One of my all-time favorites.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just go back in time with him as if that would take the pain away.
“I think I’m going to read,” I said, then turned away and buried myself in a book for the rest of the flight.
Chapter Twenty-One
The last time I went to the markets of Paris, I strolled. I lingered. I lolligagged.
This time I was efficiency personified as I tackled Port de Vanves. I was a businesswoman powering through table after table, row after row. I scanned quickly, writing off the items I obviously would never use on a necklace — candlesticks, picture frames, goblets.
I ignored the old clothes for sale, the chipped sets of china, and the antique mirrors. I stopped at a table with miniature figurines, tiny little cows and pigs and dogs and cats no bigger than thimbles. Some were brushed silver, some white porcelain. They were cute, and while I wasn’t so sure a cow was anyone’s favorite, there was something about the dogs and cats that spoke to me.
I asked the vendor how much. A round woman in a heavy tarp of a dress barked out a number.
“Too high,” I answered in French.
We bargained like that until she reached her rock bottom, and I scooped up nearly one hundred cats and dogs, tucking them in my wheeled shopping bag. I felt like a regular French woman, weaving her way in and out of the stalls, wheeling and dealing, snagging the best prices.
I continued on, passing strange-looking garden tools and old kitchen utensils, when I spied several tables full of brooches and pins. They were tiny things and would look so very French on a necklace, the perfect mix of new and vintage. I bought a few dozen, and then moved along to another aisle.
I walked past a table full of gray-haired men playing cards as they sucked on cigarettes. They were seated behind a counter displaying a messy array of hammers. I laughed silently, picturing a big, rusty hammer hanging from a slender silver chain. Yeah, that’d be a big hit, for sure. I looked ahead to the next set of stalls and spied a huge box full of antique skeleton keys. The box was at the foot of the card table, and it held hundreds upon hundreds of keys that must have worked in miniature locks because they were tiny, no bigger than thumbnails. They weren’t rusted. They had just the right look of weathered to them.
I asked the men how much.
“For the keys?”
“Yes.”
A man laughed, showing crooked, yellowed teeth. He took a drag of his cigarette, inhaling deeply. “No one’s ever asked before. You want to take them off our hands?”
“Maybe.”
“Five euros.”
I pursed my lips together and resisted breaking out in a smile. The keys were perfect. They were pretty, but they also said something. Keys were staples of charm necklaces, so they had universal appeal, but these particular keys had a unique look that stood out, a sense that they could unlock stories, or hearts, or secrets.
“Sold.”
I handed the man a bill, he stuffed it in his pocket, and gave me the battered cardboard box. I closed the tops, and managed to stuff the box inside my cavernous shopping bag. I wheeled it away, made a few more stops, then hailed a taxi. As we raced towards the Eiffel Tower, passing cafes full of people lingering on salads and breads and coffees, and bakeries peddling croissants and tarte normandes and chocolate eclairs, I replayed my three days in Paris. At a market in the Marais I’d found boxes of star, sun and moon trinkets, at a street vendor in Montmartre I’d stumbled across elegant glass hearts. I’d still have to do the hard work in assembling the necklaces, but I had the materials, and they looked both fresh and French. In the evenings, I’d taken myself out to dinner, at a bistro near Notre Dame, at a cafe tucked at the end of a courtyard, at a bustling Korean place around the corner from the hotel. I’d been alone, but Paris has a way of surrounding you so you don’t feel quite so lonely. I’d also stayed far away from the W Hotel near the Opera House, and from Bryan. The fact that I hadn’t set up my cell phone for international calling helped. No one could reach me easily.
The taxi driver stopped at the light at one of the boulevards, and I admired the buildings. They had that elegant centuries-old look about them with long, tall, open windows. When the light changed, the driver zipped across traffic, took a sharp turn and let me out at my hotel.
As I pressed the button for the elevator, the desk clerk called out to me.
“Ms. Harper. There is a message here for you.”
“For me?”
Perhaps it was Mrs. Oliver, but she was on her vacation. I hoped something hadn’t happened to my parents. The clerk handed me a small, white envelope. It was sealed, but my name was on the front. I opened it and unfolded a sheet of paper.
Kat — Remember when you said if I ever needed your translation services that I’d know where to find you? I do need help. Is there any way you can come to dinner tonight? The woman in charge of the padlocks has a My Favorite Mistakes necklace. She loves your designs, and would love to meet you. I think it could seal the deal. I hope you’ll say yes to dinner at 8. I can send a car for you.
—Bryan
There was a phone number for his hotel. I stared at the note, as if it would reveal my answer. Should I go? I still felt raw inside now that I knew the truth. I’d been tricked, and even if he felt he had to set me free during college, I’d rather he’d have told me he loved me before he left. Instead, he said nothing, and I was played a fool.
I was left empty-handed, a broken-hearted idiot.
But if my presence would help Made Here launch a new line of cufflinks fashioned from the leftover promises from the lover’s bridge, well, that seemed fitting, as well as the sort of thing a protege should do. It was business, after all. Only business.
I handed the paper to the clerk, and asked him to call The W and confirm a car for pickup.
*****
Orange flames glowed in the nearby fireplace, warming the restaurant. The waiter cleared away our dinner plates as Gabrielle Roussillon informed him that the meal was marvelous. She’d had rabbit and asparagus. I’d had chicken and roasted potatoes, and while I couldn’t vouch for the bunny, my French yardbird was indeed fantastic. The white tablecloth was now marked with a splotch of red wine from where Gabrielle had spilled some of her drink while talking with her hands.
Gabrielle was a chatty woman and had commanded the conversation. The pleasant byproduct of her loquaciousness was I could focus on her rather than Bryan as she told bawdy tales of the time she’d lived in Rome, and all her affairs with Italian men. I’d laughed, not simply to humor her, but because she was one of those in-your-face type of people, who could tell a saucy tale with a special sort of panache. She was curvy and broad-shouldered, with sheets of jet black hair. She wore a ring on her left index finger and mentioned a husband once or twice. I wondered if it was an open marriage. If he had a mistress, and she has misters, like her Italian lovers. It hadn’t seemed that long ago since she’d been in Italy.