All the Flowers in Paris

by Sarah Jio

  “ ‘My Funny Valentine’?” I say, taking another sip of my drink while pondering jazz and the absurdity of life. I can identify a Chet Baker song, and yet I can’t tell you a thing about myself.

  “The sun, the house, the pool, the peace—to me, this is heaven,” he says. “When the restaurant takes off in a few years, and I recoup my investment, my dream is to buy a house like this and spend the summers out here, and maybe long weekends in the fall, Christmas.”

  “I love it,” I say.

  He stands up suddenly. “Come on, let’s jump in!”

  “You first,” I say.

  I watch as he dives into the pool, surfacing a moment later and shaking his hair to the side. He tosses it in a certain way, a familiar way. Like…someone else I used to know. The memory surfaces with such intensity, it almost hurts.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “The way you turned your head just now, it reminds me of…” I take another sip of my drink. “It’s nothing.”

  He looks away.

  “Are you worried?” I ask cautiously, walking toward the pool. I sit down at the edge and dip my legs in.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Worried that…there might be someone else in my life, someone who might threaten what we’ve found?” I remember the shirt I’d discovered in my drawer, with its tropical print. Who was he? Do I still love him?

  Victor forces a smile. “Of course, I can’t deny that it makes me nervous. But like I said at the restaurant, the past has already happened. There’s nothing we can do to change that, so let’s focus on the present, the life we’re living right now.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” I say, sliding into the pool. At first the water is shockingly cool, but I acclimate quickly.

  Victor moves toward me and wraps his arms around my waist. “But let me just say this: If another man does turn up trying to claim you, I’m not going down without a fight.”

  I grin, and wrap my legs around him under the water as he kisses me softly.

  The phone rings inside the house, and Victor hesitates at first, then leaps out of the pool to answer it. “I better get it, just in case it’s the caretaker. My friend said he might call.”

  I climb out and return to my chaise longue, where I take the last sip of my drink and reach for my bag, retrieving my sketchbook and pencils. As I begin to sketch the scene in front of me, I hear Victor’s voice, hushed and low, in the kitchen. I can only make out bits and pieces.

  “I told you…”

  “…she’s fine…”

  “No, no…no…wait a bit longer.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll know soon.”

  “Who was on the phone?” I ask when he returns.

  “Oh, just the restaurant,” he says. “You’d think they could leave me alone for one day, but no.” He sighs.

  I nod, returning to my sketchbook, but when the breeze rustles through the palm in the corner of the garden, I don’t hear wind chimes, or catch any glimpses of buried memory. I remain firmly planted in the present.

  * * *

  —

  FOR DINNER, VICTOR makes roast chicken, potatoes, and a simple but elegant mâche salad, all with the ingredients we picked up at a market earlier.

  “The chicken,” I say, after taking a bite, “is so good.”

  “Just sea salt, olive oil, garlic, and a little rosemary,” he says. “People overcomplicate chicken. That’s really all you need.”

  Later, after the dishes are washed and put away, we take our wineglasses outside and sink into one of the outdoor sofas. Victor switches on the gas fireplace. The flames are mesmerizing, but the stars overhead are even more so.

  “I’d wager that there isn’t anywhere in the world where the stars are as grand,” he says, pointing to the sky. “They’re so close, you can almost touch them.”

  “I’ll take Jupiter, then,” I say.

  “Technically a planet, but anything for my lady.” He reaches up, makes a plucking motion with his fingers, then places the imaginary planet in my hand.

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  He grins, looking up at the sky again. “Now, you know what you really need?”

  “What star might that be?”

  “The North Star.”

  I giggle.

  “To help you find your way, your compass.” He clears his throat and rises to his feet. “Now, this one will take a little more wrangling, but…there it is.” He reaches higher. “Almost have it. Almost! There!” He proudly places the North Star in my palm.

  “I think it’s fair to say that no man has ever given me a star.” I grin. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

  He nods dramatically. “Victor Lamont. Making good food and bad jokes since 1969.”

  I grin. “You’re eight years older than me.”

  “Indeed I am.” He weaves his fingers into mine. “Too old, you’re thinking?”

  I squeeze his hand. “Just right, I’m thinking.” I study his face for a long moment. “How can you…like me,” I ask, “if you don’t know me?”

  He searches my eyes. “But you’re mistaken,” he replies. “I do know you.” He points to each of my eyes. “In there, deep down, I can see you.”

  “Can you?”

  “Sure I can. I know that you’re kind and compassionate, joyful and creative. And I also know that my heart is completely captured by you.”

  I feel a wave of emotion wash over me when he presses his lips to mine, kissing me softly at first, then passionately. He lifts me into his strong arms, carrying me to the bedroom. Starlight filters in through the window as he sets me on the bed, first unbuttoning his shirt, then crawling toward me, kissing me again, before pulling my cotton dress over my head and letting it fall to the floor. His hand traces the outline of my legs, my breasts, and I relent to his touch, gasping as he pulls me to him. His breath quickens as he kisses my neck, looking into my eyes as he moves closer. “Trust me,” he whispers, pressing himself between my legs. “I promise not to hurt you.”

  “But what if…”

  He presses his finger to my lips and shakes his head, kissing me again. “No what-ifs.” I can feel his desire—a hot fire, burning wild and free, and with it, I feel free, too. Safe, somehow. I close my eyes and pull his mouth to mine, yielding to him, our bodies entwined.

  * * *

  —

  I OPEN MY eyes when I hear the phone ring the next morning. It’s still dark, and can’t be later than five A.M. Victor is still asleep; a sheet covers the lower half of his naked body. He doesn’t budge, so I decide not to wake him. Instead, I quietly slip out of bed, tiptoeing to the door, narrowly avoiding tripping on my suitcase.

  “Hello?” I whisper into the phone in the living room, but there’s a thick static on the line, and I can barely hear the caller. “Hello?” I say again.

  “Vic?” It’s a woman’s voice. “Vic, is that you? It’s Emma.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I slowly let the handset drift away from my head, then place it back into its cradle.

  Who is Emma? Victor hasn’t mentioned anyone by that name. And why would she be calling him here, and at this hour? I slip back into the bed beside Victor, relieved that the phone hasn’t rung again. He rouses, rolling onto his side and then pulling me to him. Within minutes, we are making love again, and I forget all about the telephone.

  * * *

  —

  “I HATE TO leave,” Victor says later that morning as he packs his suitcase. He woke early and made us breakfast, which I smelled the moment I opened my eyes. I wrapped myself in a robe and walked to the kitchen to find a beautiful frittata on the counter, hot from the oven. A moment later, I spotted Victor hovering over the side of the pool, stick in hand, attempting to rescue what looked like a butterfly
on the verge of drowning. I watched as he carefully dipped the stick into the water for the little creature to climb onto. In a few moments, its yellow wings flapped away in the morning breeze.

  “An excellent rescue operation,” I said, smiling from the patio.

  He stood up, a little startled. “Oh, good morning. I didn’t think you were up.”

  “Just now,” I said.

  He looked back at the pool, then pointed to the kitchen as the butterfly ascended over a cypress tree. “Good, breakfast’s ready.”

  “I wish we could stay another day,” I say now, taking a final glance around the bedroom.

  “Me too,” Victor says. “But I have to get back to the restaurant.”

  “I know,” I say, with a smile.

  We tidy up the house, then load the car and set out for the train station. We’ll be home in Paris by one o’clock, with plenty of time for Victor to return to Jeanty for dinner service.

  On the train, Victor naps while I gaze out the window thinking about how perfect, even healing, it had felt to be in his arms. So why did I get the sense that he seemed off this morning? Am I misreading things? I stare out the window for a while until my eyelids get heavy. Without warning, I hear the wind in the palm trees again, the wind chimes. This time, I’m in an art studio of some sort. There’s an easel and canvases stacked up in the corners of the room. My jeans are splattered in paint of every imaginable hue. On the wall in front of me is the painting that hangs in my Paris apartment: the one of the California backyard scene. It’s hot, and I wipe a sweaty wisp of hair from my brow before lifting a fresh canvas and setting it on the easel. I reach for a brush, swaying to soft piano music coming from somewhere near, or faraway.

  A man’s voice calls my name. “Caroline. Caroline.”

  I open my eyes. Victor is sitting next to me on the train, smiling. “Wake up, sleepy girl. We’re home.”

  I rub my eyes. “Wow, I must have fallen asleep.”

  Victor nods. “You were out for a solid hour.”

  We disembark, and Victor kisses me before hailing a taxi outside the station. “I have to drop off my bags at my apartment and change before going to the restaurant. Will you be able to manage from here?”

  I remember that his apartment is on the other side of town, making a shared cab ride back a logistical problem. “I’ll be fine,” I assure him.

  He hesitates, glancing at his watch. “I should take you home first.”

  I shake my head. “No. I know you’re anxious to get back to the restaurant. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” he says, kissing me once more.

  A dark-haired woman walks by, and I am struck with a familiar feeling that I know her somehow, but before I can get a better look, she’s disappeared around the corner.

  “I’ll be working late, but I’ll call you when I get home, if you’ll be up,” Victor says, as his cab approaches.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling. “I’d like that.”

  He blows me a kiss from the window as the taxi whisks him away.

  * * *

  —

  I FIND THE spare key I left under the doormat and let myself in. “Margot?” I call out into the apartment as I set my bags down, but there’s no reply.

  I unpack, make myself a snack in the kitchen, then sort through the mail in the living room. The flowers on the entryway table have wilted, and a dozen or so petals have fallen to the floor.

  I kneel down to clean them up but stop, suddenly struck by the unexpected beauty in what might otherwise be considered debris in need of a broom and dustpan. I reach for my sketchbook and pencils and begin capturing the scene as I see it, a perfect, beautiful mess.

  * * *

  —

  “WHAT DO YOU think?” I ask Inès later that afternoon at the art studio. She lowers her dark-rimmed glasses, examining my progress on a painting I’ve been working on for the last few days. Inès looks particularly pretty today with her hair piled up into a high bun like a little island perched atop her head. Her blouse has been swapped out for a sweater, her sandals exchanged for boots, with jeans, ever so delicately distressed, cuffed just above the ankle. To me, she is the epitome of a woman who has complete control of her life. I long to feel that way about mine.

  “I think it’s…perfection,” she says, leaning in closer, then stepping back for a more global perspective. “A lotus, definitely,” she says, pointing to the canvas. “Look at the way you captured the petals here, and the use of shadow and light. You should be very proud.”

  I smile, feeling better than I have in a long time, with or without my memory. “Thanks.”

  “Have you given any more thought to participating in the art show? With this lotus, you now have three paintings to exhibit, and time to complete more.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, looking over the painting again.

  “Please,” she says. “I think it would do you some good.”

  “Is it fancy? Will I have to talk?”

  “Everything’s fancy in Paris,” she says, grinning, “and no, you don’t have to talk. Go find a dress, and you’ll have a ball.”

  “Don’t you have to be a real artist to have an art show?”

  “But you are an artist,” she says. “And, I think, a born one at that.” She takes off her glasses. “As women, it is critical that we own our identities, our stories.”

  “Easier said than done for me,” I say.

  “I know,” she continues, aware of my accident and memory loss. “But when you obtain bits and pieces of information about yourself, like this painting, you should celebrate them.”

  I stare at the painting for a long moment, hoping that the canvas will somehow unlock a clue about my life, a past memory, a shard of remembrance dislodged and pushed to the forefront of my cerebral cortex that will all at once make sense of, well, everything. “Aha,” I’ll say, “that’s who I am!” I squint harder, scouring my work for something, anything. And yet, all I see is a…lotus.

  “I don’t know what there is to celebrate here,” I say with a sigh.

  “This,” she replies, pointing to the canvas. “Whether it makes sense or not, it’s a beautiful creation that came from you. Your brain conjured it up. Just think, maybe in your past you were struck by the beauty of a lotus you saw in Bali, or some other exotic place. Or maybe as a child your mother planted them in the garden and you noticed the way they caught the sunlight in the late afternoon. Or maybe,” she pauses and her eyes get big, “you’re the lotus.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  She smiles. “Just think about it.”

  I nod. “Inès, can I tell you something?”

  She pulls up a stool and sits beside me. “Sure.”

  “I’ve been having these…flashbacks,” I say. “At least, that’s the best way I can describe them. They’re moments when I feel like I’m transported to other times in my life. My past, at least I think.” I take a deep breath. “Well, I had another one today, on the train. I was in an art studio. My art studio, as far as I can tell.”

  “I’m not surprised in the slightest,” she says, smiling big. “I knew you were gifted the moment you picked up a paintbrush.”

  I swallow hard. “You said you were stuck once. May I ask…what was your trauma?”

  She takes her glasses off and exhales deeply. “I married my true love, a boy I’d known since primary school. Evan.” She sighs. “We got married straight after college and had two blissful years before he was diagnosed with lung cancer. He died four months after the diagnosis. Never smoked a day in his life.”

  I place my hand on my heart. “I’m so sorry.”

  She nods. “I thought I’d never recover. I was plagued with grief. But a funny thing happened. That grief, that horrible grief, broke me open.”

  “Broke you…open?”
/>
  “Yes,” she says. “I didn’t know how closed off I was before, how little value I placed on the things that truly matter in life. Grief helped me change. Art helped me heal.” She smiles. “It’s why I started this studio, and it’s why I believe that you will find your way, too, just as I did. If you told me that I’d be here today, remarried, a mother, thriving, after losing Evan,” she pauses and shakes her head, “well, there were many years when I wouldn’t have believed you.” She nods. “We all have pain we carry around with us. Some worse than mine, some less. I learned long ago that there’s no point in wallowing in it. All wounds heal, even the deepest ones. So I decided one day that I had two choices: either I could stay stuck and succumb to the grief, which in my case would let cancer claim two lives, or I could move forward and choose life.” She smiles. “You can probably guess my choice.”

  “That’s beautiful,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says, turning back to my painting. “It’s truth.” Her eyes light up. “Hey, I forgot to ask you…was that you who I saw today at the train station with a particularly handsome gentleman?”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yes. I thought I recognized you from across the station, but I didn’t have my glasses on.”

  “Did he give you the flowers yet?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your boyfriend,” she continues. “The one at the station.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I saw him at a flower shop near Jeanty. He was buying an enormous arrangement. At least a few dozen roses.” She places her hand over her mouth. “I hope I didn’t ruin the surprise.”

  I shake my head. “But…I didn’t get any flowers.” I pause. “Maybe they were for a sick friend, or his mother, or—”

  “I highly doubt that,” she interjects. “Nobody gives red roses to his mother.” She nods confidently. “They’re for you, mon amie.”

  I stare at her blankly. “We don’t have plans tonight.”

  She rubs her arm nervously. “Listen, I shouldn’t have said anything. If it was a surprise, I’ve ruined it.”