Paris Ever After: A Novel

by K. S. R. Burns

  But playing detective with Manu is so much fun. Since William arrived in Paris the question of what will happen next in my life—what should happen next—has been hanging over my head like a sharpened sword. But right now, in this moment, Manu and I are on the same side, working together. It’s a lovely, comfortable feeling that I would like to have last as long as possible.

  He looks up at me. “Carte d’identité. Passeport. They are not here.”

  I shrug. French people keep their identity papers on them at all times—I think it’s a law or something—but still I see no reason for him to be scandalized. “Maybe she has them with her. In there.” I jerk my head in the direction of the room that so recently I was thrilled and honored to call mine. Sophie could have been wearing a money belt under that huge caftan. Hell, she could have been wearing half a dozen money belts.

  He shakes his head. “Peut-être.” Perhaps.

  I return to my chair and perch on one arm. “Morocco. Couldn’t she have called home? If she wanted to?”

  After all, as Margaret often marvels, nowadays anyone can call from anywhere. Over the past months I’ve phoned William in Arizona dozens of times and left him a voicemail every single one of those times. He ignored me completely until yesterday. Come to think of it, he’s still ignoring me.

  Manu lifts his eyebrows. “Exactly. It is un mystère.” Earlier he was speaking in a low voice, but now he’s no longer bothering, and I wonder whether he wants Sophie to overhear, come running out, and leap into his arms.

  “Sophie is égoïste,” he adds. “But she would not allow her mother to anguish, to believe that she is—” He sighs and stuffs the Moroccan money back into the wallet.

  If Manu is still in love with Sophie, would he call her egotistical? Maybe. Or maybe it’s all he can do to keep from racing into the next room and covering her grimy face with adoring kisses. I reach for another sugar cube, pop it into my mouth, and let it dissolve on my tongue. Margaret has told me more than once how Manu and her daughter used to be, as she put it, “an item,” and how the daughter was the one to break it off and how Margaret was so sorry. Manu himself has never addressed this topic with me, and I’ve never asked him about it. I’ve been assuming he would tell me on his own, when he was ready.

  Now, though, I’m not sure I want to know. I ignore the pang of what feels like jealousy and blame my raging hormones. I realize I should be supportive of Manu’s happiness. After all, I would go nuts with wonder and joy if, say, Kat were to magically reappear in my life. But if Sophie comes bursting out of the bedroom, I’m heading to the kitchen. I don’t want to have to sit here and watch their reunion. I would much rather wash the dishes from last night. I gaze at the quiche still on the dining table. “We’ll just have to ask her when she wakes up. What time is it?”

  Manu pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at it. “Dix-sept heures.”

  Dix-sept means seventeen, which means it’s five p.m. Even in normal everyday conversation, people in France use a twenty-four-hour clock to keep track of time, like in the military. Yes, it’s awkward. You often have to stop and do a little mental arithmetic when someone tells you the time.

  “Did you have lunch?” I ask. “I can heat up that quiche. And there’s still asparagus from last night.”

  Catherine and I seriously need food. But I’d be offering to whip up a snack even if I weren’t hungry because I don’t want Manu to leave. I don’t want to sit here by myself listening to Margaret and Sophie snore on the opposite sides of their respective doors. And when they do emerge from their slumbers I don’t want to have to deal with them on my own.

  I’m afraid he’s going to say he’s too stressed out to eat, but he nods and follows me to the kitchen. Together we rummage through the refrigerator, locate the leftover asparagus, cheese, and pâté from the night before, and decide the quiche will taste fine at room temperature.

  In less than five minutes we’ve assembled a tasty, healthy meal and arranged it on the small table for two that stands beside the window in the kitchen.

  Now’s my chance to tell him about William.

  “Manu. I have something important to talk to you about.”

  He’s glancing up at me when my phone pings.

  A text. From William. Finally.

  Manu, who knows he’s the only person I ever text with, puts down his fork and gives me his full attention. I wave my phone, grateful to it for providing me the perfect opening for what I want to say. “You’ll never guess who this is.”

  Manu smiles. “Tell me.”

  I’m opening my mouth to answer when Sophie barrels into the room. She’s changed out of the black caftan and into a blue-and-white striped silk dressing gown, another item Margaret gave me to wear as my own and that was probably Sophie’s originally. Her big round eyes are, if possible, even bigger and rounder than before, and she’s dragging a carry-on behind her. My carry-on.

  “Sophie!” Manu leaps to his feet.

  But she barely glances at him because all her focus is on me. “You leave. Now.”

  I stand up, remember that I have Catherine to think of, and sit down again, glad the table is creating a barrier between us.

  “Your things.” She advances on me, fists clenched, chin jutted forward. “They are here. Go. Now.”

  “My things? You went through my stuff?” I ask, even though I just went through her stuff. Or at least helped to.

  Before she can answer, Manu grabs her hand and kisses her on the cheek.

  “Sophie! Te voilà!” Here you are! He starts to kiss her on the other side—the rule is two though many French people do three or even four cheek kisses—but she pushes him away and gives the carry-on such a hard shove that it skitters across the tile floor, smashes into a table leg, and tips over.

  “Sophie!” Manu hastily closes the kitchen door. “Ta mère, elle dort.”

  But Sophie doesn’t appear to care that her mère is sleeping, just as she doesn’t care that she should be greeting Manu with more recognition of the gravity of the situation—Sophie! Back from the dead! It’s a miracle! All her energy is on vanquishing me, the intruder, the interloper.

  I fold my hands in my lap. This isn’t the first time someone’s told me to just “go.” William said it last April, during that final fight. “Don’t bother showing up back here again,” he growled over the phone. Like my first, Kat-facilitated, departure from Phoenix, it was easy to make sure that indeed I was not there. Actually easier, as at the time I was already at Sky Harbor Airport, return ticket to Paris in hand. I’d already guessed how angry William would be, and what he would think and say and do. I was prepared.

  This time, however, I’m being ejected from my living situation with no place to go. No Plan B. What’s more, the stakes are infinitely higher than they were last April, because it’s no longer just me. It’s me and Catherine. Catherine who needs me to do the right thing. I’m about to tell Sophie that she needs to seriously chill when Manu reaches out a forefinger to stroke her cheek. “Sophie!” he whispers. “Calme-toi.”

  Amazingly, this works. She shoots me a final nostril-flaring scowl before transferring her gigantic eyes to him. “Manu!” A Margaret-like smile spreads across her face, she flings her arms wide, and they embrace in a very un-Parisian full-body hug.

  I remain seated at the table, not wanting to watch yet not able to look away either. Many long excruciating moments later, when they finally step apart, Manu wraps his arm around Sophie’s shoulders and escorts her to the sitting room, speaking to her in the rapid-fire French I will never understand no matter how long I stay in Paris.

  Which I’m accepting cannot be much longer.

  eight

  It’s time to get started on that Plan B.

  But first I eat the rest of my quiche, finish the asparagus, and gobble down a half-dozen thick slices of cheese. Catherine and I need nourishment. Then I wash and put away the dishes from last night. No way am I going to leave this mess for Margaret to deal with. O
r Sophie, who if she did lift a finger to do dishes, which she probably wouldn’t, would likely break half of them anyway. I noticed her hands really shake.

  Only when the kitchen is clean do I read the message from William.

  Hey. Got your texts. Thx. But a big problem just came up at work. Am about to start teleconference. Probably will be long. Will get back to you tomorrow morning.

  What the what?

  William flies to Paris. On his first day here, he sends a flurry of texts asking-slash-demanding me to call him. On his second day, he ignores me completely until early evening (now), then texts to say he “will get back” to me.

  I sink down into a chair and cover my face, ready to give up on ever understanding him.

  But then I remember this is William, who lives for his job. A work emergency is not unusual. Neither is scheduling a business teleconference while on a personal trip. Last spring, he got a big promotion from staff engineer to chief engineer—the position he’d been gunning for since starting with the company. I’m sure he’s been working twenty-four-seven ever since. When it comes to his job, William never puts off for tomorrow what he should do today.

  Unlike me. I’m excellent at putting things off. Especially difficult, scary things.

  But this time it’s not me that’s the problem. It’s him. So I wheel my carry-on past Sophie and Manu in the sitting room, where Sophie is saying, “Mais je ne pourrais pas!” and Manu is shaking his head.

  Since I have no idea what it was she “could not do,” nor do I care, I let myself out of the apartment, closing the door softly so as not to wake Margaret.

  Out on the landing I shrug into my old black trench and sit down on the top step. Frankly, I’m surprised Manu let Sophie evict me in such an abrupt and rude way. But Manu isn’t a big multi-tasker. He prefers to focus on one problem at a time, which in this case is Sophie. And who wouldn’t be a little overwhelmed? His old love has returned from the dead. Many questions remain to be answered. Though he’s not showing it, he’s probably just as freaked out as poor Margaret is.

  Also, I have the feeling that people are used to giving Sophie her way and that she is used to getting it.

  Whatever. Sophie isn’t my issue right now. My issue right now is finding a place to sleep for the night. For approximately two and three-fourths seconds I consider going over to the Hôtel du Cheval Blanc and to William. After all, we are still husband and wife. But I don’t want our first meeting in months to start with me crawling back to him, homeless and helpless. When we reunite—if we reunite—I want it, need it, to be as equals.

  Besides, William’s exact words were “get back to you tomorrow morning.”

  I have my phone out and am starting an Internet search for hotels when I think of Hervé. Maybe I could ask him to let me stay at his place. Why not? He kind of owes me one after being such a jerk last night. Plus he’s bragged about his fabulous maison to Margaret and me at least a million times. He even insists that “house” is indeed the correct term when we suggest the word he probably means to use is “apartment.” Or as Margaret would say, “flat.”

  Whatever you call it, I’d bet a hundred euros it has enough room for Catherine and me. What’s more, Hervé truly enjoys being the dispenser of favors and largess. He might even volunteer to come fetch me in his red Fiat, another possession he’s gone on and on about. In return I could offer to cook him a nice dinner. It’s been a super crazy, super confusing, super tiring day. Yes, he’ll want to hear all about the events that led to me needing a place to sleep, but right now I’d give a lot to be picked up in a warm comfortable car and delivered to a place of refuge. Temporary as it may be.

  I’m clicking over to “Favorites” when the door to Margaret’s apartment opens and Manu slips out.

  “Aimée? I am glad I have caught you.”

  “Manu!” I scramble to my feet. “Is everything OK? Did Margaret wake up?”

  “No. No. She still sleeps.” He yawns and rubs his eyes, looking like he could use a catnap himself.

  “And Sophie?” I dutifully ask.

  He shrugs. “Elle est—ça va.”

  As a response, in addition to “everything is fine,” ça va can also mean “things are so-so.” It depends on the tone.

  “She is very tired,” he adds. “So she takes a pill. I think she will sleep until tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  I drop the phone into my tote. Strictly speaking, I don’t need to conceal the fact that I was calling Hervé, but at the same time I know Manu would not approve. “Why do you spend time with this little man?” he asked me once. “He can be fun,” I said. I was too embarrassed to admit that, like Margaret, I’m a little dazzled by the whole baron thing. You don’t run across many titled nobles in Phoenix, Arizona. Now that I’ve met one, I want to enjoy the experience. While I still can.

  Manu picks up my carry-on. “I have come to escort you chez moi.”

  “Your place?”

  “Yes. You and Mademoiselle will require a bed for tonight.” He glances at my stomach.

  “You’re kidding. Really?” I picture Manu’s tiny studio. It’s always clean, but there’s only one place to sleep—a French-style futon known as a clic-clac. There are no armchairs, only bar stools. A cluttered metal desk takes up one corner. An oversized filing cabinet occupies the spot where an armoire might be. It’s snug and strictly a one-human living space. “But what about you? Where would you sleep?”

  He starts down the stairs. “Do not worry. I will stay with a friend.”

  I follow, suddenly feeling happier and more optimistic than I have all day. As curious as I am about Hervé’s “house,” Manu’s offer comes with no exhausting interrogation or other attached strings. “You can always trust him,” Margaret assured me once. “Even though it was he who took you on that dreadful catacombs escapade.”

  I knew this before she told me. Manu is never the person you have to worry about, never the one who will turn out to be something other than what you thought.

  We step out onto the sidewalk. This morning when I was shadowing William all over the fourth arrondissement, the sun was shining from a cloudless blue sky, but now a sharp rain is coming down heavily enough to require an umbrella. We share mine, elbows bumping, shoulders brushing.

  “Aimée, I regret that Sophie asks you to leave, so unkindly. She is not—herself.”

  “No problem. Don’t worry.” I choose my words with care. It’s possible Sophie is normally a sweetheart of a person and that her behavior today was an aberration. Not probable, just possible. “Most people would be upset to come home and find a stranger sleeping in their bed,” I say. “Like Goldilocks.”

  I glance at Manu and wonder if French parents read this same fairytale to their children. But I don’t press the point, because isn’t Goldilocks a greedy annoying brat who in the end gets eaten by bears? If Manu is still in love with Sophie, and she with him, and they reunite in a blaze of rapturous glory, I’ll need to be diplomatic and supportive. Manu’s my friend. His happiness should make me happy.

  We skirt a puddle. “To speak of Sophie,” he says. “She explains to me what happened to her. She tells me she was—I do not know the word in English—kidnappée?”

  We are crossing a street, but I stop right in the middle. “Kidnapped? Seriously? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He shakes his head.

  “No way! She’s telling you that all this time she’s been, like, held hostage somewhere? And this is why she never got in touch with her mother? Or you?” We’re standing only inches apart—it’s a small umbrella—but I have to raise my voice to be heard over the clatter of rain, which has started to come down “in ropes,” as the French say.

  “Oui. Exactement.”

  “And you believe her?” Kidnapped. Held hostage. It feels ridiculous to even use words like these.

  “I do not know what to believe,” he says, his face grave. He’s taken my elbow and is leading me the rest of the way across the street wh
en a gust of wind puffs our umbrella inside out. Raindrops pelt our faces. Wind whips our hair. I shiver, wrap my coat over the roundness and innocence of my belly, and glance up and down the street to check for William, whose hotel isn’t that far from here. My paranoia is becoming a mania. To be honest, I’m not sorry that our first face-to-face encounter in months has been postponed until tomorrow. William has a volatile side. He can surprise you. I wonder if he’d say the same thing about me.

  Manu struggles to close and reopen the umbrella, and when we’re again sheltered from the elements, he loops his arm through mine. “Ça va?” The rain tap-taps over our heads. A passing Renault slows to avoid spraying us with gutter water.

  I smile. Manu can be as gallant, as baronial, as Hervé. I’ve been incredibly lucky all these months to live with Margaret and work with Manu. I was even starting to believe in the possibility of things working out for me to stay in France, as if it was meant to be. Kat was a big believer in the concept of “meant to be.” I never have been. I’ve never thought it was smart to assume that things happen for the best. Because they often don’t. Life owes us nothing, Dad always used to tell me. It’s what we make of it.

  “So I guess she really was in Morocco all this time,” I remark a half block later.

  “Oui. But that is all I know. She does not say more. She needs rest.”

  I suppose she does. Sophie’s fantastical story has made this strange day even stranger. After all, I could have predicted William’s eventual arrival in Paris. We’re married. He would never leave such a huge loose end to dangle free. All summer long, I’ve known that sooner or later I would have to settle with him or for him.

  Sophie’s reappearance, on the other hand, is staggering.

  “So after she told you that she was, um, kidnapped, what did she do?”

  “She began to—pleurer.”

  “Cry.”

  I provide the English word without thinking. Manu and I have an agreement to translate unfamiliar words for each other so that I might improve my French and he his English. It’s working.