Le Remède

by Densie Webb

  I take out three neatly folded ten-dollar bills and hand them to him. He looks at the crisp bills and then at me.

  “Keep the change.” He gives a thank-you salute with the bills and stuffs them in his pocket.

  I step out of the cab, the potted orchid in one hand, my “peace offering” in the other, and stand in front of her building, marveling at how hope hovers over me. I’ve had more women than I could possibly remember, but I haven’t had a relationship since Danielle. Things were so different then. I was like Andie—believing that my time on this earth was finite, yet I didn’t fully appreciate that a time limit had been imposed on the gifts I was given—only when I was left bereft did I appreciate the blessed life I had led for twenty-seven years. Now, I’m being given another gift, a second chance.

  This time, I will not let time slip through my fingers unacknowledged, unappreciated. This time I won’t take anything for granted.

  Chapter 10

  Andie

  The flowers haven’t arrived yet and I’m getting antsy. I need to go shopping. I didn’t realize how inappropriate my wardrobe was until Mack stood in front of my closet, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. She grabbed a notepad and pen from my desk and created a list of “ ‘essentials” for me to buy—black pencil skirt, tan pencil skirt, red pencil skirt, suede flats, boots, strappy sandals for spring.

  I’m not even sure I can pull off a pencil skirt with my curves, or strappy sandals, but she’s right about needing basics. I’m about to call the florist to confirm delivery time—and pray Vincent doesn’t answer when the door buzzer goes off.

  “Yes?”

  “Delivery, Ms. Rogé.”

  “Oh, great! Just a sec.” I grab my purse and head to the elevator. Once in the lobby, I look around.

  Joseph shrugs and says, “He insisted on waiting outside.” He nods to the front door. I glance out the glass entryway and spot the partial outline of the delivery guy standing on the edge of the stoop, holding the plant.

  “Do you need any help with that, Ms. Rogé?”

  “I’ve got it. Thanks.”

  I step outside and begin digging for a tip. “Glad you finally made it,” I say into my purse. He turns to face me, shifts the potted plant onto his hip.

  I gasp and step back, despite an inexorable pull that makes me desperate to throw myself in his arms. Or run screaming to get as far away from him as I can. I feel tears well up and I haven’t a clue why.

  He sets the potted indigo orchid down on the step.

  “Andie, I’m sorry,” he says, as he offers me a single black orchid clutched in his hand. It’s beautiful. It doesn’t look real. Like him.

  I tentatively reach for the flower, careful not to brush against his fingers. An older couple that strolls over to Riverside Park almost every afternoon passes us on their way to the Park. She slips her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm and they nod hello, smiling in acknowledgment of what appears to be a sweet scene. “Sweet” is not the adjective I would use to describe what I’m feeling right now.

  Questions are breeding, growing, multiplying exponentially in my head. Why are you here? Why do I feel this way? What the hell is happening? But all I can manage to ask is, “Sorry for what?”

  “I owe you an explanation for what happened in the Bloody Mug.” His sincerity is unexpected, his regret clear.

  “You could’ve just called. I gave my number at the shop.”

  “I thought it would be better if I spoke to you in person.”

  He glances at the orchid in my hand and then back at me. “And I wanted to see you again.”

  I open my mouth to say something but I have no words, at least none that make sense. He’s—breathtaking is the only word that comes to mind, as he’s taking mine away. I’m suddenly acutely aware of my lack of makeup, my unbrushed hair, my dirty red high tops and my regrettable “I’m with stupid” T-shirt, a souvenir from that ridiculous weekend in Atlantic City with Mack last year. She bought it for me after she lost two hundred dollars to the slot machines. I found it hilarious at the time. Right now it’s just unfortunate.

  I begin to shiver.

  He comes closer, stepping into my personal space, my intimate zone, removes his leather jacket and slips it over my shoulders. My thoughts are being tarred and feathered before they can form a united front.

  He leans in closer still. “Andie,” he whispers, “I know.”

  I reflexively jerk my head back “You know what?” I’m talking too loudly. I glance around; we’re alone.

  “I know what you felt.”

  The blood rushes to my cheeks. I turn to go back inside, but Joseph is no longer at his post and shit, I’ve left my keys inside again. Still holding the orchid in my hand, my purse tucked tightly under my arm, I desperately begin pressing buzzers for someone, anyone to let me in. No one answers.

  “Andie, may we go somewhere and talk, so I can explain?”

  My hands drop to my sides and I turn back to face him, biting my lip to stop the trembling.

  “I’m thinking—no.” Yet, as the word slips off my tongue, I want to withdraw it. I can’t deny the extraordinary affinity I feel for him. But maybe it’s just his perfect features, his accent (is it French?) and what I assume is a Michelangelo-chiseled chest beneath his crisp white shirt. What woman, or man for that matter, wouldn’t feel the same?

  My heart is running rampant in my chest and I’m struggling to ignore the heavy-lidded lust I feel building, crushing any hope of thinking logically. I’m stunned by the sheer force of my feelings.

  “One drink,” he pleads.

  I swallow hard and take a shaky breath. “Okay, just one.” I hold up my index finger to reinforce the ground rules, but quickly retract it, so my ragged cuticles are not on display.

  He looks so relieved that I feel bad for having initially refused. I start to leave with him. “Wait, my orchids.”

  “Your doorman is back,” he says, as he nods toward the door.

  I pick up the potted plant, still clutching the black orchid, and Joseph buzzes me in. I set them on the counter and say, “I won’t be gone long.” I hesitate before turning around. Vincent’s profile is stunning, his hand on the back of his neck, staring into space, like he’s posing for a goddamn Dior Homme ad.

  This whole scenario feels off. I could ghost him. Leave him standing there, press the elevator button, go upstairs and never answer his calls, refuse to accept his explanation for whatever the hell it is that’s making me feel so out of control.

  All of this occurs to me as I hurry back to him. I open the door and he steps back, motioning for me to go first. I’m concentrating intently on putting one foot in front of the other—and keeping my distance.

  “Lizzie Borden’s? It’s the closest,” he says, as he glances at me and brushes his thick hair away from his face. A collection of cocoons just released a swarm of winged creatures in my stomach.

  “Sure. I like their martinis.”

  “And I like their Chivas,” he says, smiling at me as if this is “our” little joke.

  As we walk the short distance to the bar, he tells me about the florist shop and how he and Nicholas prefer to do everything themselves—except deliveries. “Today,” he says, “was an exception.” He smiles at me again and leaves it at that.

  He goes on to tell me that he and Nicholas have been together a long time and they live in a building in Harlem that they bought several years ago. I reluctantly remember my suggestion to Mack that Nicholas might be gay and my whole perception of what’s happening here is turned on its head. “So you and Nicholas are—a couple?”

  He frowns and then throws his head back and laughs. He has beautiful teeth.

  “Nicholas and myself? Noooo. I’ll be sure and tell him you said that, though. He’ll be amused.”

  I stare at him, waiting for a further explanation.

  “We live on different floors.”

  Gorgeous, rich, refined. Stylishly dressed. Not exactly my type. David
and I were a matched pair, at least in the beginning. But me and Vincent? I just can’t see it.

  When we reach Lizzie’s, he holds the door open, and waits for me to go first.

  “Bar or table?” he asks.

  “A table sounds good,” I figure that block of wood will act as an uncrossable moat between us.

  He walks ahead of me to claim a table in the back. What is he—six-two, six-three? Anyway, he’s really tall. Tall is good. He pulls my chair out and waits for me to sit before he takes his place on the other side of the table. My dad used to do that for my mom, but I don’t ever remember David, or any guy for that matter, pulling my chair out for me. It’s sweetly old fashioned. The waitress is there before I have a chance to settle in.

  “What can I get for you?”

  She’s new and trying really, really hard not to make goo-goo eyes at him.

  “The lady will have a dirty martini, extra olives, and I’ll have Chivas on the rocks.”

  “How did you know I like extra olives?”

  “Nicholas told me.”

  So he and Nicholas have talked about me?

  Vincent leans forward. “So, Andie, do you mind if I ask your last name? Nicholas had just written ‘Andie’ on the delivery card.”

  Despite my strong feelings, I’m reminded that we are, in fact, strangers.

  “Rogé. My first name is actually Antoinette. My dad shortened it because it was too much of a mouthful for a kid.”

  One eyebrow shoots up as he says, “Antoinette Rogé. That’s very French.”

  “I had ancestors from the south of France. My mother was into genealogy, especially her French background. I’ve been trying to pick up the research where she left off.”

  “So, your father was French as well?”

  “Rogé is my mother’s maiden name. My dad—he was actually my stepfather—but he raised me. I never knew my biological father. Walked away when I was still in diapers. Not a very nice guy from what my mom told me. Anyway, when my dad adopted me, my mother wanted me to keep the French surname. He was cool with it, so instead of Antoinette Kilpatrick, I stayed Antoinette Rogé. Has a much better ring to it, don’t you think?”

  I know what I think; I think I’m talking way too much.

  “So, we have something in common. I was born in Saint Rémy de Provence in the south of France,” he says, and the lovely lilt of his voice falls into place. “It’s where Vincent van Gogh painted ‘Starry Night.’ ”

  “I know.” I look across the table at him. If I were an artist, I would capture his perfect features on canvas and hang his portrait above my bed so that his face would be the last thing I would see each night before closing my eyes and he would visit me in my dreams. A flash of déjà vu dances across my brain—the cold blue eyes, the kiss.

  My attempt to recreate the dreamscape is cut short at the waitress brings the drinks and sets them on the table. As soon as she walks away, I blurt out, “You said you wanted to talk—that you could explain…”

  “Andie,” he says, “what I should have said is that any explanation I provide would be difficult to believe. But then everything between us is difficult to believe. Don’t you agree?”

  There’s an “us”? This definitely smacks of strange. I take a sip of my martini before setting the glass down on the table. I gather my purse under my arm and reluctantly stand. “Thank you for the lovely black orchid and the drink, but I should really go.”

  He’s out of his chair and reaching for my arm but stops himself. I’m startled, maybe even slightly alarmed. He backs off and shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “Andie don’t go. I’ll share with you what I know. Just don’t leave. Please.”

  The logical part of my brain is telling me to run, not walk, out the door and not look back. But my lizard brain won’t leave me alone. I know if I leave, I’ll be left with a prickly itch I can never scratch. This internal push/pull is exhausting. I hesitate, slowly sit back down, and press my purse tightly against my chest.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’m listening.”

  He stares at me and in a near whisper, says, “Do you believe in destiny? In soul mates?”

  Is he for real? Even if I believed in that crap, my soul mate wouldn’t look like him. The universe just doesn’t work that way.

  His eyes are still locked on me, searching. Do I believe in soul mates? That there is only one perfect person meant to be the love of your life? That no one else will do? I believe in the things I can predict.

  I predict that tonight I will open the door to my apartment, wash my face, brush my teeth and crawl under my favorite jersey cotton sheets. I predict that the sun will rise tomorrow morning and I’ll head straight to the kitchen to make myself a steaming hot mug of Brazilian coffee to kick off the day. And I can predict that Mack will somehow make me laugh.

  I find tremendous comfort in those irrefutable facts of my life. But destiny? Was David my destiny? Was it destiny that my parents were stolen from me? Is it destiny that I’m here, sitting across the table from Vincent, a man I don’t even know, asking me about being soul mates?

  “You can’t mean you and me,” I say as I slowly shake my head. He says nothing. “Are you telling me that I complete you?” I say, forcing a laugh at the preposterous pairing, but his face is a perfect picture of sincerity.

  “Andie, I knew it the first time I saw you. I don’t completely understand our connection myself, but it’s real. And it means something.” He’s talking fast, leaning in toward me. “It means everything.” The faster he talks, the thicker his accent becomes. “I know you feel it too.” How could he know that? Either the universe has plans for us or he’s a demented stalker, but I can’t conjure up my fight or flight instinct.

  I ease my palms down onto the table, suddenly aware of the cold tile, the rough grout, the uneven surface. I have a sudden, undeniable urge to cross that moat and storm the castle. I brace myself as he reaches across the table. Eyes wide, I stare at his hand as if it’s a tightly wound cobra about to strike.

  But I don’t move.

  Chapter 11

  Vincent

  What am I doing? I’ve managed the last one hundred and fifty years without love, I can make do for the next one hundred and fifty. And Andie? She’ll meet someone, get married, have children, grandchildren, maybe even great grandchildren and having lived a full life, she’ll return to dust. That is her destiny. I hesitate before pulling my hand back from the table and crossing my arms.

  The waitress appears. “Can I get you anything else?” Andie looks at her as if a ghost has materialized before her eyes.

  “Just the bill, please.” She pulls the paper from a pocket in her apron and lays it on the table. I put cash on top of it and stand. “Shall we?” I ask, injecting a false note of casualness, a counterweight to Andie’s confusion. She stares at me for a few questioning seconds, before slowing rising.

  “Vincent, I…” She stops midsentence. Her cheeks are crimson and I feel the hummingbird thrum of her heart. Her eyes are locked on mine as something unspoken passes between us, a subtle rearranging of atoms, an unseen burst of energy, a sudden shift of the air in the room. I feel her losses, her wish for a better life, for love. I feel her goodness. Goodness that I don’t deserve.

  Like the soundtrack of a film, a symphony of voices rises and falls around us, oblivious to the drama taking place at this small table shoved against the wall in the corner.

  “We should go,” I say. She hesitates but turns and heads to the door. As we stop outside the bar, she stops, leans in and raises up to meet me. Such desire in her eyes. God, I want to kiss her, to drink from her soft lips. But one kiss or one hundred—it would never be enough. I am a beast, a freak of nature. She is pure and I carry this—this infectious disease. I’ve never been tested like this and the stakes have never been higher. I step back and resume walking in silence, maintaining my distance. I feel her need as strongly as my own.

  The sun is setting as we reach her apartment bui
lding and she lingers. “Sooo,” she says, anticipation in her eyes. She stands there, silent, but then she tucks a tendril of hair behind her ears and looks up at me. Her almond-shaped eyes plead with me. Like exquisite crystal balls they reveal everything—hope, disappointment, frustration, sadness, desire—death. Everything a future with me offers. A delicious scent radiates from her in waves and my desire is no longer contained.

  I don’t even try to talk myself down, but rush to her, gather her in my arms and sweep her off the ground. I’m kissing her. Finally tasting her. She lets out a guttural moan and I push her up against the brick wall. She grabs fistfuls of my hair, responding equally to my passion, pulling me closer. Unlike the cultivated flowers I handle every day, she’s wild and sweet, like honeysuckle on the vine.

  I’ve wanted so long to feel this and now I’m drunk with it. I pull my lips away from hers and begin tracing the soft flesh of her neck with my tongue. I feel the blood pulsating in her artery. My hunger intensifies. I hear her voice, echoing soft and distant, “Vincent,” she says in a throaty whisper, “let’s go upstairs.”

  I think “yes,” but say “No,” quickly lower her to the ground and step back. I’m teetering on the edge of an abyss, a junkie in desperate need of another fix. And what I need is right in front of me.

  She straightens up, brushes her wild hair from her face and says under her breath, “What’s wrong?”

  As the sky transitions to the dark of night, my name crosses her lips along with a teardrop of blood, a ruby glistening under the streetlight. She licks it off. Her invitation is a siren call, sad and sweet, seducing me, draining my willpower. But unlike the mythical creatures that lured sailors to their death, the end of her song would be her own death.

  I would make her forget if I could, but our connection makes that impossible. Another look into her eyes and I whisper, “Andie,” I pause, “please forgive me.” Without another word, without an explanation, I stagger away, berating myself for leaving her standing there, alone and more confused than ever, but commending myself that she’s still breathing, still alive.