We pass a bookstore, an art gallery, and a bakery before coming to a stop in front of a white stone apartment building with an ordinary dark green porte-cochère. Inside, the courtyard is also ordinary. No secret garden. No wisteria tunnel. Manu doesn’t speak, and neither do I, as we cross directly to a second building and enter through a glass door.
I’m intrigued and apprehensive as we step into a telephone-booth-sized elevator, where we stand toe to toe, our chests and thighs almost touching. Before I came to France I never would have believed such tiny elevators existed. But they’re the norm in the buildings that do have elevators, and no one thinks it’s odd to stand so close together.
Although for me, with my announcement straining to burst free, it’s more than odd. It’s excruciating. The small space is fragrant with the woodsy aroma of Manu’s aftershave. He looks good, too, wearing the navy blue cashmere sweater Margaret gave him for his thirtieth birthday in July and a crisp white button-down shirt I’ve never seen before.
Maybe he’s turning over a new sartorial leaf, trying to improve his look for Sophie. The thought gives me a stomachache and makes me wish I were wearing something other than my ratty black trench coat. But we never dress up to do the lunchtime deliveries.
As we glide past floor two, I run out of patience. “Manu? What the hell? Where are we going?”
“Almost there.”
We exit on the fourth floor, and Manu unlocks one of the doors on the landing. If I were with anyone else, I’d be feeling nervous about now. Maybe this is how Sophie managed to get herself taken off to Morocco and held captive for two and a half years. She was too trusting, too gullible, as I was with William.
I’ll never repeat that mistake.
“Entre,” Manu says and gestures me into a small entry hall flooded with sunshine and carpeted with a red kilim rug.
“Nice place,” I say, just to be saying something.
“Let me give you a tour.”
I want to demand that he get to the point about Sophie—because bad news doesn’t get any less bad by putting it off—but Manu’s face is adorably eager as he shows me into a high-ceilinged room furnished with a black leather sofa, swivel armchair, glass coffee table, and brushed chrome floor lamp. An elaborately carved marble fireplace dominates one wall. Two tall French windows look down into the small courtyard. I cross the room to get a closer look at the enormous bouquet of flowers on the mantelpiece. Stargazer lilies. That’s the spicy scent that’s filling the apartment and blotting out Manu’s cologne.
“The bedroom is over there,” he says. “And you will find also a separate kitchen.”
I turn to look at him. “It’s great. Who does it belong to? What are we doing here?”
“Aimée. First I need to talk to you about Sophie.”
Here it comes. His big news. I go sit on the sofa, where I clench my fists and tell myself everything is going to be OK. Whatever happens, I’ll still have Catherine. Just the two of us, forever. Maybe this is the right thing.
Manu positions a footstool in front of me and sits down. His posture is uncharacteristically rigid. “Later today I must drive her to a clinic. Sophie, I mean. Where she will stay until she recovers.”
“Recovers?” This isn’t what I expected him to say.
He gazes down at the gray wool carpet. “She did not want me to tell anyone. But I want you to know.”
“Know what?” I sort through possibilities at warp speed. Sophie developed an infection from the knife wound. Sophie has had a Margaret-style nervous breakdown. Sophie caught some sort of parasite in Morocco.
Manu looks up at me. We’re so close I can almost see each of his eyelashes individually. “When she returned to Paris, she was not—not herself. It frightened Margaret. Very much. That was part of the reason for what happened the other day. With Margaret.”
“Manu, I don’t totally get what you’re trying to say.”
“I am trying to explain that Sophie…” He pauses and sighs. “That Sophie, while she was with this man in le Maroc, she was—how do you say?—droguée.”
“Drugged?”
He nods. “Yes. Yes. Exactement. The man kept her all the time a little bit intoxicated. So she would be tranquil. When she left him, the absence of the drugs caused her to be ill.”
“Ah. You mean she’s going through withdrawal.”
This explains a lot. About Margaret’s crazy reaction to Sophie. And about Sophie herself. No one could be as big a jerk as she’s been. At least I hope not.
Manu continues. “Last night we had to call the doctor to come to the apartment. Sophie was not in a good condition. The doctor recommended she enter a place where she can allow the drugs to depart from her system.”
“Rehab,” I say, again automatically providing the English word. I’ll miss this.
He nods, then slides off the footstool to kneel at my feet. Our faces are even closer than they were in the elevator, and I have an overwhelming desire to kiss him.
Because that’s in no way appropriate, I jump up from the sofa and walk to the window. The sky is an unblemished blue. Fingers of cool air slip through the cracks in the casement and caress my tired eyes, which still sting from all that crying yesterday. “So you’re not with Sophie?” I ask.
“With her?”
“Yes, with her. You know what I mean. Like lovers.”
“Mais non!” He laughs. A nervous laugh. “I am not ‘with’ her.”
I keep my back to him. I want to scream. All this time I’ve believed Manu had a thing going on with Sophie. She was always calling on him, and he was always dropping everything to be with her. If I’d known the reason behind it, I might not have put so much energy into being jealous. Not that I realized then that what I was feeling was jealousy. I was just angry and annoyed and pissed off without knowing why.
“Aimée?” He’s standing right behind me now.
I turn to face him, and he’s closer than I wish he was. Because it makes it hard for me to think.
“I wanted to show you the rest of the apartment.”
What? Not this again. He backs away and heads toward the hall, but I don’t follow. “Manu! What is this place?”
“Alors.” He pauses, then turns to face me and spreads his arms out wide like a game show host. “It is the apartment of a friend of me.”
“Of mine,” I say without thinking.
Normally Manu says “merci” when I correct his grammar. But today he turns strawberry red and hurries out of the room. When I catch up, he’s standing next to the armoire in the bedroom and staring at a framed poster on the wall. A second large vase of fresh flowers stands on a chest of drawers.
“Manu?” I stay in the doorway. Being too close to the bed somehow makes me feel shy.
“Aimée.” The three horizontal lines in his forehead seem deeper than usual. “You like this apartment?”
“Um, sure. It’s super.” I’m tired of talking about this stupid apartment—it’s hijacked our whole conversation—but it seems important to Manu.
“Yesterday.” He pauses. “Yesterday you said you cannot remain in France because you have no place to stay.”
“Yeah. That’s one of the reasons.”
“Voilà. You have a place to stay.”
“What? Here?”
He grins. “Oui. It is available for six months. At least. My friend who owns it, he has an assignment in Sweden and has agreed to let us borrow it.”
Again, I want to scream. Can he not see I am five months pregnant? And a foreigner? And, for the most part, unemployed? An apartment in Paris for six months, incredibly cool as it is, doesn’t begin to solve my problems.
His grin widens. “Aimée. I can see your mind operating. You also mentioned your situation in France. Your papers. I have talked with Margaret. She wants to help.”
“To help?” I’ve been trying to get myself used to the idea of losing Margaret forever. The thought that she’s worrying about me, even in the middle of all the issues with Sop
hie, causes me to place my hand on the doorjamb for support. “That’s so sweet. It really is.” I take a deep breath of stargazer lily scent. Manu, too, has been thinking of me. The fresh flowers must have been his doing. He was trying to make the place nice. Welcoming.
Now is my turn. “Manu. I have something to tell you.”
His grin fades.
“Not something bad,” I add. “I just want to say—what I mean is—” This is a lot harder than I thought it’d be. “You’re very important to me. What I’m trying to say is… I’m really glad you’re not with Sophie.”
“Yes?” His face is brightening again. “I am glad too.”
“Not that it matters. I mean, it does matter. To you. And to me. What I mean is I’m glad because—”
I hang on to the doorjamb as if my life depends on it. When I met Manu last April, I thought he was too short, his eyes too pale. Since then, I’ve come to appreciate how we’re about the same height. And I’ve noticed how the color of his eyes changes with the light and his mood. Most of the time they’re sky blue, but sometimes they look almost aqua. Right now, they’re a deep periwinkle.
“Because?” He’s watching me carefully.
“Because, well, I like you. A lot. Maybe more than a lot. I didn’t realize until… not long ago. I just wanted you to know.”
“You like me?” He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. “A lot?”
“Uh-huh. I mean, yes. I do.” I push off from the doorjamb and feel myself entering the room.
“Aimée?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
We often describe significant moments in our lives by saying, “Time stands still.” Of course, time never really stands still. It flies or it drags, but it never fails to chug along, ceaselessly, mindlessly, like an infernal machine. I think what we mean is that in these times our minds pause their constant thinking. And, right now, right here, as I wordlessly and effortlessly float into this hushed, flower-scented space, that’s what happens: My brain takes a break. It stops hopping around like a maniacal monkey.
A big reason for this is because Manu has taken a step toward me and is grabbing my hands. And because he’s now kissing me. And I’m kissing him.
“Why,” I say much, much later, when we’ve returned to the living room and are sitting side by side on the sofa. “Why didn’t you ever say anything to me? About how you felt?”
He squeezes my hand. “I was obligated,” he says. “To wait. Until I knew for sure if you wanted to return to—him.”
He doesn’t want to say William’s name out loud. Which is good, because I don’t want to hear it said out loud. It would ruin the mood.
Still. There’s one more extremely important thing that needs to be said out loud. “Manu. You know. It’s not just me. There’s Catherine too.”
He turns to me and smiles. His hair is a mess, but his arm around me is firm and steady. “Yes. Absolument. Catherine. You, and me, and Catherine.”
“The three of us?”
“Yes.”
It feels too crazily perfect. Yet I’m here. Manu is here. Catherine is here. We’re all here. In Paris.
epilogue
“Merde. I wanted to shop for the flowers myself.”
“Yes, Aimée. I know. But it is easier if I go alone.”
He’s right, of course. Since Catherine was born, on December 12th, my outings have become as complex as lunar landings and almost as rare. Babies require ridiculous amounts of equipment, preparation, and timing.
“If I have a question I will call you.” He kisses me and turns to leave the kitchen.
“Wait!” I pull him back in for a second kiss. Then a third. “Do you remember the color scheme?”
“Yellow and white.”
“Don’t forget we don’t need tulips. We have plenty of those in the garden. Oh, and could you pick up a lemon?”
He grins. “Oui, ma puce.”
Generally, Manu only calls Catherine “ma puce.” I guess because she’s tiny like a flea? Puce means flea and is one of those French endearments, like addressing someone as your “little cabbage,” that I’ll always think is weird no matter how long I live in Paris. Which I assume will be forever. But when I’m stressed, like now, Manu uses the same methods to soothe me that he uses on the baby.
It’s cute and also annoying. I snap a dishtowel in his direction. “Vas-y!” I say. Scram.
He scrams.
Sophie, who promised to help with Catherine, isn’t coming for another hour. Margaret won’t be here till noon, early for a French Sunday lunch, but she wants to do the table settings. The lamb needs to be basted, and I have yet to start the white sauce for the scalloped potatoes. But I steal a quiet moment to sit at the breakfast table, cradling my cup of tea and admiring the kitchen. I never did move into the apartment Manu showed me last September. I completed my pregnancy here, under the watchful eyes of Madame and Monsieur, then after Catherine was born, Manu moved in with us. We are the caretakers of the “castle” now. Well, Manu is.
Just about exactly twelve months ago I made a rash decision. I got on a plane to Paris. And it worked out. Everything good that’s happened to me since then is a result of that one action.
My tea break lasts for approximately three minutes, when Catherine wakes up, right on schedule. I zip out of the kitchen and up the three flights of stairs. When Madame and Monsieur installed a house-wide intercom system, they probably thought they were doing so for their own convenience. Little did they know they were outfitting the place with a world-class baby monitor. I can leave Catherine in her crib upstairs knowing I’ll hear her slightest coo or hiccup no matter what room I’m in.
“I’m coming,” I call as I hurry through the sitting room into the bedroom. “Hey there, little girl.”
She gurgles as I scoop her up. I crazy-love Catherine. After she was born I worried about going through a postpartum thing, remembering my mother’s chronic depression and how it hung like an acrid cloud over our tiny family. I recalled Margaret’s ups and downs, and my own depths of despair after Kat died. But my fears never came true. We brought the baby home from the hospital and proceeded to live our lives.
Which is not to say that having a newborn isn’t a huge deal. It is. Just as when she was in the womb, Catherine is super physical, super active. I can’t remember when I’ve ever been so tired. Last week I cried for joy when she started sleeping for six hours at a stretch, unusual for a four-month-old, the doctor says. But I’ll take it. Because what they say about babies is true. Every single second—well, almost—is amazing.
I change her diaper but don’t bathe or dress her. Sophie would kill me. The reason she’s coming early is to get Catherine ready for her first French Sunday lunch.
The landline rings as I’m returning to the kitchen. I don’t rush. The helix-shaped staircase is slippery as well as twisty-turny, and I’m carrying Catherine. Anyway, I know who it is.
“Mademoiselle?”
Monsieur still addresses me as Mademoiselle, even though I’m a mother and soon-to-be-remarried woman—the minute the divorce is finalized. William hasn’t been very communicative of late. The child support arrives like clockwork, but he hasn’t acknowledged the photos of Catherine I email him every few weeks. I’m assuming Samantha had her baby and that he’s busy. Perhaps even happy. I hope so. I truly do. I believe the biggest favor you can do for people is to let them be who they are. Margaret showed me that.
“Bonjour, Monsieur. Joyeuses Pâques!”
“Ah, yes, Happy Easter, my dear. Have the bells returned from Rome?”
I smile. “Oh, they have. Absolutely.”
So here’s a weird thing: In France, a bunny doesn’t bring your Easter treats. Bells do. No, I’m not kidding. The story goes that on Good Friday all the church bells sprout wings and fly to Rome to be blessed by the Pope. On Easter morning, they fly back to France, dropping chocolate goodies in people’s gardens as they pass (while in Rome they must also, pres
umably, go shopping for chocolates). It makes about as much sense as the Easter bunny, I suppose.
“The bells were very generous,” I add. Yesterday morning an enormous box of chocolate eggs, hens, and rabbits arrived by special delivery. “Thanks to you both.”
“Madame took a great deal of pleasure in making the selections.”
“And she did so fabulously.” Unfortunately, I can’t have many of them. My weight ballooned in my last trimester of pregnancy. The doctors complained. Even now, four months later, I’ve only lost a fraction of it.
Madame and Monsieur also included a hand-knit bonnet for Catherine. They have been lovely godparents. When Catherine was born, they were even more thrilled than Margaret. Which is saying a lot because Margaret’s over the moon about Catherine. She introduces her to people as “my granddaughter,” and now calls both Sophie and me “ma fille.”
Monsieur clears his throat. “I have a favor to request, Mademoiselle. Will you ask Manu to contact a plumber in Beaune? We are told we have some minor flooding in the cellar.”
In addition to this “castle,” Madame and Monsieur own a condo on the Riviera, where they are now, and a three-hundred-year-old manor house in Beaune, in the famous wine region of Burgundy.
“Sure, I’ll tell him. It’s not serious, I hope.”
“No, no, it will be fine. Thank you. And thank Manu for us. We know we can rely on him.”
Since getting burned by Hervé, Madame and Monsieur have been a lot more hands-on in the management of their property. Monsieur calls and talks to one of us almost every day. I don’t mind. I mean, we not only live here rent-free, we get paid to do it. Speaking of which, money matters are, so far, decent. I was able to take care of the medical bills for Catherine’s birth on my own with my savings. I didn’t even have to touch Kat’s bequest. Health care is hugely cheaper in France than in the U.S., so that helped.
“You know you can call on us anytime,” I say. I look down into Catherine’s alert face and think, for the zillionth time, how much I love being part of an “us.”
Paris Ever After Page 25
