Wished

Chapter 15

15

The Marché aux fleurs is an Eden blooming in the shadow of Notre-Dame. The centuries-old flower market is a riot of colors and sweet fragrances on a tiny island in the middle of the River Seine. The Ile de la Cite, the little island, is at the heart of Paris.

Max brought me here directly after landing, claiming he didn’t want to disappoint Madame Blinken. It doesn’t matter that he’d never met Madame Blinken before my wish brought her into his life; he was adamant he’d bring me to the market and find a bouquet of freesias. “We’ll explore,” he’d said. He’d let me lose myself in the city and he’d stay by my side.

We have an appointment late in the afternoon at The Musée des Arts Décoratifs, but until then, I’m free to fall in love with Paris.

As I wander through the narrow, flower-strewn paths, I wonder, what better way to fill the heart of a city than with a garden of flowers?

The air is perfumed with the seductive scent of antique roses, the sweet, sunny scent of blooming azaleas, and the cheery, light perfume of delicate gardenias. Happy calls of, “Bonjour, madame” and, “Oui, oui, oui,” and, “Merci, madame,” echo through the orangerie stalls of the flower sellers. Iron supports hold up great glass ceilings, and the open-air stalls let the cool spring breeze blow the dreamy aroma through the flowering paths.

Sunlight paints the yellows brighter, the pinks softer, and the reds a more vibrant shade, so that every lily, every daisy, and every rose becomes the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen. I’m in a dreamland and Max is here with me.

I grin over at him, eyeing a wooden shelf full of hand-painted ceramic vases and a display of potted succulents. He lifts an eyebrow when he sees my smile.

I squeeze closer to him as a group of women chattering in French push past us. We press against a tall lemon tree, the glossy yellow globes are full and ripe, and the sweet scent teases the air between us.

“Why didn’t I ever come here?” I ask him. “To Paris.”

He grips my arms and tugs me closer as a bearded man pushing a dolly full of oxeye daisies trundles past. Overhead windchimes tinkle, and there’s a shout of irritation as the bearded man knocks a display of lavender sachets over as he wheels past.

I ignore the commotion. Instead I’m caught by Max’s grip on my arms, and the friction of his legs pressed to mine, and the careful kiss of my chest against his. I tilt my chin to look up at him. This close I can see the sun shining on his hair, turning it a golden-tinged black. I can see the gold striations in his brown eyes, like little bursts of sunshine. I can smell the fresh-air, deep-woods scent that is the opposite of the heady floral scent combing the air around us. I swear I can almost feel his heartbeat.

Although the crowd has thinned, I don’t step back, and Max doesn’t let my arms go.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe you were waiting for me to take you.”

I smile at that. “Maybe. But I think it’s probably because ever since I started working, I’ve never had two days off in a row. I always thought if I went to Paris I’d want to stay for at least two days. But”—I shrug—“it seems wrong to spend money only on myself when I could use it to help my family.”

“You clean six days a week?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “You haven’t taken a holiday in seven years?”

“I like my job,” I say defensively. Then I remember that Dorene fired me, and I add, “Liked. And I like helping my family. I don’t mind not going anywhere. It’s just as fun having a picnic in the park with my friends or taking a swim at sunset with Emme or watching old movies in the courtyard with Dorene. Besides, when I read a book I travel to new places. Just think, it’s like I’ve already been to Paris because I read A Tale of Two Cities .”

I smile up at him, then I slowly step back. Max reluctantly lets me go, but I can tell he doesn’t want to drop the conversation. For a man who works seven days a week and spends most of his free time locked in his home office, he is surprisingly bothered by my work habits.

I push past a display of bright pink azaleas and enter an enclosed shop lined with terracotta pots full of herbs—lavender, rosemary, basil, and sage. It smells like a culinary escape, and I smile at the herby scent.

The light shines through the glass ceiling in a golden spiderweb pattern.

The proprietor, a small man with a quick smile, nods when I kneel to rub the prickly, needlelike leaves of the rosemary.

“You said you’d feel guilty doing something just for yourself,” Max says in a low voice, stooping next to me. “But if it were your mom or your sister who wanted to do something that made them happy, what would you say to them? What would you want for them? If your mom wanted a trip to Paris, what would you tell her?”

I shake my head and stand. I walk toward the next open-air flower stall, full of hanging wicker baskets, crystal prisms, and wind chimes. They tinkle and the prisms throw rainbows across my path.

“I know what you’re saying,” I say, “but it’s different.”

“How is it different? How is it that you can want happiness for someone else but not want the same for yourself? How can you give others what they want but feel guilty taking anything for yourself?”

I turn quickly, and Max stops a few inches from me. “What are you trying to do?” I ask. “I can’t change my life.”

He holds up his hand. “You have the choice to do anything you like.”

“You think I should have already taken the train to Paris?”

He shakes his head. “No. I think you should’ve said hello to me before yesterday.”

“And what would you have done if I had?”

He smiles and then leans down and takes a paper-wrapped bouquet of freesias from the flower display. “I’m not certain,” he says, holding the red and pink tinged blooms toward me. “Asked you to dinner? Begged you to join me for a coffee and a croissant? Purposely spilled my coffee, then automatically felt like an ass for spilling my coffee and asking you to clean it up just so I could see you? Hmm. Or I would’ve never spoken to you again, because I tend to avoid anything that smacks of passion. These are for you.”

He holds the flowers out to me, and the scent of strawberries, citrus, and floral notes surrounds me. I take the bouquet and the paper crinkles in my hands. “Thank you.”

“Freesias are the seventh anniversary flower,” he says, and there’s a teasing light in his eyes.

After he pays for the flowers, we wander down a narrow path toward the open-air of the Parisian sidewalks. It’s a beautiful late-spring day, and the rumble of a passing delivery truck echoes off the stone walls and the narrow streets. Through the trellised plants and the glass walls I can make out the spire of Notre-Dame.

It’s calling me, like the bells are ringing and I can’t help but turn and stare.

“If you avoid anything that hints at passion,” I ask, “then why are you giving me flowers? Why are you being?—?”

“Nice?”

Max’s eyes crinkle with his smile as we draw into the open city air. The dreamlike scent of Eden is replaced by the crisp exhaust and the stone-tinged air of city.

“Right,” I say, clutching the flowers to my chest. I drop my nose to the blooms and take a long, happy inhale. “No one’s ever bought me flowers before.”

When I look up, Max is staring at me with a line between his eyebrows and a wrinkle on his forehead. “Now that is just sad.”

I scoff. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “As you know, everyone deserves flowers at least twice in their life.”

“What? When you’re born and when you die?”

He laughs in surprise, and when he stops he’s grinning at me. “Three times then. And your wedding doesn’t count.”

I take another sniff and let out a happy sigh. “Fine. One down, only two bouquets to go.”

Max sticks his hands in his pockets and then glances around the tree-shaded street, looking toward the spire of Notre-Dame.

“I guess you’ve forgotten. I’m being nice because I like you. Even though you shackled me with a wish and thrust me into this daft, weird world. I like you. It’s a failing I have, liking you. I can’t seem to help myself.”

We smile at each other, and then he adds, “Besides, I have seven years of pseudo-memory full of turbulent, amorous passion. I’m surprised by the fact that I survived it. But here I am. Seven years married.”

A motorcycle rushes past, its engine roaring and bouncing off the glass, iron, and stone of the surrounding buildings.

“Did you ever think,” I ask, studying the now quiet Parisian street, “about how the worst thing imaginable is a life lived without love?”

Max steps closer, and at the same time I step closer to him.

“And since Paris is the city of love,” I continue, “a life without Paris is unimaginable.”

“Impeccable logic.” Max holds out his hand, palm outstretched. “Would you like to get lost with me? In Paris? Just for today?”

He’s asking more than he’s willing to say. But I hear his meaning anyway.

“Yes, please.”

He smiles.

I take his hand.