Chapter 19
Brigitte
On Monday, Brigitte spent the day doing errands, and a little shopping. She wanted to buy a present for her mother, and something for Amy and her kids. She walked along the Seine again after that, and she went to see an exhibit she had wanted to see since she arrived but hadn’t had time for. She figured that she had another day or two of museums and monuments she wanted to see, and then she no longer had an excuse, she had to leave. She had to get on with her life. And her real life was in Boston, not here. But she loved being in Paris anyway.
When Marc dropped her back at her hotel on Sunday, he had said he would call her soon. He knew she was leaving that week. He mentioned that he had a meeting with his editor the next day, and he called her late Monday afternoon and invited her to dinner. He suggested a place she’d never heard of before, in the seventeenth arrondissement, and he said they had excellent food.
He picked her up at eight o’clock and they had a terrific evening together, as always, and at the end of the meal, as they drank café filtre and shared ice cream and “macarons,” he looked at her sheepishly and said he had a confession to make. She couldn’t imagine what it was, and was stunned when he told her. He had called his friend at the admissions office of AUP and asked him if they would meet with her to see about a job. He admitted readily that it was a presumptuous thing to do, but he insisted that there was no harm in it. If they had nothing, it didn’t matter, and if they did, she could always turn it down if she didn’t want it. She said she didn’t, and was shocked and annoyed by what he’d done, although she knew he meant well. But she didn’t like his presumption.
“If you’re so hot for me to come here,” she snapped at him, “why don’t you move to Boston?” But the big difference between them was that he had a job, and she didn’t, which made her considerably more mobile. She had very little to anchor her in Boston, and he had much more here. He was still teaching at the Sorbonne and had obligations that Brigitte didn’t.
“Are you very angry at me?” He looked apologetic, and was aware that it was a pretty gutsy thing to do, but he liked her so much, she seemed at loose ends, and he would have loved it if she moved to Paris, even for a year. If nothing else, they would be good friends. Of that he was sure, and so was she. But she wasn’t about to move to Paris for a friend, or a job at AUP. She was going back to Boston to find a job there in the academic community she was familiar with.
“I’m not angry,” she explained. “Maybe just surprised … flattered … it’s nice to know someone cares that much to try so hard to get me to stay. I’m just not used to people lining up interviews for me, or making my decisions.” Ted never had, and she preferred it that way. She was an independent person, even if she was currently out of a job, and she was perfectly capable of finding one herself. He had offended her a little by setting up the interview for her, but she knew his intentions were good, and she forgave him because of that.
“The decision is yours, Brigitte,” he said firmly. “I just wanted to give you the opportunity if you want it.” She didn’t, but now she didn’t want to be rude.
“What did you tell them at AUP?” She was curious now, even though she wasn’t going to interview for a job.
“That you’re brilliant and charming and a terrific person and I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, and you worked for ten years at Boston University and are looking for a change.”
“Well, that sounds about right,” she conceded, “especially the brilliant, charming, terrific part.” And she was ready for a change. She just didn’t know to what, and the admissions office at another school would be all too similar to what she used to do. It hadn’t been a very exciting job, and she realized now that she had been bored a lot of the time. She had done a lot of very tedious work, which was the downside of never having wanted too much responsibility. So she did a lot of menial things. That was the trade-off.
“It’s a very small school, and may be more fun for you than a big school. You’d probably have a lot more contact with the students, and more influence. I think it’s less than a thousand students.” BU had been thirty-two thousand, both graduate and undergraduate, it was huge, and he had a point.
“I suppose I could talk to them, to not put you in an awkward position, and then go home and interview. And if nothing great turns up there, I could always think of the job here as a fallback position.” It seemed funny to use a job in Paris as backup. She knew that to others it would have been top of the list, but she wanted to go home. She told herself she had a life in Boston. But did she, with no boyfriend and no job? She didn’t here either though, and Marc was her only friend. It was something, but not enough, and he was very new in her life, even though he had been very kind. She had a real life, and real friends, somewhere else. But she wasn’t entirely opposed to talking to AUP, since he had set it up. Marc was pleased. He gave her all the details that night before he dropped her off at her hotel, and he said he’d call the next day to see how it went.
And much to Brigitte’s surprise, it went extremely well. The man she met with in the admissions office was personable, easy to talk to, and loved the school. He was the best PR agent they could have had, and by the time she finished listening to him, she was ready to enlist. Almost. She liked everything he said about the department, but they had no job at the moment, and she still wanted to find a job in Boston. Other than that, it was great. And she reported all of it to Marc when he called her. He’d already had an enthusiastic call from his friend, who thought Brigitte would be terrific for them, and had told Marc, as he did Brigitte, that if anything opened up, he’d let her know. It had been something of an exercise in futility, but it was good practice. She hadn’t been on an interview in a while, and it warmed her up for job hunting in Boston.
“Well, I tried,” Marc said, sounding forlorn for a moment. “I guess it would have been too perfect if they offered you a job.”
“I didn’t expect that,” she said kindly. “It was nice of you to set it up. A little pushy maybe,” she teased him, “but nice.” She had decided to accept it in the spirit it had been given, with a warm heart.
“So when are you leaving?” he asked, sounding worried.
“Day after tomorrow,” she said matter-of-factly. She had done almost everything she wanted to do, and she was ready to go. It was time to get on with her life. The interview at AUP had been interesting, but it didn’t change her course. They hadn’t made her an offer, and her sails were set for home.
“I have to have dinner with my publisher tonight. I’m late with the book, and I have to be nice to him, or I’d cancel. And tomorrow I teach a class. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” It was her last night in Paris.
“I’d love to.” He had been nothing but nice and generous with her, and she couldn’t think of a more pleasant way to spend her last night in Paris, with a new friend. And hopefully at some point he’d visit Boston, or she’d come to Paris again for a vacation. It was nice knowing people around the world. And Marc was a special person. He really was a lovely man.
He told her he’d pick her up at eight the next day, and she spent the day racing around, tying up loose ends. By the time he came to pick her up, her bags were packed, everything was ready for her to leave the next morning, and she could spend the evening with him and relax. She was wearing a red dress she had bought that afternoon, and he admired it as soon as she came downstairs.
“You look terrific!”
“I saw it in a shop window today, and I couldn’t resist. I figured I should bring something home from Paris.” She had bought a beautiful scarf for her mother, toys for Amy’s kids, and a pretty sweater for Amy. The red dress had been a final splurge.
He took her to another cozy restaurant, and as usual conversation during dinner was lively. They each expressed a thousand opinions, traded experiences, and laughed a lot. And for the first time neither of them mentioned Tristan and Wachiwi, tonight was only about them. Brigitte had a p
erfect time, and Marc looked genuinely sad when they left the restaurant and took a walk near Notre Dame, which was all lit up.
“How can you leave a city like this?” he asked her, spreading his hands and looking very French again. He had one of those wonderful expressive faces, with a thousand expressions. He always looked very French, and she liked his looks. Ted had been very Anglo-Saxon. He was handsome but not sexy. There was something sensual about Marc’s lips, although she always pretended not to notice.
“I’ll have to admit, it’s not an easy city to leave.” She looked sad too and she had enjoyed her time with him. But she couldn’t stay here forever, particularly once she finished what she had come here to do. She didn’t want her Indian ancestor to become an obsession. She was going to turn her notes over to her mother to do with as she wished. It was her mother’s project after all, not her own, even if she had fallen in love with Wachiwi.
They walked for quite a while and looked down at the Seine, and then he drove her out of the way, to the Trocadero on the way home. It was the perfect image of Paris, as the Eiffel Tower stood before her in all its splendor, and as though on cue, as he parked his car, the tower began to sparkle, shooting lights in all directions. It was the perfect final night in Paris, and unable to resist the beauty of it, they both got out of the car. She stood looking up at the tower, like a child, mesmerized by the dazzling lights, and the exquisite view of Paris stretching before them, all the way to Sacré Coeur, and as she stood looking at the scene in silence, Mark put his arms around her and kissed her. She was too shocked to pull away or move, and realized she didn’t want to. Instead she put her arms around him and kissed him back. It was a moment not to waste, and a night she knew she would never forget. And whatever he was to her, or wasn’t, she liked him a lot, and would have been open to more than that if she was staying in Paris. But she wasn’t. So all this could ever be was one glorious romantic night kissing someone she truly liked in front of the Eiffel Tower. It didn’t get better than that, except maybe if you were madly in love. But she didn’t need that now, or want it, it would have complicated everything between them. This was simple and clean and fun. She smiled at him when they pulled apart, and he kissed her again, as a young boy came up and tried to sell them a model of the Eiffel Tower. Marc took his wallet out and bought her one. He handed it to her, and said it was in memory of one of the best nights of his life, and she thanked him and agreed.
They said very little to each other on the drive back to her hotel. There was nothing left to say. They both knew she wasn’t going to sleep with him before she left, and he didn’t ask. She was going home, and they might never see each other again, or not for a long time, if ever. The times they had shared had been perfect. They enjoyed each other’s company, respected each other, liked each other immensely, had a good time, and he had helped her a lot with her research. She knew she would cherish the memory of him and this night forever. And when she said goodnight to him, she was holding the little glass souvenir in her hand.
“Thank you for everything,” she said warmly. “I had a wonderful time. Again.” She had enjoyed Brittany with him. And the Bibliothèque Nationale, all the restaurants he’d taken her to, their serious discussions, their laughter, the things he had taught her about the history of France, their walks along the Seine. They had done a lot in a short time.
“I hope you come back soon,” Marc said with a wistful look, and then he grinned. “If not, maybe I’ll come to Boston sometime to visit you. It’s not so far,” he said, as though trying to convince himself. But it was. Their lives were worlds apart. “I hope you find a job,” he said, and she smiled at him.
“So do I. I’ll have to start beating the bushes seriously when I go home. I’m sure something will turn up soon.”
“I’m sure it will,” he reassured her, and then without saying anything more, he kissed her again. They kissed for a long time, and for a crazy instant she wished that she wasn’t leaving Paris and was staying here with him.
“Take care of yourself, Marc,” she said sadly, as she left him. “Thank you for everything.”
“A bientôt,” he said softly, brushing her lips with his own, and then she walked back into the hotel, and he went back to his car.
When she got upstairs, she set the little Eiffel Tower down on the desk and looked at it, and wondered why she hadn’t gone to bed with him. What was there to lose? Her heart, she reminded herself, which didn’t sound like a good idea to her. It was better like this. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, brushed it away, went to brush her teeth, put on her ancient flannel nightgown, and went to bed. But when she fell asleep that night, for her last night in Paris, she dreamed of him.
Chapter 20
Marc called her on her BlackBerry when she was on the way to the airport. He said that he just wanted to say goodbye to her again. He was trying to sound cheerful about it, but she could tell that he was sad, and so was she. It really was rotten luck in a way, she thought to herself, she had met a man she really liked, and he lived three thousand miles away. It happened that way sometimes, but it would have been nice if they lived in the same city. Instead she had had a great time with him, and she was taking home a souvenir of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe that was good enough. She thanked him again for everything, and dinner the night before, and he thanked her for the time she had spent with him. He was no longer trying to convince her to stay. He had understood.
She said goodbye to him, and checked her bags in when she got to the airport. She was flying to New York, to see her mother first, and give her the notes on everything she’d learned in France. Brigitte wanted to hand them over to her, so Marguerite could get on with her genealogy, and Brigitte would keep a copy for herself. It was nice to have, in memory of an extraordinary time and their remarkable Indian relative.
She went through security. The flight was on time, and once they were in the air, she laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Marc had said he would e-mail her from time to time, and she had promised to do the same. And now, she had to concentrate on finding a job. She had had a great time in Paris, but she had to get on with her life. She was looking forward to seeing her mother and telling her about the trip.
Brigitte watched two movies, had a meal, and slept for two hours on the flight. She woke up just as the captain announced that they were landing in New York. It had gone very fast. And once she was in the airport, picking up her bags, she felt as though she had been shot out of a cannon. All the gentility of Paris had vanished. People jostled her, all the porters were somewhere else as she struggled with her bag. There was an endless line of people waiting for a taxi, it was raining, people were shouting at each other, and she wanted to run back into the terminal and catch the first plane back to Paris. Welcome to New York.
She finally managed to get a cab, gave him her mother’s address, and called to tell her she was on her way. They were going out to dinner together, and when Brigitte got to the apartment, she ceremoniously handed over the folder full of meticulous notes about their ancestors, before she did anything else. Her mother hugged her gratefully, and thought Brigitte looked very well. She seemed relaxed and happier and more at ease in her own skin than she had in a long time. Her mother looked at her through narrowed eyes and told her she appeared more “confident.” Brigitte was amused at her choice of words, and then realized she was right. That was how she felt. All her anxiety about what would happen to her next seemed to have vanished. She was still childless, unmarried, and unemployed, but she felt good about herself. The time in Paris had done her good, and so had Marc.
They chatted for about an hour in the apartment, about Wachiwi, the court diaries, the marquis, his brother, the château, and the Bibliothèque Nationale. And her mother was impressed. Brigitte had learned so much in such a short time. It was the most efficient, thorough job of research Marguerite had ever seen, and she was astounded that Brigitte had navigated the National Archives by herself.
“Well, I
have to admit, I had some help,” Brigitte confessed. “I met a writer at the library, and he gave me a hand. He’s a historian, and a professor, and he knew the place like the back of his hand, and he showed me around. I probably couldn’t have done it without him.”
“That’s interesting.” Her mother was curious, but didn’t want to press her, but Brigitte volunteered the rest. Or most of it anyway. Not the kiss on the last night. Some things were better left unsaid.
“He came to Brittany with me, and told me all about the Chouans, the aristocrats who resisted the revolutionaries and fought to keep their châteaux. It’s very interesting stuff.” Apparently. And so was the fact that Brigitte had gone to Brittany with him. Marguerite wondered if anything else had happened there, but didn’t ask. Her daughter was looking very well, and had a new light in her eyes. Her mother wondered if it was love, or even passion. Whatever it was, it was very becoming. Brigitte was looking terrific, and she was full of excitement as they talked about everything she’d found. She told her mother it was all in the folder she had given her.
“I can’t wait to read it.”
“Marc thinks I should write a book about it,” she volunteered as they left for dinner. They were going to a neighborhood restaurant on Madison Avenue that her mother liked.
“Marc?” Her mother looked quizzical as the doorman hailed a cab for them. This was getting more interesting by the minute.
“He’s the writer I mentioned. He thought I could fictionalize it, or do it as a historical. The story is so good, I don’t think fiction would add anything to it.” Her mother wanted to hear more about the man she kept mentioning, and finally at the end of dinner, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. His name had come up several times.
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