A Summer in Paris (12 page)

Pierre had brought along a picnic basket, filled with tasty things he had picked up at a
charcuterie
in Nina’s neighborhood on his way over to pick her up. They had just finished off a light lunch of cheese and baguettes and apple tarts.

“Aside from taking long strolls around castles with charming Frenchmen who adore you,” Pierre went on jokingly, “how are your studies going?”

“Very well. That is, when I have time to study.” There was a twinkle in her dark brown eyes as she added, “Between spending tune with those charming Frenchmen and posing for their paintings, I’m afraid there isn’t much time left for reading about the history of France.”

“Ah, but you must make the time. I do not want to distract you from your studies.” Pierre’s expression had grown serious.

“Actually, I’ve been doing some writing,” Nina said in a voice that was meant to be light.

“Writing? I didn’t know you were interested in writing.”

She nodded, casting him a shy look. “As a matter of fact, it’s what I hope to do as a career.”

“Why, that is fantastic, Nina. What type of things do you write?”

“Stories, mostly. But one day ...” Nina took a deep breath. She was, after all, about to confide something that she had never before said to anyone. “One day, I hope to write books.”

“Magnifique!
Ah, yes, that fits so well. In fact, it is perfect.”

“What
is perfect? What are you talking about?”

“Why, you will be a great writer, I will be a great painter, and together we will be the toast of Paris! We will invite other writers and painters to our home. It will become the artistic center of the city ... perhaps even all of Europe, and—”

Nina laughed. “My goodness. That’s a wonderful fantasy.”

But Pierre wasn’t laughing. “It doesn’t have to be only a fantasy, Nina.”

She looked over at him, surprised. She could see how earnest he looked. Even so, she couldn’t resist trying to tease him out of it. “Pierre du Lac. This isn’t a proposal, is it?”

He just looked back at her with wide eyes.

“Nina,” he said, “I know we are too young to get married. We are both just starting out with our adult lives. I must see how far I can go with my painting. I must develop as an artist, and study and learn.... And you have to grow as a person so that you can grow as a writer. I would never think of asking you for a commitment at this point in your life.”

He hesitated for a moment before going on. “But I do know one thing,” he said, his eyes growing sad. “If I am going to have to stand at the airport in just a few short weeks and watch you get on a plane so you can fly out of my life forever....”

He never finished. Instead, he looked away, staring off into the distance, not willing to complete the thought that had been nagging at them both almost since the day they first met.

* * * *

“Nina, I owe you an apology,” Pierre said later that afternoon.

He and Nina were on the train back to Paris, after spending the entire afternoon at Versailles. Even though they were tired, they were both filled with a sense of euphoria, the feeling that came from having a wonderful time with someone special. They were relaxed, as well, as they sat shoulder to shoulder, glad to be heading back to the city.

“An apology?” Nina repeated, blinking. “For what, Pierre?”

“For the things I said earlier this afternoon.” He frowned. “I don’t mean to rush you, or to put pressure on you. Believe me, that is the very last thing I would ever want to do.”

Nina remained silent, waiting for him to go on.

“It’s just that...” He turned his face to the window. “Look,” he said, his tone suddenly changing. “There it is. Paris. See the buildings up ahead? It is the most beautiful, most romantic, most wonderful city in the world. And it belongs totally to us.”

It belongs to
you,
Nina was thinking, but not to me. She felt a wave of sadness as she reflected on Pierre’s words, meanwhile looking out at the view that had filled him with such joy.

Yes, there was Paris, its beautiful blue-gray silhouette rising up along the horizon. It was like a jewel. The City of Light, it had been nicknamed. Seeing it like this—the way it seemed to emerge from out of nowhere as the train made its way closer and closer to it, the way it glowed in the fading light of late afternoon—she finally understood what had inspired that name.

But it was true that while it was Pierre’s city, it was not hers. For the first time in days, she thought about her own home. How dull life in Connecticut seemed, compared to living in this European capital where the streets were filled with vibrant, passionate people.

How she would miss being a part of all this. Stepping into an art museum and being inches away from some of the finest masterpieces ever created. Walking up to a stand on a street corner and buying the flakiest apple tart imaginable, still warm from the oven. Or turning off a major boulevard and finding herself on a quaint cobblestone cul-de-sac that made her wish that, like Pierre, she had a gift for capturing on canvas what she beheld with her own eyes.

And how uninteresting the people back home seemed. Especially the boys she had known back in Weston, boys who cared about little besides sports and television. How far away all that seemed to her now ... and how unsatisfying.

Shyly she sneaked a peek at Pierre. She saw that he was watching her. Did he sense that she was thinking about him? she wondered. And did he know that she was comparing him to the boys she had known back home ... and finding that, unsurprisingly, in her eyes there was absolutely no comparison at all?

“Anyway, we should not be talking of such unhappy things like your leaving Paris,” Pierre went on with forced cheerfulness. “We must concentrate on what is happening here and now. These are the moments that matter.”

When they reached the station in Paris a few minutes later, Nina found that the idea of leaving Pierre and going to the Rousseaus’ home for the evening was unbearable. Of course they were lovely people, and she looked forward to telling them all about her day at Versailles. But saying good-bye to Pierre, especially now that she was in such a melancholy mood....

Before she had even made a decision about what she wanted to say to him, she turned and cried, “Pierre, don’t go. Not yet. Let’s ... let’s have dinner together. I’ll just call the Rousseaus to tell them I’ve made other plans.”

She was pleased when he took her to the same café they had visited together the day he made his first sketch of her, the one with the red-and-white checked tablecloths and the plump, mustached owner. He wasn’t there on this Sunday evening, but that didn’t matter. At the moment, Pierre was the only person Nina was seeing, anyway.

“Pierre,” she said hesitantly after their waiter had brought them their dinner, “remember those things you were saying before, about the way it will feel when I have to leave at the end of the summer?” She swallowed hard. “I have been thinking about that, too.”

He nodded. “Nina, what are you going to be doing in the autumn, when you go back home to America?”

“I am going to college.”

“You are excited about this?”

Nina shrugged. “Not really. The college I am going to is small and not very far away from where I grew up. I’m afraid it won’t be much of a challenge. Things won’t be too different from the way they were last year.”

Pierre looked surprised. “If you feel that way, then why did you choose such a place?”

“I didn’t really choose it,” she said slowly, realizing even as she said the words that they sounded absurd. “My parents chose it.”

“Your parents. But I do not understand. Why are they the ones to choose where you will study, where you will live ... how you will be spending the next few years of your life? You are practically a grown woman, Nina. Isn’t it time you made such decisions for yourself?”

His expression immediately turned to one of sheepishness. “I’m sorry. There I go again, exploding all over the place, trying to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do.” He laughed. “So perhaps I am not so different from your parents.”

“No, you are right about my making my own decisions,” Nina told him. “I know you are. But sometimes ... sometimes it is simply easier to go along with what other people want for you. Especially if those people happen to be your parents.”

“Ah, yes. Sometimes I forget that.” He looked sad as he added, “My father died when I was twelve, my mother when I was fifteen. Since then, as you know, I have lived with my grandfather. He is a great influence in my life, of course, but he and I have always just taken it for granted that I would make all those decisions on my own.”

“It’s not that the college I’m going to is a terrible place or anything,” Nina was quick to interject. “It’s just that ...” She sighed. “To tell you the truth, Pierre, before I came to Paris, going to school there seemed to make perfect sense. It was the obvious choice, and it never occurred to me to contradict my parents. But now that I have come here, now that I have lived in this wonderful city....”

“And now that you have met me, of course.” Pierre was trying to sound as if he were teasing.

But this time, it was Nina’s turn to remain serious. “Yes, that, too,” she said. “Having met you has also changed the way I look at things.”

She stared at the edge of the tablecloth for a long time, silent. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were wet.

“Pierre,” she said in a voice choked with emotion, “I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do. Now that I have met you, now that I have fallen in love with this city, how am I supposed to get on a plane at the end of the summer and fly away? How can anyone expect me to leave behind everything that has become important to me?”

Nina shook her head in confusion. “I know this was supposed to be just a summer trip, a chance for me to learn and to expand my horizons and all that. But it’s turning out to be so much more complicated than I ever dreamed. I never expected to feel so much at home here. I’m astounded every time I open my mouth and hear entire French sentences come out. It’s as if I had been born to speak this language. Sometimes I even find myself thinking in French.

“And then ... and then there’s you.” She paused, swallowing hard. “I... I don’t understand the way I feel about you, Pierre. I’ve known you only for a few weeks. It’s such a short time; I know it is. But even so, it’s as if you’re the person I’ve been waiting to meet my whole life. It’s as if I already knew you, somehow, and understood all along that it was just a question of time until I found you.” She looked at him pleadingly. “It’s such a strange feeling, something I’ve never experienced before.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Pierre said, so softly that Nina could hardly hear him. He reached across the table and took her hand, holding it firmly in his. “And I think I know what that feeling is called. It’s love, Nina. I know that I love you. And what about you? Do you think perhaps the feeling you are talking about could be love?”

As Nina looked into his deep blue eyes, she felt as if she were falling into them. And at that moment, she understood that the magic between them was special, something that would never fade.

“Yes, Pierre,” she said. “I know it is love.”

“Surprise, surprise!” cried Nina, thrusting a box that was carefully wrapped in pink-and-lavender paper, then topped with a floppy pink bow, at Kristy.

“Happy birthday,” chimed in Jennifer, who was also holding a gift. “Surprise, Kristy!”

And Kristy really was surprised. The very last thing she had been anticipating that Monday afternoon as she met her two friends in front of the library at the Sorbonne—supposedly for a study session—was an impromptu little birthday celebration.

In fact, she didn’t even expect them to have remembered that today was her birthday, what with all the excitement of being in France for the summer. Sure, she had mentioned it once or twice, just in passing. But she had had no idea they would do anything special.

Yet here they were, both of them with presents in hand. A large, mysterious basket sat on the bench beside them, covered with a neatly folded cloth.

“Those are our party refreshments,” Nina informed Kristy, noticing where her eyes had traveled. “We figured it would be much more fun—much more Parisian—to have a birthday party for you outside in one of the parks.”

“I wanted to have it at McDonald’s,” Jennifer said, laughing. “I thought you might enjoy having a real
American-style
birthday party. But Nina talked me out of it.”

“Any place would have been just fine,” Kristy assured her friends. She was sincerely touched by their thoughtfulness. “But Nina is right. Having a picnic does seem very Parisian. And the idea of celebrating my eighteenth birthday in Paris is so exciting that I might as well do it in a way that makes me feel French.”

And so the three girls set out to find a shady, grassy spot near the Sorbonne, strolling a few blocks over to the famous Jardin du Luxembourg. The grounds surrounding the Palais du Luxembourg, built in the early 1600s, were just the right place for an occasion as important as this one. Kristy, who had already explored this park thoroughly with Alain after one of their lunch dates, led the others to the Fontaine de Medicis, a long, rectangular pool of water surrounded by ornate carvings that was a popular resting place for both Parisians and tourists.

Once they were comfortably seated, Nina lifted off the cloth, spread it out on the lawn, and took out a square white bakery box.

Kristy gasped. “A birthday cake?”

“Well, of course. What did you expect?”

“But where did you ever find a birthday cake ... in Paris?”

Even Jennifer laughed. “They celebrate birthdays here, too, you know.”

Sure enough; inside the box there was a chocolate raspberry
gateau.
Lying in the box next to it were eighteen candles—plus one for good luck. Even the candles were special. They were very long, almost ten niches, and as thin as toothpicks.

“They’re called
bougies,”
Nina informed them, arranging them in a circle on top of the cake. Shyly, she added, “Pierre told me about them.”