Veronique pushed her chair back. Dina followed, and the ladies stood.
Guillaume shot up, bitterly disappointed. “Don’t do this. I beg you. It is so heartbreaking for me.”
Veronique’s face turned hard, all pleasure leaving it. Dina was astonished by the sudden change. She’d never witnessed such desire followed by such coldness.
“You, monsieur, are too dramatic. Bon chance,” Veronique said, as she slipped into her sleek long winter coat, and helped Dina shoulder into hers. “Perhaps we’ll come back before we leave for Rome. And then again, perhaps not.”
They left Guillaume standing there, looking dejected.
In the taxi on their way back to the hotel, Dina turned to Veronique.
“You’ll see him again, won’t you, Veronique?”
Veronique sat in a quiet pride of introspection. “Yes, of course I will see him again, but not this trip. This is your vacation, not mine.”
“Let’s make it our vacation, Veronique. You don’t have to spend every minute with me, you know. I’d like to explore Paris alone sometimes, and while I do, you and Guillaume can get to know each other. I can see that you like him.”
“Like is not the word I’d use, Dina, but I would like to kiss him, and play with him. Yes, that is something I would like to do.”
Dina laughed. “Well, I like Paris, Veronique. And I love the French.”
Veronique linked her arm into Dina’s and pulled her in close. “And I like you, Dina. I like you very much. We must find a date for you.”
Dina shook her head. “No way. I have too many things to see and do here. I don’t want to get distracted by trying to meet some guy. I can do that back home. Okay, well I haven’t been all that successful meeting a guy back home, but that’s just fine.”
Veronique studied her. “You are very pretty, Dina. And your smile is so enthralling. I have watched the men looking at you tonight. Mark my words, Dina, you will meet a man. You cannot avoid it. It is, after all, Paris.”
CHAPTER 8
The next morning, Dina had an early breakfast in her room: croissants, jam, fruit, cheese and coffee. She’d slept in warm, peaceful comfort and awakened alert and excited to explore more of Paris. The Louvre was her first goal. Veronique had given Dina a Museums and Monuments Card, or Carte Musées et Monuments, valid for unlimited visits, and priority access to some 70 locations in and around Paris. As corny and as touristy as it was, Dina was determined to see the Mona Lisa up close and personal.
Dina called Uber—Veronique had told her she wouldn’t have to worry about the drama of tipping French taxi drivers and, although it didn’t matter in Dina’s case, a taxi ride in France could cost up to double the price of an Uber ride.
Dina texted Veronique her plans and also left a message at the front desk, just in case. Dina emerged from the hotel into crisp, morning sunshine, where the car was waiting—a friendly driver, smiling, standing by the open door.
As they traveled toward the Louvre, Dina told the driver to take the long way. She took in the soaring monuments, the museums, the swirl of Christmas lights and decorations, the sidewalk cafes and the romantic bridges. She’d read that 37 bridges span the Seine, the river that separates the left and right banks of Paris, and she stared in hypnotic wonder at the panoramic view of a city full of art and architecture. She had the crazy idea that if she had the time, she wanted to walk across every one of those 37 bridges.
As they approached the museum, Dina’s jaw nearly dropped. It was a massive palace—the world’s largest museum—a vast complex of buildings forming two main quadrilaterals, enclosing two large courtyards.
She’d read the Louvre was one of the largest palaces in the world. It had been a former residence of the kings of France, but she’d had no idea of its majesty and size.
She entered the large glass and metal pyramid that serves as the main entrance to the Louvre Museum, and stopped by reception at the main information desk. She reached for some brochures, and was instructed what the current exhibits were, and where to go.
As she started off, she overheard an English couple pointing and discussing the fastest route to the Mona Lisa. Dina decided to follow them, twisting her way through the crowds until they came to The Porte des Lions entrance. They moved through the thin security lines and up the stairs, traveling along an extended gallery, past countless celebrated works of art, where Dina lost the British couple. She craned her neck, searching, being jostled and bumped. There were so many people.
She walked back and forth the length of the Grande Gallery, pausing to look at paintings from a distance and up-close, finding them beautiful, moody, startling and utterly captivating. But when she saw a sign that read La Joconde, with a small picture of the Mona Lisa next to it, she followed the crowds into a well-lighted room, where the Mona Lisa was displayed on the far wall.
She gently shouldered her way through the throngs to the far end of the room, and was pushed aside several times before she managed to close in on the painting. Finally, she got her first glimpse of the masterpiece, six feet away, behind a wooden barrier.
Cell phones flashed, movie cameras shot up and focused, and the buzzing, surging crowd pointed and mumbled comments. She struggled to hold her position behind the barrier, but was shoved aside several times.
From behind, Dina heard a man with a French accent say, “It’s protected by bullet-proof glass almost two centimeters thick, and the painting is contained in a special sealed box to protect it from vibrations and humidity.”
The young woman next to him spoke with an English accent. “There’s no glare that I can see. Quite extraordinary.”
Dina narrowed her eyes and focused on the painting, coming to the slow, exhilarating realization that she really was in Paris, and was actually looking at the Mona Lisa. The portrait was smaller than she’d imagined, and yet the power of it was remarkable. She took in the background, the road curving into the distance, the bridge and the mountains. And, of course, there was that smile—a smile of secret pleasure—Dina thought. Yes, she is hiding a secret mystery that only she will ever know, leaving all the millions of viewers to speculate throughout the ages. Dina leaned in closer, studying the eyes. She thought the Mona Lisa’s eyes were a little sad and inward. Had she read that some place? And then there was that delicate dark veil that covered her hair, considered a mourning veil, according to her brochure. The brochure also said that such veils were commonly worn as a mark of virtue. Dina was intrigued by the Mona Lisa’s clothing. It was unremarkable. Again, she read her brochure. It said that neither the yellow sleeves of the gown, nor the pleated gown itself, nor the scarf carefully draped around her shoulders were signs of aristocratic status. But what was really going on behind that woman’s eyes? Dina thought. Dina loved the painting—as so many millions had loved it throughout the centuries.
As the swell of the crowd increased, a rather large woman surged forward, cell phone raised, inadvertently shoving Dina to the right. Off balance, she bumped into a man to her right. Off balance, he stumbled to his right, quickly recovering. Dina turned to apologize.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
She was immediately caught by recognition—a swift but vague feeling that she’d seen this man someplace before. He was tall, with sharp dark eyes that looked startled. Dina thought he was handsome in his dark suit, white shirt and royal blue tie. He stood apart from most of the observers, who were dressed casually. Dina wondered if he was French.
“Pardon me,” he said, in perfect English, with no accent.
Dina was relieved. “It’s so crowded,” Dina said, nudged again by the same aggressive woman. Dina struggled not to get irritated at her.
And then he fixed his eyes on her, and Dina froze. They held each other’s eyes for a moment, as attraction grew between them.
Uncomfortable by the sudden magnetism and from a dizzy feeling of déjà vu, Dina turned, her eyes moving. He looked familiar, but out of time and context she couldn’t place him. She�
��d worked as a waitress long enough to know that often people she’d met reminded her of other people she’d seen, and sometimes all the faces just melted together.
When she’d first glanced at this man, she’d noticed a “seen-it-all-before” world-weary expression. Then it vanished, his face registering mild alarm.
For his part, he stood rigid, praying Dina didn’t recognize him. Had she? He had to think of something to say—and fast—to deflect the moment. “Do you like the painting?” he asked.
Dina stammered. “Yes… Yes. I wish I could get a closer look. Maybe I’ll come back when it’s not so crowded.”
“Yes, I was thinking the same thing,” he said, in a rich tone. Now he stammered. “I… well, I thought that…” and then he stopped, standing in stiff politeness. “I was thinking of leaving and going for a coffee. Would you like to join me? There’s a café close by.”
The quick déjà vu moment Dina had felt dissolved, replaced by awkward conflict and a shock of attraction. What was it Veronique had said the day before? Mark my words, Dina, you will meet a man. You can’t avoid it. It is, after all, Paris.
And then she was jostled again, and the words seemed to jump out of her. “Yes… Yes, okay. It’s so crowded. I should have thought about that and come earlier.”
The man gave a little bow and offered his hand. “My name is Paul.”
Dina took his large, warm hand. “I’m Dina.”
And then, to his surprise, he smiled, as he took in her pretty face, her red lips, and her blonde hair curling at her shoulders. Dina smiled back, her blue eyes flashing in the strobes of flashing phones and cameras.
They navigated the galleries in silence, arriving at the main entrance, where Paul retrieved his overcoat while Dina waited, still feeling oddly out of place and time. But then she was, wasn’t she? She was in Paris, many hours from Colorado, still a bit jet-lagged, fuzzy-headed and jumpy.
Why in the world did she agree to leave the museum to have coffee with Paul? She’d never do that in the United States. Maybe Veronique was right. Maybe in Paris, there’s something in the air that just overtakes rational thinking. Maybe it was the Mona Lisa. Maybe it was because Paul reminded her of someone, although she had no idea who that was.
One thing was clear, she’d never get picked up by a handsome man in a museum in Pine Village. Was there even a museum in Pine Village? Meeting Paul would be a great story to tell Patti and Veronique.
It was late morning when they left the museum. In the short time Dina had been inside the Louvre, it had clouded over; a quick breeze made her shudder. She buttoned her coat up to the neck and glanced about. Paris appeared different now, all silvery light and muted color, and she could imagine Paris in the spring, as Veronique had described it, with pungent cheeses perfuming the air, flowers cascading from balconies, and a big hot sun bathing the city in a golden glow.
Paul had long legs, but he walked beside her in an easy elegance, in unhurried strides. Dina liked his walk and his reserved manner, so different from most guys she’d dated, who were joking extraverts or sports types. She stole glances at his clean jawline, smooth brow and black stylish hair, short on the sides, longer on top. It wasn’t a pretty face, but it was a masculine one, and she figured he was in his early-to-mid-30s.
“So, do you like Paris?” Paul said.
“Yes, I do. At least what I’ve seen of it. I only arrived yesterday morning. Do you live here?”
“No… but I’ve been here several times, but always on business. I suppose you could say I know it in a business way.”
The walked along Rue Saint-Honoré, and turned right onto Rue Croix des Petits Champs, until they came to Café Blanc.
“They have good coffee here, and very good chocolate chaud—hot chocolate. It’s perfect on cold days like today.”
Inside the quaint café, they removed their coats and found a table for two near the front window. When the friendly waiter arrived, Paul asked for the menu in English and the waiter returned promptly, presenting it.
“Are you hungry?” Paul asked.
“A little,” Dina said. “For some reason, I’ve been hungry ever since I left Colorado.”
Paul gave a quick nod, but avoided her eyes. “Oh, Colorado. I like Colorado,” Paul said, cutting if off there, not wanting to jar her memory.
Minutes later, the thin, careful waiter brought complimentary homemade crisps, olives, and a fresh baguette.
“Do you speak French?” Dina asked.
“Enough to get by. Do you?”
“No… I’d like to learn. Are you from the States?”
Again, Paul didn’t meet her eyes, as he indicated toward the baguette. “Please help yourself.”
Dina tore off a piece and placed it on her side plate. She waited for his response.
“I live in New York,” Paul said, quietly.
Dina noticed his leg began bobbing up and down.
“Oh, you live in New York. How nice. I’m going in a few days, and I’m so excited about it. I’ve never been.”
Paul studied her lovely smile—the smile that had first caught his attention and captivated him. The smile that many of Gallagher’s guests had been warmed by. He continued to avoid her gaze, still afraid she’d recognize him. He studied the menu, but had difficulty focusing on it.
“Are you traveling alone?” Paul asked, knowing the answer, but wondering why Dina was alone and not with her companion.
Dina hesitated. “No… I’m traveling with a friend, but I let her sleep in.”
Now it was Dina’s turn. She didn’t see a wedding ring, but the last thing she wanted was to be out with a married man. “Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, crisply, and then without a pause, he said. “Are you staying at a nice hotel, Dina?” He was anxious to know if she was enjoying herself.
“Yes, a really awesome place. The Hotel d’Aubusson, forgive my bad pronunciation.”
“Then you’re comfortable there? I mean, you like it?”
“Yes, very much.”
He smiled, pleased. And then he felt guilt pool in his gut. He was disappointed in himself for what he’d done, and for what he was doing. He’d never intended to come to Paris when he’d first devised his plan. He’d never intended to talk to Dina. He’d never intended to ask her out. None of these had ever been part of his original plan. He’d simply and impulsively wanted to give her a Christmas present, because she was one of the millions of workers in the world who did a job—a difficult job—and she did it well, without receiving any kind of special or practical recognition.
During this Christmas season, as a kind of redemption, he’d wanted to do one really generous thing, because he hadn’t done anything good and kind for anyone in a very long time. At Gallagher’s Restaurant, he’d simply fallen into the Christmas spirit of giving because of Dina’s professionalism, and because of her smile.
So why was he in Paris? Why had he followed her to The Louvre? He’d only arrived in Paris an hour or so earlier. He’d had his driver stop by her hotel for a quick look. That’s all he’d intended to do. He hadn’t intended to intrude or to ask her out. It hadn’t entered his mind.
But there she had been, exiting the hotel, stooping into a car and then driving off. Again, curiosity had gotten the best of him. He’d wanted to see how she was doing—what she was doing—and where she was off to on her first day in Paris. He’d wanted to witness for himself, just as Clark had suggested, where Dina would go and what she would see. He’d wanted to live vicariously and witness her adventure, her exploration, her enjoyment. That was all there was to it, wasn’t it?
So why had he interfered? Why had he spoken to her in the Louvre? He wouldn’t have if she hadn’t bumped into him, he rationalized. She’d startled him and set him off-balance. Her startled smile had caught him, warmed him. He was truly happy to see her.
The waiter was standing by, waiting for Paul’s order.
“Excuse me,” Paul said, shaking away h
is thoughts. “Have you ordered, Dina?”
She nodded, watching him closely. “Yes. I’m having the goat cheese salad.”
“Yes, well then, I’ll have the salmon tartare and the buffalo mozzarella and tomato.”
After the waiter had gone, Dina said, “I’m looking forward to the hot chocolate.”
“Oh, yes, I’m glad you ordered that.”
“Are you jet-lagged, Paul?” Dina asked, with a hint of a smile.
“Yes… Well, yes, I guess I am a little. I guess I kind of tuned out there for a minute. Sorry.”
“I know the feeling. I still feel like my head is stuffed with cotton. Are you here on business?” Dina asked, taking a bite of the baguette.
“No, I’m not. Not this time. I… well, I came to get away from things for a while. I’ve never been to Paris during the Christmas season. I thought it might be, well, fun.”
Again, Dina found Paul mysteriously attractive. Not only was he very good-looking in an aloof kind of way, but she sensed he was holding something back. She decided to probe.
“Did you come alone, Paul?”
“Alone? Yes, well…” he searched around for the right words. “Yes, I did come alone.”
“Are you meeting friends?” she persisted.
“I might be. Yes. I mean, I hope to. I need to make some calls. I came unexpectedly.”
“And did you arrive this morning?”
“Well,” he hesitated again. “…Yes, I did.”
Dina glanced about, noticing a couple at a nearby table kissing—and they were kissing—holding nothing back, hands exploring, eyes shut, mouths nibbling. She swung her attention back to Paul.
“You must find the Louvre a very special place if it’s one of the first places you visited after you arrived. Are you in the art business?”
Paul scratched his head, again wanting to deflect Dina’s many questions. “No, not the art business, no. But the Louvre is a special place, and the Mona Lisa is one of the world’s greatest works of art.”
The Date Before Christmas: A Novel Page 8
