Wished

Chapter 19

19

As we walk through the Galerie des Bijoux, I can’t help but slow my pace to gaze in wonder at the glittering jewels and centuries of adornment encased behind the walls of glass. There are hundreds of necklaces, bracelets, brooches, rings, tiaras, and more. It’s hard for my gaze to land on any one piece; instead my attention jumps from diamond to ruby to gold to silver as if I’m a beam of light reflecting off all the glittering surfaces.

“The collection spans from Middle Ages to present day.” Edith Cloutier, the chief curator, waves a hand at the long glass wall to our right.

She’s a small, neat woman in a black sheath dress that sets off her matching art nouveau bracelets, necklace, and earrings. She’s left her clothing as flat and unobtrusive as possible to set off the art of her jewelry. Since I spent an inordinate amount of time researching the jewelry industry all those years ago, I recognize her set as Henri Vever—one of the most well-known Parisian art nouveau jewelers from the Gilded Age. She has a particularly beautiful yellow enamel, gold, and ruby pendant in the shape of a winged woman on her breast.

“We have twelve hundred pieces displayed. More than five thousand in our entire collection.” She gives another flick of her fingers toward a glass case holding a diamond and sapphire diadem from the 1800s.

I blink at the sparkle of the stones as they catch the light.

Edith turns to look back at us, still moving quickly through the collection, her heels clicking briskly on the floor. “But you know that, having contributed many pieces over the years.”

She speaks with a southwestern French accent, which to my ear has a more Spanish or Catalan feel, where the silent “e” is still pronounced, and so is the “r.”

She speaks French in an almost singsong voice, slowly swinging through all the syllables in every word. And wow, do I appreciate it. The Swiss French I’m used to is spoken more slowly and uses different words and phrases than Parisian French. Since we arrived this morning I’ve struggled to keep up with the pace of the language. It’s as if the city, so fast-moving, has caused the people who live here to shorten all their words to keep up with the rush. They swallow sounds, drop the “e” and the “i,” shorten sentences, and hide the “pas,” so I can’t tell whether anyone means yes or no. It’s left me in a sort of daze, and I’m incredibly grateful Max somehow has the ability to drop his native accent and blend seamlessly with the city.

So Edith, with her singsong accent, is a welcome relief.

She guides us through the restricted section, where the historical methods of jewelry production are explored, and then into a small, windowless, white-walled room with a round table, four chairs, and a decided lack of sparkle.

“I’m grateful you could arrange this on such short notice,” Max says as Edith gestures for us to take a seat.

“It isn’t a problem.” She waves away his thanks. “It will only be a moment. I’ll retrieve the parure. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Once her footsteps have faded down the hall, Max pulls a chair free for me, its legs scraping against the ground. It’s quiet in this small room. Cold. Without thousands of diamonds winking at me, I finally know where to look.

I sit and Max settles next to me.

I breathe in the scent of his warm leather jacket, the lingering trace of fresh park air, and a hint of freesia. Max has been holding them for me, unwilling to give them up even though they’re fading fast. Now they’re on the cushion of the chair, tucked under the table.

Max smiles at me—a long, slow, happy smile that pulls me back to his words on the footbridge. His promise. His lips curl as I draw in a shuddering breath.

Sometimes when you take off a thin gold necklace, you drop it on top of your dresser, and almost magically it coils into a spiral, wrapping around itself. That’s the feeling I have right now. There’s a shimmering gold chain dropping inside me and coiling in a tight spiral at the base of my spine. It glows and pulses and shines.

Max makes a soft noise at the look on my face, and then he moves his chair close and presses his thigh against mine. At the pressure I nearly climb on top of his lap again and straddle him, just like under the weeping willow.

Max slowly takes my hand, threads our fingers together, and then rests our joined hands in his lap.

He’s dark. His black hair is longer on the top than on the sides and his stubble is already thick from a half-day of growth. His features are hard-planed, with a sharp nose and a square jaw. His gaze is direct. He said he’ll always know what I’m thinking, but right now he’s easy to read too.

He wants me.

He wants me with a heat that burns.

I can’t decide if it’s a wish come true or if it’s the worst possible outcome.

My heart alternates between quick, fluttery beats and slow, aching thumps.

Tonight I’m going to lay myself bare. And tomorrow, all the heat and passion? It’ll likely be gone. I wonder whether Max’s theory —that passion burned out leaves only ashes and pain—or my theory—that one flaming night can light the rest of your life—will prove true.

Only time will tell.

Max strokes my palm in a slow circle and a tingle works its way up my arm. The dry, cold air of the museum is replaced by a flushed heat.

Neither of us say anything. The sounds around us are loud. The creaking of the chair when Max shifts. The rustle of my dress when I move closer to him. Max’s long exhale. Heavy footsteps in the hallway. A murmured conversation as colleagues pass. Every sense is heightened. Hearing. Touch. Smell. Taste.

I can still taste his kiss on my lips. It tastes like addiction.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He leans close and says sotto voce, his words vibrating in the shell of my ear, “Do you remember what to do?”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking. He isn’t talking about kissing or sex or how two bodies come together. He’s asking if I remember what we discussed on our hurried walk from Pont Neuf to the museum.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

Then the already familiar sound of Edith’s brisk walk clicks down the corridor. We turn toward the door as she enters the room carrying a large burgundy leather case.

“Here we are.” She smiles broadly for the first time since we arrived.

She slides the leather case onto the table and then sets white archivist’s gloves, jeweler’s tweezers, and a loupe on the table.

I lean forward in my chair, taking in the antique parure case.

“This is one of the finest parure sets in our collection,” she says proudly, “although unfinished, of course, as you have the necklace.”

She darts a quick questioning glance at Max, and I can tell by the gleam in her eye that she’d give up wine and chocolate forever if it meant she could add the necklace to the museum’s collection.

“Madame Barone, this is the first time you’ve seen the set?” she asks as she opens the case.

“Yes—”

I would say more, but all my words flee like leaves in a windstorm. I let out a stunned exhale.

“Beautiful, no?” she asks. “We were very lucky to acquire this set.”

“Beautiful” is an understatement. I thought the necklace was the most gorgeous piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, but alone, the necklace was like a gemstone fallen from its crown. It belongs here. Or these belong with the necklace.

The case on the outside is burgundy leather, and on the inside it’s satin and velvet. Nestled in the confines is a glittering, winking, startling set of sapphire jewelry that is more than 250 years old. In a word, it’s dazzling.

“You said you had history to share.” Edith looks to Max.

He nods, stroking the sensitive spot in the center of my palm. “Yes. This set, in Barone family history, is called the Bride’s Parure—” He stops and looks over at me. “Do you know what ‘parure’ means?”

I smile. I do. Parure were one of my favorite things to research in my days of jewelry obsession.

“It means adorn. It’s a set of matching jewelry meant to be worn en suite. Sometimes there were only a few pieces—a necklace, a ring, bracelets, earrings, a broach. Other times, they were very elaborate, up to sixteen pieces. Parure were very popular, especially in the Georgian era ...” I trail off at the surprised look on Max’s face. He wasn’t expecting me to know anything about antique jewelry.

“I didn’t know you were so well-versed,” he says with a curious smile.

“Of course she is,” Edith says, waving Max’s surprise aside. “She’s your wife. The last time you were here, Madame Barone and I had a delightful conversation about Queen Maria Amélie’s sapphire parure.”

“Ah. That’s right.” Max nods, the circling of his thumb over my palm slowing. “I’d forgotten.”

He knows there was no last time I was here. I’ve never met Edith before. But he smiles as if it’s only natural I know all about eighteenth-century jewelry.

Edith gestures for him to go on. “Continue, please.”

He takes a breath and looks over the sapphire and diamonds sparkling in the cold room light. “This set was completed in 1750 for my great-great, too many greats,”—he waves his hand—“Grandmother Marie Thérèse Chambray as a wedding gift. When King Louis XV requested”—Max’s mouth tilts into an ironic smile, letting me know the request was actually a command—“that all precious gems and jewelry be given to the state to fund the Seven Years War, Marie Thérèse gave all in her possession except this set, which she hid for many years.”

I lean forward excitedly. “Yes. That’s why iron and cut-steel jewelry became so popular. They called it iron for gold. They upcycled nails, created iron chokers. Women wore iron jewelry to show support for military campaigns or as a substitute for the jewelry they gave up.”

“We have quite a few pieces in our collection,” Edith says. “Quite a few.”

“Why did she hide these?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t you?” Max quirks an eyebrow. “Perhaps slip it in a pocket?”

I kick him under the table and he lets out a soft grunt.

“I have a letter from 1759 from Marie Thérèse to her daughter,” he continues, giving me a sidelong glance. “She claims to have hidden the set because it has unusual properties.”

Edith picks up the loupe and holds it over the bracelets, magnifying the gemstones. “Rivière-style bracelet meant to lengthen the necklace if desired. Graduated and faceted oval-shaped sapphires varying from deep to vivid blue. Foil-backed collet settings, 18 carat yellow gold. Rose-cut diamonds, typical of the era. Tool-marks indicative of hand-carving.”

She ticks off the attributes of the jewelry as briskly as her steps clicking down the hall, “Complementary brooch. Day-to-night earrings with the back-to-front European wire. The teardrop sapphire hangs below five rose-cut diamonds. Fine wirework with gold beads, stippled texture. The teardrop can be removed from the surmount for a day look. The tiara is”—she pulls the loupe away from her eye and glances back at Max—“stunning, but not unusual for this era and this caliber of piece.”

Max gives an acknowledging smile. “Exactly. It wasn’t the cut or the material that was unusual. It was what Marie Thérèse claimed the parure could do. She claimed in her letter that the parure granted its owner their fondest wish. If they whispered to the parure their heart’s desire, the stones, the jewelry,”—Max shrugs—“ something would hear them and grant their wish.”

He looks at me then, and I see the glint in his eye, similar to the winking of the stones against the rich black velvet.

“Fascinating,” Edith says. “You will share this document?”

Max nods but doesn’t break eye contact with me. “I’ll send you a copy.”

“It’s an interesting story,” she continues. “It reminds me people will believe anything. Jewelry isn’t magical. Not in the literal sense.” She sounds amused.

Max isn’t amused, though, and neither am I.

“Perhaps,” Max finally says, looking back at Edith. “However, during the terror, the entire family was executed by the revolutionaries. The parure was stolen during the looting of Marie Thérèse’s home. The only piece that wasn’t taken was the necklace. Marie Thérèse placed that over her seventeen-year-old daughter’s neck mere hours before Marie Thérèse lost her life. She gave her daughter, Thérèse, the necklace and a single wish. Live. Thérèse escaped France, made her way to Switzerland, and married Philippe Barone. Perhaps Marie Thérèse’s wish for her daughter came true.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Somehow the stolen parure remained intact, save for the necklace. It was passed down through the centuries, through collectors and families, until it came to you. Us Barones have kept the necklace and the letter.”

“And you aren’t likely to donate that to complete the museum’s set,” Edith says, reading his tone.

“No,” Max says. “We won’t part with it. However, I have recently acquired an acrostic ring you may be interested in.”

Edith sits straighter, nearly vibrating with interest.

“What’s an acrostic ring?” I ask.

“They’re symbolic rings. The language of gemstones,” Max says. “The gems form a line and the first letter of each stone spells a word. The ring I acquired, for instance, spells ‘dearest.’”

“Victorian era,” Edith says, and Max nods in confirmation.

“Diamond, emerald, amethyst, ruby, emerald, sapphire, topaz. Dearest.” Max smiles at me.

I laugh, delighted. “That’s lovely.”

Max represses a quick smile. “I’ll show it to you when we’re back home. You can—” He cuts himself off, and the sudden awareness it’s not our home and we aren’t likely to be going back together sits like another person between us.

Edith doesn’t notice. “Yes. I would like to see that,” she says. Then, glancing between the parure and us, she stands and checks the clock on the wall. “I’ll leave you for five minutes. I’ll be right outside.”

She leaves, closing the door behind her. As I don’t hear the click, click of her heels I assume she must be waiting outside the room.

“Did you request alone time with the parure?” I whisper. “How?”

Max leans close and says quietly. “I’ve donated millions of francs’ worth of jewelry to this museum. It’s a small thing for them to do.”

We both turn toward the parure. It doesn’t feel the same as the necklace did. There isn’t any of that spinning-in-starlight feel.

But then, with his free hand, Max reaches into his leather jacket and pulls a thin jewelry box from his interior pocket.

“You brought it with you?” I ask. “I can’t believe you’ve been walking around Paris all day with a priceless necklace in your jacket pocket! Are you insane?”

Max opens the case and the sapphire and diamonds catch the light. “My interior pocket,” he says.

I shake my head, my heart thumping. “Anyone could’ve stolen it.”

Max snorts.

I pull my hand from his. Then, at the cold that seeps back over me, I lean against him, pressing my arm and leg against him.

Max fits the white gloves on and then lays the pieces together, completing the set.

I lose my breath. “It really does look like a river of light falling from the stars.”

“It’s the rose cut and the foil backing,” Max says.

“Right. The rose cut was for catching the candlelight.”

Max gives me a quick look, a frown at the edges of his mouth. “I’ve forgotten,” he says. “What was the copper-zinc alloy often used ...?”

“Pinchbeck,” I say, lost in the glitter of the necklace.

“And how were diamonds cut in the 1700s?”

I know this one. “In thin slivers, more for surface area and sparkle than symmetry. Not at all like today.”

“And what do you prefer—the girandole or the pendeloque earring?”

“The girandole.”

“And your favorite jewelry house? Cartier, Boucheron, Chanel, Van Cleef now the room is cold and silent.

Outside the door a loud group passes, talking animatedly. They say hello to Edith and she responds, right outside the door. I’m aware that any moment she’ll open the door and take the parure away.

Max lifts the necklace and sets it back in its box, sliding it into his interior pocket.

Suddenly I’m cold and tired, as limp and droopy as the freesias resting on the chair next to me.

“What do you think will happen?” I ask, glancing around the small confines of the room. “Will we wake up back in Geneva, everything as it was? Do you think we’ll even remember this? Will you remember me?” A panicked twinge sets up in my chest and I clutch his hand. “Do you think you’ll forget this and think I’m a thief and a liar again? That if I come to you, you’ll call the police like you threat?—?”

“Anna,” Max says, shaking his head. “Don’t worry.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You aren’t the one who would end up in prison.”

“But if I forget you,” he says, “isn’t that another sort of prison? I’ll be sentenced to never knowing what I’m missing.”

My lips part on a small, surprised exhale. “Does that mean?—?”

“I hope I don’t forget this,” Max says. “It’s been unexpected.”

“In a good way?”

“In the best way.”

We smile at each other, then Edith opens the door, here to collect the parure and send us on our way.

On our way out, back through the marble halls and echoing chambers, down the grand staircase, I can’t help but think about the fact that no matter what happens tomorrow, we still have tonight.