I wish I could tell you I’m completely over Julien, but the sad truth is that even now there is a small part of my heart that still loves him. Maybe not Julien himself, but the memory of him. You can’t love someone for all this time and then forget him in a single heartbeat. It takes time.
My plane ticket is non-refundable. I can’t exchange it, so to leave now I’d have to buy another ticket. That would cost almost a thousand dollars. I’m not ready to spend that kind of money, and besides going home because of what happened is the same as admitting defeat. No way am I doing that.
I’ve decided to stay in Paris until next Sunday. I promised Annie that no matter what happened I would return home better off than I was, and I intend to do it. Before Julien and I became us, there was a me. Right now it’s that me I need to find.
I’m going to try to rediscover the things that once made me happy; a “before Julien” kind of happy. I know it won’t be the same. Nothing ever is. But hopefully I can replace some painful memories with better ones. At least it’s something to strive for.
Yes, it’s sad to be here alone, but that’s how life is. A heart can’t learn to heal until it knows it’s been broken.
Moving On
It is almost four o’clock when Max arrives back at the hotel that Monday afternoon. She calls the American embassy. The telephone rings sixteen times before it is answered. Finally a recording clicks on and the voice says, “If your passport has been lost, stolen or mutilated and your travel plans are not imminent, the U.S. Embassy can accept your application for a new passport by appointment only. To schedule an appointment, press one.”
She continues to listen as the voice rattles on. “If this is an emergency involving the death, arrest, illness or abduction in progress of an American citizen, press two. For all other inquiries, please visit the embassy’s website at France-dot-U-S-embassy-dot-gov.”
With a sigh of disappointment Max hangs up the phone. Since her situation is none of those listed, she is certain that help from the embassy will not come in time to salvage what she has left of this vacation.
Again she counts the coins in the side pocket. Seventeen euros. Enough for a couple of sandwiches and a coffee or two. Not enough to live on for another six days. The hotel is covered because the clerk zapped her credit card the day she arrived, but still there is food, train fare back to the airport and…
Max is not sure what else she will need, nor does she know where to turn for help. She sits on the side of the bed trying to recall the names of classmates, but it was over three years ago and many of her friends were foreigners just as she was.
Greta Mulberg comes to mind, a girl with a long switch of blonde hair worn clipped to the top of her head. But Greta was from Holland. Jeff Franklin, another friend from somewhere in the Midwest. Then she remembers Louis Pointier, a language student who was at one time fond of her. He came from a small town outside of Paris. Max racks her brain trying to remember the name of the town. Finally it comes to her: Gouvieux.
She thinks back on the evenings spent with these friends, usually in an inexpensive café with a shared bottle of wine and sandwiches of meat and cheese. It was Louis who often paid the check. Like her most students were scraping by on a meager allowance, but not Louis. He always had money in his pocket and petrol for his motorbike.
Twice Max had gone to dinner with him; both times he had taken her to a fancy restaurant with candles and menus offering countless delicacies. That was before Julien. The last time he asked her out, she told him of Julien and he’d not asked again. Even so, he would remember her. She was a friend.
She will call him, and they will chat about old times; then when she explains her situation he will gladly lend her the money she needs. Perhaps he will ask if they can once more have dinner together. This is a pleasant thought.
She calls information and asks for the number. There is no listing for Louis Pointier. She inquires about a listing with another first name. It’s possible Louis moved to a different town, in which case she’ll ask the family for his telephone number. There are a few moments of silence; then the operator says there is no listing for any Pointier in the town of Gouvieux. Max switches the spelling of Pointier, leaving out the first “i”. When that produces nothing she then tries reversing the “e” and “i”, but still there is no listing. When there is nothing left to try, she thanks the operator and hangs up.
It is then she notices the business card laying on the nightstand.
Claude Barrington, President, Barrington Enterprises, Richmond, Virginia.
A fellow traveler, but little more than a passing acquaintance. Still, they’d had a lovely conversation, and he’d definitely shown an interest in her until she mentioned Julien. Claude Barrington is here in Paris. Visiting a friend or staying with a friend? She remembers the charm of his smile and tries to recall the words of their conversation.
Suddenly it comes to her.
“Hotel Baltimore!” she shouts and reaches for the telephone.
“Bonjour, Hotel Baltimore,” a voice says, “how may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to—” Max stops and hangs up.
It is a ridiculous thought, to telephone someone and ask to borrow money after such a casual meeting. The probability is he would simply hang up or say a flat out no. It would be far better to go there in person, ask to speak with him, chat for a while and then tell him of her predicament. She thinks on how he’d so courteously bought her a drink even after her mention of Julien. He was obviously a gentleman, and in a face-to-face meeting it is unlikely he’ll refuse to help.
Max checks her reflection in the mirror. Her mascara is streaked down the left side of her face, her lips dry and crackled. She peels off her clothes and steps into the shower.
Forty-five minutes later she leaves the hotel wearing pointy-toed high heels, her good black trousers and lip gloss the same shade of pink as her sweater.
Clever Girl
On Monday morning Julien pretends to be asleep until he feels Brigitte turn on her back and stretch her arms. He waits, knowing that in less than a minute she will lift herself from the bed and head for the bathroom. When he hears the click of the shower door, he climbs from bed and pulls out the suitcase. He expects the pink phone to be right on top, but it is not. There is only the usual mix of black phones, brown wallets and loose credit cards.
“What the hell…” he grumbles. Pushing the top layer aside, he rummages through the remainder of their collection. Max’s phone is not there. When the shower stops he hurriedly snaps the suitcase shut and slides it back under the bed.
Last night Brigitte’s jealousy bristled like the quills of a porcupine, and he knew what was in her mind. Now the phone is gone, and he has no one to blame but himself. There must have been a moment when he turned away, a split second when he blinked and she snatched it from beneath his nose.
He knows she is lightning fast and will pocket whatever she wants. He should have been more careful. He should have taken the phone from the suitcase and hidden it elsewhere. Now it is too late.
Brigitte pads into the bedroom, her hair trailing drips of water down her back. Her mouth is pulled into a pout, and the anger of last night is still in her eyes.
“Finally awake?” she says. “You certainly slept long enough.” The words are harmless, but there is an icy edge to them.
Julien pretends not to notice. She is a fox, he thinks, but new at the game. He has much more experience.
“So, what would you like to do today?” he asks lazily. Before she has time to answer he adds that he is thinking they should gather the merchandise they have and take it to the buyer.
“We could use the money,” he says.
“Oh, really?” She turns with a suspicious glare. “Strange, because two days ago your pockets were full.”
“Money goes.” He gives a casual shrug. “A bit here, a bit there…”
Brigitte knows him as well as she knows herself, and his words are a touch too
nonchalant. When they take the phones to the buyer Julien is usually edgy and in a foul mood. He doesn’t like dealing with the old man who is arrogant and a ruthless negotiator; in the end, though, the buyer pays cash and asks no questions.
“Why him, and why now?” she asks.
“I told you, we need the money.”
She knows he has looked for the girl’s phone and not found it.
“You’ve been at the suitcase, haven’t you?” she says sarcastically. “And now you think I’ll tell you where her phone is.”
He looks at her with a raised eyebrow and puzzled expression. “Where whose phone is?”
“You know who,” she snaps. “The girl from yesterday!”
“Oh,” Julien laughs. “I’d forgotten about that.” His laugh is lighthearted and almost believable.
He waits for her reaction. When the hard set of her jaw begins to soften he says, “I don’t care about her phone. Do as you want with it. Keep it or take it to the buyer, but remove the pink case. It’s too identifiable, and I don’t want it traced back to us.”
For a moment Brigitte wonders if perhaps this time he is telling the truth. Maybe she is wrong; maybe the woman means nothing to him. She wants to believe this but cannot forget the look in his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ve already removed the case. I threw it in the trash bin last night.”
He says nothing but in the silence she can sense his thoughts; he is not nearly as clever as he thinks.
“Afterward I put her phone back in the suitcase,” she says.
Julien looks at her but still says nothing. She is a good liar, so it is impossible to know whether this is true. He tries to remember if she carried trash to the bin last night but cannot.
He gives her a tight little smile and moves back to his earlier question. “So, what would you like to do today?”
“You said you wanted to take the phones to the buyer.”
“Well, if you’d rather not…”
“No, if it is as you say and we need the money, then—”
“Let me check,” he replies.
He goes to the closet, moves the carton of books aside and lifts the loose floorboard. Beneath the floorboard there is a small metal box. This is where the money is kept. He opens the box and makes a show of counting the money.
“One thousand one hundred and sixty euros.” He smiles. “More than I thought.”
“Good,” Brigitte answers. She waits to hear what he will say now.
He gives her a flirtatious smile; it is a smile that almost assures he will get his way.
“For now we have enough,” he says, “so the buyer can wait. Today we will treat ourselves to an afternoon at the Tulleries and dinner at the café.”
A look of sorrow slides across Brigitte’s face. “Fine.”
Her answer is flat and weighted with resentment, but Julien doesn’t notice. His thoughts are on the phones in the suitcase. Max’s phone is in with all the others. He has only to wait until Brigitte is out, and then he will go through them one by one. There is sure to be something that will let him know which one is hers. A picture perhaps or a message.
Brigitte
Julien is like a pane of glass. I see inside his thoughts even when he thinks he has hidden them. He speaks as though he cares nothing for this woman, but he is a poor liar. The truth is all over him, obvious as the nose on his face.
He believes her phone is with the others, and when my back is turned he will search the suitcase looking to find it. This morning when I asked if he still wanted to take the phones to the buyer, I prayed he would answer yes but he didn’t. I fear she is a disease in his blood, just as he is a disease in mine.
You might wonder why I would let myself love a man such as this, but the truth is I have no choice. He owns me. He took my soul with gentle promises and a passion as hot as the fires of hell.
It is not always angry words and trickery. There are times when it is good between us, times when he covers me with kisses and makes love as if I am the only woman in the world. When he does this, I soak it up like a sugary poison. I know it will one day destroy me, but still I hunger for the sweetness of it.
His other dalliances have been short-lived. A night here, a night there, but always he comes back to me. I am afraid this woman is different. If he goes to her he may never return, and I will be back on the street where I was when he found me.
I am not going to let that happen.
The First Message
Annie has read and reread Max’s message a dozen or more times, yet she cannot dismiss the troubling premonition that has settled in her head. Throughout the night she tossed and turned, unable to sleep, unable to rid herself of the thought that her friend is in trouble. Were this a year ago she might have felt differently, but with all that has happened she knows such a premonition can easily as not be a warning.
For most of the night she visualized the catastrophes that could have taken place. Then when the earliest streaks of pink filtered into the sky she finally decided the most likely problem is Julien. Max has not yet found Julien. That has to be it. She hasn’t found Julien, so she simply isn’t ready to talk.
Once this decision is settled in her mind, Annie gives a sigh of relief then closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.
~ ~ ~
When Oliver wakes at seven o’clock Monday morning, she is sleeping soundly. During the night he sensed her restlessness, so he quietly scoots from the bed without disturbing her. At eight-thirty when he is ready to leave for the courthouse, he jots a quick note and places it on the nightstand beside the bed.
The long night has taken its toll on Annie, and she sleeps until almost ten. When she finally wakes it is because of the harsh cry of the blackbird sitting on the window ledge. It is a sound that pierces her ears like a shrill whistle. She climbs from the bed, goes to the window and raps on the pane.
“Shoo,” she says. “Shoo, get out of here.”
The bird flaps its wings and stays put.
Annie turns back toward the bed, but before she can climb into it the bird resumes its raucous cawing.
Suddenly Annie snaps fully awake. She remembers her thoughts of last night and jumps to the conclusion that the black bird is a sign. Without bothering to pull on a bathrobe, she darts down the stairs and grabs her cell phone.
A swell of anxiety has already settled in her chest, and it grows larger as she waits for the phone to load. “Come on, come on…” she says impatiently.
Once the phone is loaded she clicks on messages. There is nothing new.
“I thought by now…”
Annie lays the phone on the kitchen table and lights a fire beneath the teakettle. She brews a cup of dandelion tea and then taps in a note to Max.
I’m concerned I haven’t heard from you. Is everything OK? Don’t be disappointed if you don’t find Julien. Sometimes these things happen for the best. Trust your heart and you’ll find a truer love. Be sure to message me when you get this. I’m worried. Love, Annie
She rereads the message then clicks send. It is 10:17AM in Burnsville.
Moments later the message arrives on Max’s phone. A muffled beep comes from beneath the mattress, but there is no one around to hear it. At 4:17 Julien is walking through the gardens of Tulleries with Brigitte.
~ ~ ~
Ten minutes after she has sent the message, the telephone in Annie’s hallway rings. She hurriedly lifts the receiver and says, “Max?”
Ophelia laughs. “Sorry, it’s only me.”
There is a momentary sigh of disappointment; then Annie laughs. “Only you? There’s nobody more special than you.”
Before they go any further Ophelia asks, “Have you been drinking that dandelion tea from the top shelf?”
“Why, yes I have,” Annie answers. “Just this morning. I was feeling—”
“I knew it!” Ophelia cuts in. “I just made myself a cup of that tea, and before I’d had two sips a thought came into my head saying
call Annie right now.”
“Get out!”
“I swear. It was clear as day.”
Annie laughs. “Well, I have been a bit worried about Max.”
“I know,” Ophelia says. “That’s why I thought tonight would be a good night for me to come to dinner; that is, if you’ll have me.”
“Of course we’ll have you. We’d be delighted. Oliver can pick you up on the way home from the courthouse.”
“Good.” Ophelia hesitates then adds, “I’ll bring my toothbrush and nightie, because I might be staying over.”
“That would be lovely,” Annie says. “Now that the weather’s turned nice and warm, we can sit out on the porch and—”
“We’ll see,” Ophelia says.
She knows a storm is coming. She knows by the feeling that has settled into her bones. It will be a storm worse than the one that blew through the day Edward died. She doesn’t mention this to Annie because hopefully she is wrong, but if not she needs to be there at Memory House. That is where it all began and where it will one day end.
As she sits at the table sipping the last of her tea, Ophelia folds her hands in her lap and prays.
“Please, Lord,” she says. “Let it not be tonight.”
~ ~ ~
The three of them, Annie, Oliver and Ophelia, are seated at the kitchen table when the first crack of thunder comes. There is no warning, just a flash of light zigzagging across the sky. Then a boom rattles the walls of the house.
“Good grief,” Annie exclaims. “Where did that come from?”
Within minutes it sounds like a war is being waged overhead. The single clap of thunder is followed by another and then yet another. One minute the sky is ablaze with lightning; the next it is black as the bottom of a mine. Before the thunder stops, the wind starts. It comes with such force the teacups on the cupboard shelf rattle, and a small vinegar pitcher bounces off the counter and crashes onto the floor.
What the Heart Remembers Page 10
