After we’d talked about it for over an hour Annie asked if there was some mix in the apothecary that would keep Max safe, make her immune to anything that lothario whispered in her ear. If it weren’t for the fact that she was so dead on serious, I’d have laughed out loud. She’s a girl who doesn’t believe in her own magic, but she’s willing to believe in mine. How funny is that?
Unfortunately, the problem with charms and potions is that you never know exactly how something is going to work. When Annie went back to Philadelphia that last time, I gave her the heart-shaped locket. I figured it was a talisman of love that could protect her heart from making a bad decision. I knew the locket held some powerful memories, but I surely didn’t know it would turn on her as it did.
All of my talk did little to comfort Annie, so in the end I told her where to find the tin of anise and I gave her the recipe for Traveler’s Tea. I said, Mixed properly this will enable a person to make wise decisions. She seemed satisfied enough with that thought.
It’s been a very long time since I used that tin of anise, so God only knows if it will even work. The important thing is that Annie believes it will, and she’ll in turn convince Max. Sometimes simply having a belief in something is all a person needs.
The Trip
That afternoon Annie goes into the apothecary and follows Ophelia’s instructions to the letter. Using the small stepladder she climbs high enough to reach above the top of the storage cabinet and stretches her arm until she feels something: a small box pushed so far back it is hidden in the shadows. She pulls it out, and as Ophelia has said it is covered with rose colored silk. A gold tassel is attached to the lid.
Annie blows the years of dust from the box then gingerly carries it down.
When she lifts the lid the box is only half-full. It contains dried leaves; of what plant Ophelia has refused to say. She takes a handful from the box, crushes them in her palm and drops them into the mortar bowl that waits. She then adds the other ingredients: belladonna, verbena, and bog myrtle to sweeten the taste. Using the white porcelain pestle, she grinds the leaves into the consistency of tea.
Six more days. It is now only six days until Max leaves. Annie can only hope the tea she has created will protect Max and prevent her from making a foolish decision. A decision that might lead to heartbreak.
The mix is poured into a small chiffon bag and then put into a box with a silver infuser nested beside it. This will be Annie’s going away gift. She will hand it to Max at the airport.
~ ~ ~
On the second Wednesday of April Annie drives Max to the airport.
“Just drop me at the departures gate,” Max says.
“It’s three hours until your flight,” Annie argues. Her thought is to park the car and stay with Max until it is time for the flight. This is when she plans to give Max the gift.
Max shakes her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll check in then settle back with my book and read for a while.” It’s true she has a book to read, but what she doesn’t say is that her thoughts are jumping around so furiously she finds it almost impossible to focus on anything.
When she pulls up at the departures terminal Annie pops the trunk open, climbs out of the car, takes the single suitcase from the trunk and sets it on the sidewalk. Max gets out on the passenger side and stands beside the bag.
Annie pulls the small box from her purse and hands it to Max. “This is something I made for you to take on your trip.”
Max lifts the lid, sees the infuser and sniffs the pungent mix. “Definitely not dandelion tea,” she says.
“No.” Annie laughs. “It’s much stronger. It’s a tea to protect the traveler.”
“No love potion, huh?”
Annie shakes her head. “No love potion,” she says, but this is somewhat of a lie. According to Ophelia it is a mix that will keep Max safe and prevent her from making bad decisions, which most likely includes letting Julien back into her life.
“Thank you.” Max smiles, but there is both sorrow and happiness in her face. “Wish me success,” she says and tucks the box into her carry-on tote.
Annie knows success has a different meaning for each of them. For her it means Max will come home and forget this man who offers nothing but heartache. Still she replies, “With all my heart I do.” Then she tugs Max into an embrace.
“Take care of yourself,” she whispers. “And most of all come back happy.”
This is something Max can’t possibly guarantee; yet she does. “Swear to God,” she says with a lighthearted laugh then crisscrosses her heart.
“Send a text to let me know you got there safely,” Annie adds.
“Okay,” Max promises. “Now stop worrying.”
Annie doesn’t tell Max, but the truth is she can’t help worrying. She has a bad feeling about this trip. She has a bad feeling about Julien. It will be eleven days before she sees Max again, and in that amount of time almost anything can happen.
As Annie pulls away from the curb she glances into the rearview mirror to take one last look. Max waves goodbye then disappears into the terminal.
~ ~ ~
When the plane lifts off the Richmond airport runway, Max feels her heart flutter inside her chest. She is like a child waiting for the circus to arrive in town. Nine hours, she thinks. Nine short hours, and then what? She has a plan. Perhaps it is not much of a plan, but it is the start of one.
Sitting in seat A next to the window, she watches the airport grow smaller and smaller. The houses become dots and then disappear. Highways several lanes wide shrink to the width of a pencil stroke, and before long she can see only fluffy white clouds. There are almost nine hours to go, and yet Max already feels anxious to be there. She slides her foot from her shoe and rocks it back and forth, remembering the feel of cobblestone walkways.
She reaches into her tote and pulls out the street map of Paris. On the front there is a graphic of the Eiffel Tower, but Max opens the map and folds back the panels one by one. Opened fully it is larger than a spread of The New York Times, so she refolds it once and then once again until it is the size of a notebook. Facing out is the Fifth Arrondissement, a neighborhood she once called home. She runs her finger along Saint Germain Boulevard then trails off onto the tiny street where the name is barely visible. Although Rue du Bonne is little more than a dash on the map, she can already picture the triangular stone building with its iron balconies.
She is lost in thought when the man sitting next to her asks, “Is this your first trip to Paris?”
Max looks up; until now she hasn’t really noticed him.
“No,” she replies. “I spent my junior year of college there, but that was over three years ago.”
“Ah yes.” He smiles. “It is a city that draws you back, is it not?”
“It certainly is,” she answers.
He introduces himself as Claude Barrington then takes a business card from his pocket and hands it to her.
He has a velvety voice and an accent, possibly French but with something else mixed in. British perhaps. In an odd way he reminds Max of her father except he is younger, much younger. Probably in his mid to late thirties. Like most of the other travelers she is dressed in jeans but he is wearing a dark suit, the type a banker would wear.
She turns and allows herself to look into his face; his eyes are the same dark brown as Julien’s but wider, more set apart and open. Suddenly Max wishes she had a business card to hand him, but she does not. New business cards are like the office; they are both projects she has left simmering on the back burner.
“I’m Max Martinelli,” she says and extends her hand.
He takes it in his, squeezes her fingers ever so gently, then releases it. “A pleasure.”
His voice, his eyes, the way his hair is casually brushed back with no part, all of it is so familiar, it is as if she knows him.
“Do you live in Paris?” she asks.
He gives a small laugh. “No,” he replies, “like you I am a visitor. I am there t
o see a friend I attended university with.”
“I’m going to Paris to see an old friend also.” Max does not mention Julien by name, nor does she explain that she is uncertain whether she will even be able to find him.
“What a delightful coincidence,” he says. “We are both travelers from another land and another time.”
All along Max knew she was from another land, but she’d not considered it another time. When the pictures of Julien come to mind they seem as close as yesterday or the day before, certainly not another time.
“It’s only been three years,” she says.
“For me it is five,” he replies. “Not so very long, but long enough for much to change.”
“Like what?”
He laughs. It is a warm mellow sound. “Is there anything that does not change?” he says. This is a rhetorical question, not one he expects answered. “Back then Juan and I were restless young men who spent the nights drinking wine and boasting of how we would one day climb great mountains.”
He smiles, and in his eyes she sees the mistiness of remembering.
“Now,” he says, “I am tied to a desk, and Juan has a wife and three little ones. Hardly what those carefree young men expected.”
“Are you happy?” she asks. The question is out of her mouth before she stops to consider this may be something too personal to share with a stranger. Close as she is to Annie, the answer to that same question is something she has kept to herself.
There is a tiny moment of hesitation; then he nods. “Yes, I believe we both are.” He reaches down for his briefcase and lifts out a book.
Max wants to know more about him, but apparently he is ready to move on to another subject. He speaks of the weather in Paris, the crowds at the airport and the hotel where he will be staying.
“The Hotel Baltimore,” he says. “Not far from the Arc de Triomphe.”
Max knows the hotel. It is on the right bank, an elegant building with flowering iron balconies and plate glass windows surrounding the lobby. The building rounds the corner of Kieber Avenue, a stone’s throw from the Champs Elysées.
“Lovely,” she says.
“And you?” he asks.
“The Vendome,” she replies. “It’s near the Sorbonne. On the left bank.” As an afterthought she adds, “My friend teaches at the Sorbonne.”
“What subject does she teach?”
Max gives a thin laugh. “She’s a he,” she says, “and he teaches…um…English.” Even as she speaks the words she can feel the lie sticking in her throat. Why? She wonders. Why did I have to say that?
“Nice,” he replies politely.
The conversation suddenly goes cold. He opens his book and turns to the page he has marked. He is reading a hard cover copy of Winter of the World. The corners of the cover are scuffed and the spine cracked. It is a book that has been read more than once and passed from hand to hand.
“Good story?” she asks.
“Very,” he nods. “Have you read anything by Ken Follett?”
“Eye of the Needle,” she replies, “but it’s been years.”
They talk for a short while longer, but now it has segued into the meaningless conversation of strangers. After a few minutes he turns his eyes to the book, and Max retrieves hers from her tote.
In time the cart comes by. Claude orders a scotch then turns to Max. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Red wine,” she replies and thanks him. She hopes he will continue their earlier conversation, but once the drinks are served he goes back to his book.
When the clatter of dinner trays finally subsides, Max closes her eyes.
Thoughts of Julien come easily. It is too early for summer, and yet it seems to be summer. He wears a silk tee shirt that clings to his chest like a shadow. She is in a sundress with narrow straps across her bare shoulders. He curls his arm around her and allows his fingertips to rest against the swell of her breast. He brushes a lazy kiss along the side of her neck and laughs.
“Too soon summer will be gone,” he says. “The days of love are always too short.”
He is the same as she remembers: a shock of dark hair falling carelessly across his brow, a look of intensity stretched tight across his face.
“You promised that you would come,” she says.
“Ah, but that was yesterday,” he replies. “Now we speak only of today.”
They cross the park and turn onto Place St. Michel. Nothing has changed. A vendor stands on the corner selling fruit from his garden; a little boy pushes past on a scooter.
“What about tomorrow?” she asks.
“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” he laughs. “Who can say what is tomorrow. Lovers must live for only the moment that is now.”
One question leads to another but there are no answers, only more questions.
“Is it right that I came?” she asks.
He laughs. It is a harsh sound. No longer his voice.
The voice comes again, and she wakes.
The plane has gone from darkness into light. It is now morning. The sound she hears is the crackling of a loud speaker.
“Good morning, madames and messieurs. This is your captain speaking. I am pleased to inform you that we will be landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris in forty-five minutes. The forecast for today is sunny with a temperature of fifty degrees Fahrenheit or 10 degrees Celsius.”
The First Day
Once Max has claimed her suitcase, she wheels it through the terminal and follows the signs toward Passport Verification. She has not seen Claude since they left the plane. He was not at the luggage carousel, so he must have come with only a carry-on. There is a moment of disappointment, but she shrugs it off and takes her place in the long line of arrivals. When it is her turn she moves to the window and hands the agent her passport.
He opens it, looks at the picture, then back at her. “Are you here for vacation, mademoiselle?”
It is not truly a vacation; it is a search. She is looking for her past and quite possibly her future, but this is not something she wants to share so she returns his smile and nods. He wishes her a pleasant stay, returns her passport and waves the next person forward.
When Max steps to the curb and hails a taxi she is reminded of four years earlier, the day she’d first arrived in Paris. At the time she’d known almost no French. She’d hauled her suitcase through the terminal, asking directions and searching out signs that led to the RER train.
Back then there had been time but little money. She received an allowance, enough for food and a room so small she could barely turn around. There were no luxuries. But she hadn’t needed luxuries. Simply walking along Saint Germaine Boulevard and through the winding back streets of the Latin Quarter was itself a luxury. To enjoy life in Paris the only things an aspiring architect needed were a sketchpad, a box of charcoals, a laptop and a map of the city.
It was on one of her many excursions that she met Julien.
The sun was warm that day, and she’d walked for miles looking up at the sloping shingled roofs and terraced buildings with ironwork balconies. She first noticed him as she strolled past the Café du Marché on Rue Cler. He was sitting at a small outdoor table. Alone. As she passed by he gave her a smile, a flirtatious look that caused her to blush. Unsure of herself, she returned his smile with a friendly nod and continued walking. He remained in his seat and did nothing until she had moved two stalls down. Then he came running after her flitting a lace hankie in the air.
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle,” he called out.
She somehow knew he was calling her, so she stopped and turned.
He gave her the smile again, the one that could turn a girl’s knees to butter.
“I believe you dropped this,” he said, offering the hankie.
“You are most kind, monsieur,” she replied, “but I am afraid the handkerchief is not mine.”
“Are you certain?” he asked. The corner of his mouth curled, and his eyes fixed themselves on hers.
When she turned as if to walk away, he fell into step beside her. Moments later he looped his arm through hers.
They spent the remainder of the day together. He walked alongside her, telling of the history behind one building and another. At the corner of Rue du Champ du Mars he pointed to a shop with well-dressed mannequins standing in the window.
“Before the war the most famous book shop in all of Paris was in that very same spot,” he said. “But when the Germans occupied the city they shot the owner, threw the books into the street and burned them.”
She gasped. “How awful! But surely you were too young to—”
“For sure,” he laughed. “But my père and grandpère were not.”
That was the first of many such stories. He had a way of telling about the past as if he were there, part of all that happened, a witness to history. Although it was something Max never could explain, he took the excitement of Paris and added a layer of frosting over it. Everything became deeper, sweeter, something that she, like Julien, would forever hold on to.
~ ~ ~
When Max climbs into the taxi, she gives the driver the Rue d’Arris address of the Hotel Vendome. It is a narrow building with burgundy-colored awnings. She has passed by the building countless times but never before stayed there. A single night costs 140 euros. When she’d first come to Paris her room had cost only slightly more for the entire month. That was then; this is now. Then she had time but little money. Now she has a bit more money but only a heartbeat worth of time. Ten days; not even a full two weeks.
As the taxi leaves the airport and eases into the bumper-to-bumper traffic, Max wonders if this meager amount of time is enough to find Julien. Paris has somehow grown bigger, busier. More people crowd the airport, and more cars slow the traffic. There is the constant wonk-wonk of police cars and a rushed feeling that leaps from one car to the next.
What the Heart Remembers Page 4
