“Yes. Do you still love me?”
Forty-Eight
Ines and I leaned forward behind the counter. My aunt’s happiness hinged on her answer. She wanted Girard to come to her, and now he had. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have a red thread: love in its simplest form was standing before her.
I didn’t dare glance at Ines. She probably had her heart hovering in her throat like I did.
Aunt Evelyn fought for family, for her business, and for me, but when it came to love, she hadn’t.
I had no right to interfere with my aunt’s decision-making process; however, the temptation to bring them both together like the dolls I pretended to marry as a child was great. The aunties back home would never have had the discretion, self-control, or patience to stand by the sidelines.
With every passing heartbeat, my doubts grew.
In times like these, the right choice was clear to everyone but the person burdened with it.
The earthbound clouds shifted in color. Shades of pink from the softest blush to sparkling coral to the deepest fuchsia. The intensity of the hue changed with every microsecond.
Please, Aunt Evelyn.
Make the right choice.
This is your chance to be happy—to be loved.
It’s your time.
“Yes.”
Ines and I exhaled as Girard cupped my aunt’s face in his hands and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her fingers in his hair as he drew her closer against him. A red thread, sparkling and new, wound its way around the couple. The magnificent sparks flew from the string, strengthening, transforming into a braid.
The kiss between them rivaled Klimt’s painting. Decades of longing matched the intensity and duration. After a while, I turned away; Ines continued to watch.
She purred. “Those two have endurance for their age.”
I choked from swallowing my laughter.
“I mean, I’d want that for me and Luc, as I’m sure you’d want the same for you and Marc.” Ines scrunched her nose and grinned. “I hope Marc will follow you back to America after he finishes his stint at the restaurant.”
I did my best to hide my sadness.
The warmth near my feet vanished, and the floor returned to normal. Aunt Evelyn and Girard stood side by side, skin touching, holding hands as if they couldn’t be physically parted. A soft blush settled on my aunt’s cheeks. The red thread linked their hearts, dangling with the slack of a pocket watch chain.
“As you can see, we’ve settled our differences,” he said.
Aunt Evelyn laughed. “We certainly did.”
“Auntie, you have a red thread,” I declared.
She pressed her hand against her chest. The thread wrapped itself around her fingers. “How?”
“I don’t know, but you didn’t need me to tell you. You feel it, don’t you?”
My aunt nodded.
Ines checked her watch. “I have to get back to the bakery. Don’t worry, I will tell my mother how everything worked out. Maman will relish all the details.” She giggled and made her exit with a bouncy skip to her step.
“I hope she’ll leave out the more intimate specifics,” Aunt Evelyn said to me.
Girard bent down and carefully gathered the fallen envelopes.
“So what now? What are you two going to do?” I asked her.
“I’m not sure yet, but whatever it is, it will be together. There’s much to talk about,” she confessed.
“I’ll let you do that then.” I excused myself and gave them their first moment of true privacy.
The blue butterflies clustered around the window as if they, too, wanted to shield the lovers from prying eyes.
There was no question I was happy for Aunt Evelyn, but I also missed Marc. There was room to feel both without invalidating either emotion. My aunt told me there was no cure for heartbreak if I didn’t want to let him go.
Seeing the city on my own seemed daunting and exhausting. I had planned on spending the day with my aunt, but that was no longer an option.
I sighed.
“Vanessa?”
I turned toward the voice. Girard stood beside me. “I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
He showed me one of the envelopes. “Evelyn and I figured you were responsible for mailing these.”
At the time, I didn’t think much of them because I’d been guided by an innate sense of duty. “I found them in the mailbox. I didn’t know they were written by my aunt or that they were meant for you.”
“I’d like to think that you were more involved than that.” He tucked the envelopes under his arm. “Evelyn and I reunited not because of fate, but from human intervention.”
“You don’t believe in destiny?”
“I do. Evelyn is my soul mate and my destiny, but regarding this, no. Our ability to control our fates is what makes life interesting. If everything had been predetermined, don’t you find the lack of free will disturbing?”
Girard’s philosophical side was in line with how Aunt Evelyn’s mind worked. I could imagine them having conversations stretching from dusk till dawn. Marc and I, instead, would be at the night market, eating our way through every stall.
“I don’t know if my aunt told you. I’ve never been one to listen to what I’m told unless I agree with it. I believe that we have the ability to shape our own lives.”
“To me,” he continued, “you are responsible for our happiness. You approached me at my office to advocate for your aunt. Combined with the letters, I see you as a most brilliant matchmaker.” He kissed the back of my hand. “Come to dinner at the restaurant tomorrow night with Evelyn. You are the first member of her family I have met. There’s much to talk about.”
I smiled. “I’d be delighted.”
Forty-Nine
With my aunt receiving her happy ending, I was more determined to get my own. Aunt Evelyn and Girard had left the shop together with my aunt telling me, “I have an important late engagement and will not be back until morning.” The giddiness she exhibited was infectious and made me excited about my own romantic future.
Tonight, I intended to see Marc after work.
I glanced at the antique French ormolu clock on the mantel. There was time for a decent nap before I went to see Marc at the restaurant. I wanted to see him and, according to his notes, he felt the same. Yet I shared Girard’s predicament, the need to see the proof of love for myself.
It wasn’t that I doubted Marc’s love; it was more that I wanted to see where this new relationship would lead. My aunt found her happily ever after. Why couldn’t I get mine too?
Hours later, after a languid nap, I left the apartment and headed for the restaurant. The time apart had increased my anticipation of seeing him. Under the streetlamps, I stood before the blue butterfly mosaic mural and waited. Girard’s love letter to my aunt, made of tile, brick, and mortar.
The restaurant was closed but I could still see the light from the kitchen through the dim windows. They must still be finishing up. I pulled out my phone and killed time until, at last, the lights turned off.
I lingered by the mural and peeked around the corner for anyone exiting the building. The pretty redhead who had escorted me to Girard’s office exited the front door, toting a heavy satchel. She was locking up. No one was with her.
Hoping she might remember me, I emerged from my hiding place and waved. “Hi, I’m looking for Marc.”
A flicker of recognition flashed in her eyes. “He is heading out the back. You can catch him around the corner. I think he’s going out with the boys from the kitchen.”
After a quick thank-you, I heeded her instructions and caught a group of men walking down a side street.
“Vanessa!” Marc said as he waved me over. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
He put his arm around my shoulders and introduced me to Jacques the sous chef, and Kristoff and Pierre, two of the five sommeliers on staff. Each gave me a polite smile in return. Pierre said something to Marc before he took off with the others in a different direction. Marc called out to them. They paused to wave and continued on their way.
“You look good.” Marc smiled and drew me into his arms. “I’ve missed you.”
I pressed my cheek against his leather jacket. “I missed you too.”
As my fingers found the hem, I saw a subtle glow. I stepped back.
Sprouting from my chest, thin as embroidery floss, a fragile, wispy, red thread sparkled in a brilliant shade of poppy. I reached out to grasp it, felt nothing, yet the thread moved, reacting to my gesture.
I believed, for years, that I couldn’t be loved. My path had been set with the unfinished tea Ma had left twenty-four years ago. Failed relationships and broken hearts. A life devoid of hope, stripped tea leaf by tea leaf.
Now, on this Parisian street corner, my deepest desire had been gifted to me. The thread wound its way among our clothes, binding us closer.
Lasting romance was within my reach. I wouldn’t allow it to be taken from me. Not now, not after all this time. I would have my happy ending.
Ines and Luc. Girard and my aunt. Marc and me.
Everything was possible.
“I’m really happy to see you,” I said, wiping my eyes.
Marc kissed the tip of my nose. “Come on, there’s a place I want you to see. It’s not far from here.” He tugged on my hand and we started walking.