“Look.” He pointed to the windows.
The rain had stopped and the darkened sky was cleaved by the golden blades of the sun. Emerging columns of brilliant light bathed the Hall of Mirrors. Gilt and crystal blazed.
In the middle of it all was him.
“And this is why this place is magical.” Marc’s dark brown eyes met mine. I wasn’t certain if he referred to the room, or me.
“Did you plan this? Like you did with those delicious jams this morning?” I asked.
“If I had, I would have met you years ago.”
I bit my lip. It had only been two days, yet I was falling.
We spent the rest of the hour drawing in relative silence, the sounds of our pen and pencil scratching across the page, the absence of words replaced with the steady rhythm of our breathing and furtive glances.
As we continued our tour of Versailles, I took the moments we shared in the Hall of Mirrors and tucked them away, as if they were a precious family heirloom like my grandmother’s jade bangle.
The matchmaker said I had no red thread.
Marc couldn’t be mine, no matter how much I wished it.
At best we could remain friends. The time we had left together seemed both an eternity and an instant.
We walked the beautiful gardens Marc had described and, after a time, arrived at Grand Trianon, Marie-Antoinette’s pink marble palace. The gardens were larger than I had expected, and my feet protested with every step. I tugged on his arm to stop.
“The spirit is willing, but my feet are killing me. Unless there’s a helpful little carriage to get us to our next destination, I don’t know if I can make it.”
“There isn’t a carriage, but there is a little train.” He led me into the parking lot near Grand Trianon to a stop where a couple waited. “I’m sorry. It is a lot of walking. I walk everywhere, and like to walk, so it never occurred to me that you might not be used to it.”
“I should have learned and worn better shoes.” I bit my lower lip. “Back home, I drive everywhere.”
“Paris is a such a walkable city that I got in the habit here. I didn’t walk this much in Montreal.” He offered his arm for stability as I adjusted my shoes.
When I glanced up, I noted the twinkle in his eyes.
“You’re lying to make me feel better,” I accused.
“Did it help?” he asked.
“No.”
“The little train goes to every stop. It’ll take us to the Temple de l’Amour and back to the main palace.”
I almost squealed with delight. “That helps. Thank goodness for modern transportation.”
The little train was really a beefed-up golf cart pulling along three caravans of shaded seats. Marc paid for our tickets as he found us seats in the first car.
“The way you talk about this monument, it sounds amazing.”
“When we go to the main building, I believe you can see it from Marie-Antoinette’s bedroom window.”
Six minutes later, we walked out into the gardens of Petit Trianon. Against the green meadows and flowers, the domed marble gazebo lured me in from a distance. We crossed a bridge over a tiny brook to reach our destination. It was as romantic as its moniker: slender columns held a small dome while inside was a lone statue of Cupid. A geometric pattern of squares containing a rounded seal decorated the rounded ceiling. The central medallion featured a torch and a bundle of Cupid’s arrows.
“This is all so beautiful.” I craned my neck to admire the statue. “I’ve seen many homages to this back home: they were treated as wedding centerpieces.”
“I’m guessing you’ve been to your fair share.”
I sighed and leaned against one of the pillars. “Too many. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for my cousins and all.”
Marc studied my face. “The race to get there isn’t as important as what happens after the finish line. That’s what my parents keep telling me. They’ve been married for thirty-three years.”
“Same. Mom and Dad still go on dates. It’s what I aspire to have.” I twirled and watched the beautiful gardens blur into shades of the rainbow. “This place is magical.”
He grinned. “We can stay here as long as you like.”
An hour later, we ate ice cream on the bumpy ride back. Beauty was bountiful today. I didn’t want to take it for granted.
* * *
* * *
We took a train the following day from Gare Saint-Lazare to Vernon, the closest stop to Giverny, and spent the hour ride debating which was better, the impressionists or the Pre-Raphaelites. Marc loved art as much I did.
Bypassing shops, a café, and the impressionist museum, we made our way to the main house. Entering the two-story building, we were funneled into its most fascinating room, Monet’s studio. Paintings hung floor to ceiling in the large room, and yet the space was peaceful. There was plenty of room for seating, and a working area where Monet probably also entertained guests and fellow artists.
Light flooded in from the big picture window facing the gardens. I was drawn to the gardens. Standing where the master’s inspiration flourished would nourish my artist’s soul.
Leaving the house, we snapped a few photos of the chickens for my cousins, and wandered the main garden before descending through an underground passageway, and then ascending to the water lily garden. Yellow irises, tulips, and lupines exploded into color against the grass and the glass-like pond. A perfect location to use the watercolors Uncle Michael had given me.
Marc and I found a spot near one of the green Japanese bridges with an overhang of pinky purple wisterias in the shadow of a small bamboo grove. He helped me set up my paints but didn’t open his sketchbook, opting to watch while I captured the idyllic scene before me.
“You’re not going to see a master class by any means,” I warned him.
“I like watching you work. It’s soothing. You’re very methodical.” Marc leaned over and pointed at the pinks I’d been blending. “You need patience to work with watercolors.”
“I wish I painted more, but between work and family, there isn’t much time left.”
“You’re on vacation. You’re supposed to be having fun and relaxing.”
A gentle breeze carried the fragrances of the garden to us: the heady bouquet of florals along with a few stray petals. Marc reached out and plucked a pink one from my hair. The way he looked at me made me wish for everything I couldn’t have.
“Are you sure you don’t want any hints?” he asked.
“No. I want to win this my way.”
Thirteen
After helping me pack, Marc escorted me to a nearby crêperie in a beautiful late-nineteenth-century two-story manor for lunch. The manor had been converted into a hotel with an adjoining restaurant. Marc requested a table on the open terrace to take advantage of the gorgeous weather.
We settled into emerald-green metal chairs under a matching umbrella. The server appeared and, after speaking with Marc, brought a carafe of peach iced tea.
“I picked out something sweet and savory. I hope you like it.” He unrolled his cloth napkin.
“We’re sharing like last time?” I asked.
“Of course. Best way to eat is to share. You get to taste everything, and it shows you like the company you’re keeping.”
I studied his hands with their elegant long fingers and clean, trimmed nails. I couldn’t forget how the rough calluses felt against my smooth skin. He could be a sculptor or musician.
“What are you thinking right now?” he asked.
“Your job. I’m fairly certain you work with your hands, and you work in the creative field. I don’t have anything else.”
He smiled. “You’re right on both counts. You have one day left. Do you think you can solve it?”
“Auntie Faye once figured out who my cousin Deanna was secretly dating: who he was, who he worked for, and where his family was from. Keep in mind Deanna was vacationing in Marrakesh at the time and, even with the seven-hour difference, my aunt knew what they ordered at the restaurant.” I lowered my voice. “The same detective blood flows through my veins.”
Marc laughed. “Are they spying on you now? These aunties of yours?”
“No, because I’m staying with Aunt Evelyn. She’s one of them.”
The server arrived with our meal. On my plate was a dessert crêpe. Slices of banana rested on a lake of Nutella along with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream. Three pom-poms of whipped cream dotted the corners of the golden, folded triangle. Marc had ordered a galette, which had been folded into a square. The savory crêpe’s lacy edges framed a cream sauce with chopped chanterelles and diced smoked ham.
“Which should we eat first?” I asked.
“Dessert, of course. The ice cream will melt otherwise.”
Before I finished dividing the crêpe into two equal parts, my phone rang. Only three people knew my new number: Aunt Evelyn, Uncle Michael, and Ma. I grabbed the phone from my purse and checked the screen. Auntie Faye.
Marc took over and separated the dessert crêpe into two. “Do you need to take it?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” I answered the call. “Hi, Auntie Faye! I’m surprised to hear from you.”
My aunt tsked. “Ah, Vanessa, you’re not busy, are you?”