dame. In the waning light, the spires of the famous cathedral looked more ominous, and coupled with the gargoyles, she found herself wondering if others before her had felt intimidated in its presence. Evan was telling her about the Île de la Cité, one of two natural islands on the Seine. It was where the original medieval city was founded and where the cathedral now towered over everything around it.
“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” he asked her when they stood in front of the cathedral.
She was tired, but the good kind of tired that came from being happy. “How about one of you and me?”
Something flashed in his eyes, and then he smiled. “I like that idea.” He fished out his smart phone and positioned them with the cathedral in the background.
“Say cinnamon rolls,” he suggested with a grin.
He caught them both laughing, and after he pocketed the phone, she threw her arms around him. “Evan, I’m so happy.”
His arms tightened around her. “I am too.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go to dinner. You’re practically asleep on your feet.”
“No, I’m not,” she protested, rubbing the back of her neck when he drew away from her. “But I could eat.”
“You’re going to love where I’m taking you,” he said, reaching for her hand again.
“I have a feeling I’m going to love everywhere you take me.”
He looked down at her, and for a moment, she could feel the swell of passion between them.
“So, as I was saying about Notre Dame…” he continued, clearing his throat.
As they walked, he told her more about the history of the cathedral and the land where it was built, recounting even the pre-Christian times when the temple of the E
gyptian goddess, Isis, had sat on the island. His command of history and facts astounded her. So she asked all of the questions that popped into her mind. About how deep the Seine was, and how many bridges there were throughout the city. He had answers for every one.
When they reached a quaint street off the Quai de Montebello, he stopped in front of Le Reminet, a lovely bistro with a purple storefront. What struck her first was the profusion of candlelight she could see through the windows. When he opened the door for her, she wanted to sigh. Every table had its own candles and cut flowers. Coupled with the white tablecloths, the setting was cozy and intimate all at the same time.
“I love it,” she whispered as the maitre d’ approached them.
“I knew you would,” he said. “You struck me as a sucker for candlelight.”
“What’s not to like about candlelight?” she asked. In fact, she wished there was a way to incorporate it into her bakery, but there was the whole fire code thing to consider…and the fact that she was only open during the day.
Evan spoke French to the maitre d’, and it was the first time she’d heard him speak the language. He seemed sexier now, all of a sudden, as if the exotic words had changed him into a magician.
She’d studied French in boarding school. To piss off her parents in their never-ending war to package her into a perfect upper-crust daughter, she’d purposely tanked most of her exams at school. But she’d secretly loved French. While her language skills were rusty, she hoped to polish them up a bit now that she was in Paris.
“Your accent sounds marvelous,” she said after they were seated.
Their waiter appeared and spoke to them in French. She caught a few of the words, but was too tired to focus her brain on translating. Maybe tomorrow, once she was rested.
“What would you like to drink?” Evan asked her. “Champagne to start? Or wine?”
“Champagne sounds decadent.”
He rolled his eyes playfully and grinned. “Pink or white?”
She leaned forward. “Pink, seriously?”
“Everywhere you go, people will give you the choice of pink or white.”
“Then pink,” she said and smiled at their waiter, who gave her a flirtatious grin.
Evan ordered and then arranged his napkin in his lap. “I see how this is going to go. All the men in Paris are going to fall in love with you.”
And what about you? she almost asked. Their kiss had told her plenty about how much he wanted her. But love? Don’t get ahead of yourself, she reminded herself. You’re only here for ten days.
“So long as everyone’s nice to me, we won’t have a problem,” she told him, setting her napkin in her lap and reaching for the menu.
When she saw the prices, she almost winced. She’d known things in Paris were going to be pricey, but this…
“Do I need to remove your menu and tell you what’s available so you won’t see the prices?” Evan asked in an aggrieved tone.
He was staring at her when she lowered her menu. “Evan—”
“I told you I’m totally fine on the money side, Margie,” he said.
He had told her that, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it meant. Unless he’d found a new job in the past two weeks, he was unemployed. Perhaps he’d saved enough that he didn’t feel the pressure to have a constant job. She knew some artists did that—they would work long enough to save up some money in the bank and then take time off to create until they needed to replenish their reserves.
“Evan, that’s really nice of you, but I still want to contribute my share,” she said.
He frowned. “Please let me spoil you a little while you’re here. I don’t…have company much. It would mean a lot to me if we could end this struggle right now so we can enjoy all Paris has to offer.”
Again, she caught a hint of loneliness in his voice. She found herself wondering, not for the first time, what had brought him to Paris and where his family was. Where his friend, Chase, lived. Like where his money came from, his whole background was a mystery to her.
Then she reminded herself of what she did know. He supported her dreams, and while his perfectionism had sometimes frustrated her, she appreciated the effort he’d poured into painting her bakery in tune with her vision. He was sweet and thoughtful and so smart she wondered how all his knowledge fit into his beautiful head. He invented weird things out of adding machines and could program a computer chip. And then there was the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing worth gazing at in the whole world. She wasn’t sure anyone else had ever looked at her that way.
“Okay,” she said as the waiter filled two crystal glasses with pink champagne. “I won’t fight you if you allow me to make you bread while I’m here. That will be my gift to you.”
“You already brought me cinnamon rolls all the way from Dare Valley. That was an incredible gift. I might have had one while you were napping.”
“I want…no, I need to give you something in return, Evan.” She reached for his hand. “It’s important to me.”
How could she explain that her upbringing had left her feeling like a parasite?
“You asked me earlier to tell you about…that dark time in my life. Well…”
Oh, this was going to be hard. She rarely shared her background with anyone—in part because it was in the past, like she’d told him, but also because she feared people would treat her differently if they knew she’d come from money. Or that her own parents had disowned her. But she found herself wanting to tell him, so he would know the whole of her—just like she wanted to know the whole of him. And maybe, just maybe, he would open up and share with her in return.
“My…ah…parents…It’s weird to refer to them that way now. They’re really wealthy. Old family money. They…never gave anything back in any meaningful way—not to me or to anyone in their circle. They threw money around to advertise their power and status.”
His mouth tightened. “Go on.”
“They wanted me to be just like them. To dress a certain way. To talk a certain way. To think a certain way. Do things rich people are supposed to do. Go to art gallery openings and ride horses and crap like that. They sent me to boarding school when I was seven because I cramped their lifestyle.” She took a breath. “I tried to please them in the beginning, but they didn’t even notice. So I rebelled. Hard. That didn’t work either. The calls from the school after I was caught drinking, sneaking out, or whatever were just a bother to them. One day I finally woke up and realized I was only hurting myself.”
There was a line between his brows as he listened to her. She fiddled with her napkin and made herself continue.
“I sought help in books and found a good counselor, one my parents hadn’t chosen.” There had been childhood shrinks from early on, but they’d always made her feel like she was in the wrong, like she was a bad girl like her parents called her. “A new world unfolded for me, one filled with love and generosity.”
The book that had changed everything was one she’d seen on The Oprah Show: Marianne Williamson’s A Return to Love. “I started college, but I was still struggling with what I wanted to do with my life. Then I ran into some people one night while volunteering at a local homeless shelter. They’d just come back from teaching English as a second language to children in a border town in Mexico, run by some nuns.”
His quiet intensity was making her nervous. What was he thinking? Her and nuns? It must sound crazy. He was so hard to read as he picked up his champagne glass and took what looked to be a fortifying sip.
“Something in me wanted to go down there. They talked about how giving back to this community had changed their lives. I’d never been part of a community before, and well…they made it sound so great. When I told my parents, we had the row of a lifetime. They made threats, everything from taking away my car to cutting me off. And I snapped. I told them to cut me off. That I hated them and everything they stood for and never wanted to see them again.” The ugliness wasn’t as sticky as it
used to be. Now it felt like dust she could brush off with a gentle pass of her fingers over her skin.
“Oh, Margie,” he said finally, setting aside his glass and grabbing her hand.
“It’s really not as awful as it sounds,” she said, releasing the huge pocket of air in her lungs. “We were never much of a family. My mother was a party girl who married my father for his fortune. He’s twenty years older than her, and he’s spent his entire life living off a trust fund. She got pregnant with me right away to dig her claws into him. She’d run away from her own family in North Dakota to become a model or an actress, you see, but she was too lazy to pursue anything serious.”
The judgment coming through her made her seem hard, so she pressed her free hand to her chest to re-center herself. “I finally realized my mother was completely unprepared for life in the big city. She did what seemed most logical to her.”
“Does your father know that’s why she married him?” he asked, his voice taut with tension.
“Yes, but he’s a vain man. He likes having a beautiful, younger woman for a trophy wife. They have an agreement…” The time she’d found her mother in bed with one of the waiters at a party at their house was forever ingrained in her mind.
“They didn’t deserve you,” he said in a hard tone.
She shrugged. “They never had any more kids. I was only a safety net for her and a nuisance to them both. After they disowned me, I sold what I had at a pawn shop, bought a cheap car, and left Dartmouth to teach English as a second language. The people I’d met at the homeless shelter helped set it up for me.”
“And have you spoken to your parents since then?” Evan asked, caressing the back of her hand with his thumb in comfort.
The candlelight flickered on the table, and she focused on the steady flame as the old sadness rolled through her. “No. They said if I quit school to teach, it was the final straw.” She’d left without a backward glance, knowing that if she stayed on their terms, she’d be cutting off that unique part of herself that made her Margie…and she would never be able to reclaim it.
