Wished

Chapter 16

16

We begin at Paris Point Zero. It’s a small circle with eight triangular points set into an octagon set in paving stones. Max tells me it’s from here that all distances in Paris are measured. Paris Point Zero is hidden under a massive line of people waiting to enter Notre-Dame, and most of them trod over the stones without looking down.

Max claims that if we’re going to get lost, then we might as well start at the heart, in the center, at the very middle of the maze.

“Do your worst,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.

I grin at him as a stiff spring breeze tugs at my dress and whistles around the stone walls and spires. The cobblestone area in front of Notre-Dame is crowded, and even though I’m standing close to Max, holding his hand, I still feel jostled and jarred.

I spin in a circle and Max shifts with me. I keep turning until all the stone and spires and gargoyles and sky have blended together in a dizzying swirl. Then I stop and thrust my finger, pointing away from Notre-Dame, along the lazily flowing Seine, down the Parvis de Notre Dame.

“That way,” I say, wobbling on my feet.

Max tugs me close. “Not back to Notre-Dame to see the Crown of Thorns or catch Quasimodo at the top of the tower?”

I shake my head. “If I go that way, I won’t be lost, will I? And what’s the fun in that? If you already know what you’ll find, then there really isn’t any point in going.”

Max studies me, and even though there are about a hundred zillion people whirling around us, jockeying for pictures or jostling in line or cutting across the cobblestones, he makes me feel as if we’re all alone.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “I have to admit, I prefer familiarity and comfort. I like going to destinations where I know exactly what to expect. I like people who are constant and true. In my experience the unexpected never brings anything good.”

A car horn cuts across the noise, and Max’s eyes flicker as he looks toward the stone bridge straddling the Seine.

It’s interesting. I thought I knew Max. I thought I knew his habits, his personality, his likes and dislikes. But every minute with him, something new unfolds. I wonder how much we’ll discover about each other, spending the day together.

How much can you learn about someone in a day? And at what point do you stop looking and decide you know everything there is to know? That belief is never true. You can’t ever know everything . But at some point people become comfortable with each other and stop looking for the unexpected and only see the expected.

Right now, though, everything is unexpected.

Even the way Max rubs the back of his neck and wrinkles his brow at the truck honking again then rumbling down the street, back toward the flower market.

When he turns back to me, he gives a small smile and absently runs his thumb over the back of my hand.

“I think,” I tell him, enjoying the way his thumb kisses my skin as gently as a spring breeze, “I’m going to give you a gift.”

“Really?” His thumb stills, and I lean closer.

“Yes. Today you gave me Paris. In return I’m going to give you the joy of surprises. I’m going to help you delight in the unexpected. That way, from now on, you can have at least one time in your life that the unexpected brought you something good.”

He smiles at that, his eyes crinkling at their corners. “Lead on.”

Above pigeons flutter against the clear blue sky, their wings beating like an elated heart, echoing across the stone. I grin and pull Max with me, clasping his hand.

After we cross the street I tug Max toward an elegant sandstone building called the H?tel Dieu. Inside the courtyard there’s a beautiful Italianate garden with a maze of shrubs and blooming flowers set against stone archways, long stone sunlit galleries, and twisting stairways.

The courtyard is quiet, a contrast to the crowds and noise outside Notre-Dame. A fat bumblebee buzzes past, landing on a deep red geranium. The garden smells like soil and wet mulch and spring blooms.

“I like how they called this the Hotel of God,” I say, taking in the stairs curving around us as if they’re leading up to the heavens.

“It was quite common to call Catholic charity hospitals God’s hostel,” Max says with a wry smile.

I laugh. “That’s either morbid or lovely.”

“Morbid,” Max says.

“Lovely,” I decide.

We grin at each other.

“You could say,” I add, “that Earth is God’s hostel and we’re all here for a short stay until we arrive back home.” I nod toward the manicured garden. “Earth. God’s Hostel. Don’t get comfortable—your stay is short.”

Max laughs and nudges my shoulder with his. “How is that not morbid?”

I shrug, breathing in the fresh garden scents. “I don’t know. I think it’s comforting. Sometimes things in life can seem really awful, but I think that’s only because of the immediacy of them. If you give yourself the grace of distance and the idea of eternity, then what seems so insurmountable, so hard and heartbreaking ... well, it’s not. It only feels that way because it’s this moment. But no moment lasts forever. I like that.”

“This is why you have a degree in philosophy.”

“I do?” I look at him in surprise.

Max blinks at me, his forehead wrinkling. “Don’t you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I deferred my admission once my stepdad left. I started working and then ... there never seemed time. I was accepted to the school of arts.” I smile at him, wondering. “Philosophy? What would I do with philosophy?”

Max tilts his head. “You run a nonprofit. It started as a community soup kitchen, the Open Heart Kitchen?—”

“Because my family loves feeding all our neighbors,” I say, delighted.

“That’s right.” Max grins. “And then you realized you could do more. It expanded into a community resource center. There are classes for adult literacy, computer literacy, resume and CV assistance, mentorships ...” He trails off, catching my expression. “What?”

I let the bouquet of freesias sag in my hands. The paper crinkles against the edge of a manicured shrub. “The fake me seems a lot more amazing than the real me.”

Max frowns. “Aren’t you one and the same?”

I consider this. If you’re walking along on the path of life and then you split in two, and one of you takes the right fork and the other takes the left, are you still the same person? Or do the experiences along the way change the contours of your soul? Experiences can influence your personality and your choices, but do they change your soul?

“You’re right,” I say finally. “It’s still me. I’m me either way.”

“I hope so,” Max says, pulling me out of the H?tel Dieu and the manicured gardens. “Because, if I’m being honest, I like the me I see in my memories too much to attribute him to someone else. I’d like to take a bit of credit for his good sense.”

“His good sense?”

“My good sense.” Max nods.

We step out onto the street and I lick my pointer finger, hold it up to the wind, and then point in the direction the breeze is blowing from. “That way.”

Max grins. We wind through the streets, wandering past quaint stone houses, painted medieval-looking arched doors, and window boxes overflowing with spring flowers. There are brightly painted cafés in blues and reds and yellows, with iron balconies and ivy trailing up the walls. They smell like melting butter, simmering stocks, and freshly baked bread.

Narrow cobblestone alleys twist between buildings. There are bright street signs on the stone walls, with hanging glass lanterns and mopeds parked on the sidewalks.

Carved into one stone wall is a pretty stone dove caught in flight. “Look at the dove,” I say, smiling at Max. “That’s beautiful.”

He points at the plaque beneath the dove. “Have you heard the story?”

“No.” I peer at the plaque.

“Ah. It’s a famed legend, actually,” Max says. “This dove is one of a pair. In the thirteenth century, one of the sculptors working on Notre-Dame lived here with his two doves, a male and a female. When a flood swept through the city, the house collapsed. The male dove escaped, but the female was caught in the rubble. Every day the Parisians watched as the male dove returned day after day to bring food to his mate. He never abandoned her, and eventually, she was able to escape. The sculptor carved this in honor of their love.”

Max’s voice is a low murmur, barely discernible above the noise of people passing on the sidewalk and motorcycles whirring by. I lean close to hear him, and when he finishes speaking, I realize I’m pressed so close he could circle his arm around me, lean down, and press his mouth to mine.

“That,” I say, “is a beautiful story.”

“You’re a romantic.”

I take a step back and start walking again, winding down the narrow alley, past more cafés with wooden shutters and scents of wine-braised meats and yeasty breads.

“I am. I admit it. I’d like to think that if someone I loved needed help, I’d come back day after day until I knew they were okay.”

He smiles, and we turn randomly down another cobblestone alley drenched in shade and cool gray stone.

“You’re constant,” he says.

I shake my head. “Constantly unexpected.”

He smiles and then stops in front of a great black arched double doorway. Above the door is the carved face of a man and stone scrollwork. On a plaque above the shuttered window is an inscription for Helo?se and Abelard. The plaque claims they lived here together.

“ The Helo?se and Abelard?” I ask.

“You know of them?”

“Who doesn’t?” I ask, frowning at the stone house. “I prefer the doves.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Don’t you?”

He considers this, rubbing his chin in mock thought. “Let’s see. What do I prefer? Saving my love from starvation or ... falling in love with my young student, and when she gets pregnant, secretly marrying her?”

“Don’t forget the castration,” I say, smiling sweetly.

“Bloodthirsty.” Max’s eyes narrow. “See, this is what I mean. Passion led to castration. Abelard and Helo?se had a passionate affair. She got pregnant. They secretly wed. Abelard got his testicles sliced off. Helo?se was sent to a convent for the rest of her life. They exchanged letters for years but never saw each other again. How sad is that? I’d rather keep my testicles, thank you very much.”

“I don’t know,” I say, pondering the plaque. “Perhaps he thought it was worth it.”

“Trust me. He didn’t.”

I smile up at Max. “Are you sure? Maybe the sex was really, really good.”

“Would you live in a convent for the rest of your life for one night of passion?” Max asks.

Because of the line of his brows and the serious bend of his mouth, I take my time considering the question. Would I spend the rest of my life locked away for one night with someone I loved beyond reason? Someone I considered the other half of myself?

“Yes,” I decide. “I would.”

Max raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t think it was just sex or just passion. I think it was more. If I got to experience that more for even one night? Yes. I think the light of that one night could burn bright enough to make all the other remaining nights seem like day.”

For a long moment we both stare at the house Abelard and Helo?se supposedly shared their love in. And then I pull Max along the road and we continue winding across the Ile de la Cite.

Around every corner there’s a surprising sight. The sunlight escaping the shadows of a cloud to glint over the gold-tipped fence outside Sainte Chapelle. And once inside, the lower chapel with its vaulted ceilings that reminds me of lying in the grass at night under a canopy of stars. And then in the upper chapel, where the sun streams through a sea of stained glass so that it feels as if you’re standing inside a rainbow, trying to catch your breath.

We catch the time at the oldest clock in the city. It’s nearly 1 p.m. So Max closes his eyes, spins us around, and picks a direction, and we stumbled happily into the cutest café I’ve ever seen. It’s an old stone house on a narrow street, with a profusely blooming wisteria covering the walls and climbing to the roof. The purple blooms fall like grape clusters from the vine and the lovely spring smell fills the street. There are café tables outside, spread among potted flowers.

Max can’t resist the sweet butternut soup with hazelnut chips and the terrine with porcini mushrooms and pistachios. I can’t resist the frites soufflés, which are golden twice-fried potato wedges, perfectly puffed and perfectly delicious.

Max carries the food in a take-out bag and I carry the bouquet of freesias, now hanging a bit limp in my hands. We walk west along the Seine until we finally reach the end of the island, and below, there’s a green triangular park with chestnut and maple trees and a few benches.

“There,” I say, pointing to a large weeping willow with its boughs bending over the Seine. “I want to go there.”

I’m just not sure how. We’re high above the little park. The stone bridges with their arches spanning the water connect the island with the rest of the city. Tour boats with tourists enjoying the sunshine and the spring weather sit on the top decks and snap photos as the boats chug past. The sound of cars rushing over the bridge and music echoing in the stone tunnels bounces to us. Birds in the maple trees sing, and there’s the sound of laughter from a group of tourists leaning over the river.

“I love weeping willows,” I say, staring at the giant tree.

Max nods. “All right. I can get you there.”

He tugs me across the Pont Neuf and then halfway across the bridge, near the entrance to the Place Dauphine and a statue of King Henri IV, he takes us down a set of steps leading toward the Seine.

Under the shade of the hanging branches of the weeping willow we find a spot on the stone. I hang my legs over the sloped stone wall and bask in the sun streaming in long golden ribbons through the curtains of the weeping willow.

The Seine flows below us, a blue-brown full of currents and ripples that churns from the motoring of boats and eddies. A crisp breeze blows off the water and tickles my bare legs. Max settles next to me and pulls the dishes free from the take-out bag.

The butternut soup is a beautiful golden orange. The terrine is pretty with its spring-green pistachios. The frites are perfectly puffed potato purses. In a moment that shows his absolute brilliance, Max pulls two bottles of sparkling water from the bag and a ramekin of crème brulée.

We eat in silence, enjoying the savory flavors and the sun and wind on our cheeks. We take turns dipping our spoons into the soup container. Our fingers tangle when we reach for the frites soufflés.

Across the river and through the leaves, I can make out the fa?ade of the Louvre and a line of buildings that are so Parisian in their architecture I can’t help but smile.

“This has been the perfect day,” I say, scraping my spoon across the crème brulée dish. “Thank you for getting lost with me.”

Max smiles over at me, setting his spoon down. “Maybe you were lost, but I knew where I was the entire time.”

“Oh.”

His eyes light and he leans close. “I was with you.”

I give a surprised smile. “You know, you can be surprisingly charming. I never pegged you for a charmer.”

“Of course I’m charming,” Max says. “I’m a Barone. Everyone in my family, even the worst of us, is charming. It’s in our DNA.”

He says this almost as if he sometimes wishes he could be something else.

“Then say something not charming. Go ahead.” I wave my hand, giving him permission. “Dare to be unexpected. Be un-charming.”

He stares at me, his gaze catching on my lips. “I want to kiss you.”

I shake my head. “That’s still charming.”

“Anna.”

“Max?”

“I’m not being charming.”

I blink. The sun filters across us. A tour boat glides past, tourists snapping photos of the weeping willow and the low bridges. A pigeon pecks at the stones nearby. A woman laughs, sharing a moment with her lover.

The cool breeze teases my skin and a warm ripple flows over me until my lips are tingling and I’m leaning closer to Max.

He watches me, his eyes burning with a yearning that makes my stomach flip and my heart flutter wildly.

I grip his shoulders, clasping the leather of his jacket in my hands.

“If you knew what I was thinking . . .” he says as if it will scare me off.

“Do your worst. Surprise me.”

He spreads his fingers over my cheeks, tilts my face toward the sun, and then takes my mouth as if I’ve given him permission to conquer the world.