As I Breathe (One Breath at a Time: Book 2) (29 page)

Our conversation concluded with me asking Mr. Piccart to repair the hole in the center of the two carved hearts that I had discovered on the staircase.

“Why?” he asked with his old voice cracking; he was clearly upset. “Why would you want to do something like that?”

My lips inadvertently twisted into a purse. I wasn’t expecting such a brash reaction. “Well, someone could fall. Of course…” I timidly said, hesitating over my words. “I wasn’t suggesting that you cover them completely. The funny thing is I fell in love with the hearts. I’m so drawn to them, I would never want you—” Mr. Piccart shook his head back and forth, which caused me to pause.

He spoke very firmly. “I am sure you are drawn to them—who wouldn’t be? The two hearts have been there a long time. I would never think of replacing that step or covering the carving, ever.”

I nodded and flashed him a heartfelt smile. “Yes, I agree with you. I would never cover the hearts either, I just meant…Oh, Mr. Piccart. I didn’t mean to offend you.” I winced, hoping I hadn’t.

“You didn’t offend me. But, who knows what implications it would have if we erased such a sentimental message. I think it speaks of the goodwill of this building and that there were once such passionate lovers here.” He winked devilishly. I was happy to see that his lighthearted demeanor had quickly returned.

“
You’re right. You can still feel their love radiating from the walls of this building. It’s so profound that a symbol of their love is nearly untouched after all these years.”

“
Yes, their love lives on, I am sure.”

“
Do you know who they were?” I buzzed.

“
It’s a mystery to me.” He shrugged.

“
Well…I’m toying with the idea of writing my next novel based on them…whoever
they
were. It could be a fun project for me to write, after I discover who they were, of course. So you really have no idea who they might have been?” I grinned eagerly. “Was it you and some gorgeous young girl?” I pointedly said, then winked.

“
No, not me. But discover…that’s an interesting word,” he said with a meaningful point, changing the subject. “What is it that you love about the hearts? What do they say to you?”

I concentrated on his question for a moment. “The hearts remind me that there’s hope for all of us,” I said and sighed deeply.

“I feel the same way,” he admitted, hoarsely, clearing his throat. “But this old body isn’t what it used to be, if you know what I mean.” He flashed me a debonair grin. “So, I wrap my life around my collection of vintage movies, and my old friends, and enjoy the days I have left to live the best I can. You are still so young, Brielle. You should never give up on love.”

“
I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but it’s hard to believe in love when you begin in a new city with a thrashed heart.” I paused for the space of a heartbeat. “Okay, I have to confess. I was inquiring about who else lives in the brownstone because…” He lowered his brows and looked at me peculiarly. “When I was drunk last night, there was this man who spoke to me on the stairs. I believe he was on the fourth balcony.” I flashed my eyes upward. “His voice penetrated the very being of me. Surely you heard us talking.” I gazed at him curiously.

“
Impossible, we are the only two who have access to the brownstone.” His eyes shifted, examining the area around us.

“
Gosh, could it have been an intruder?” I shuddered at the thought of this.

“
It could have been, but it’s highly unlikely. There’s only one way into this place and that’s through the front door.” He tilted his head in that direction. “You and I are the only ones with pass-codes. Unless you gave it to someone when you were under the influence?” His eyes probed mine.”

“
Oh no, I would never do that,” I said convincingly.

“
I saw from the window how that limo driver was staring at you last night,” he said with a titter. “Maybe he returned when you weren’t looking.”

“
Oh gosh, I don’t think so. He left with Nuilley.”

I couldn’t believe that Mr. Piccart openly admitted he was watching me. I guess everyone in Paris was into voyeurism of some sort. Although it was good to know Mr. Piccart was looking out for me, still, it was a bit too much...

“You are such a beauty Brielle, you need to be careful and curb your enthusiasm with the wrong men, for they may get a slanted impression of you. You don’t want to be so available and nice to every Tom, Richard and Harry.” I grinned inwardly that Mr. Piccart couldn’t say the name Dick.

Still, I couldn’t believe my ears that he was advising me to toe the line. Mr. Piccart was known as one of the most infamous directors of his time and had no compunction about openly flaunting his many,
many
lady friends. I supposed he was trying to be protective of me, which I found endearing, but highly unnecessary.

“
Hmm, maybe because I am so lonely it was just my silly imagination.” My eyes fell to my knotted fingers, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “But, he just felt so real.”

“
Well, perhaps he was. Either way, make sure to close the front door completely. A time or two I’ve accidentally left it ajar and a few homeless people have sneaked in to get shelter.”

“
Oh wow, I’ll make sure too close it. Do you think that was the case last night; a homeless guy snuck in, or do you think he was a ghost?” I swallowed hard then laughed off the idea that it was a ghost.

“
Could have been.” He shrugged. “I have an appointment soon, so I need to get on my way.”

“
Of course. Thanks for listening.” My voice trailed off.

Mr. Piccart didn’t clarify who he thought it was: a homeless man or a ghost. I let it slide since he claimed to be in such a hurry.

He turned to leave then pivoted back around. “I have read your work, and I think you have a fascinating imagination. What a powerful tool it is.” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “But honestly, we’re the only humans who live here,” he said, chuckling.

That evoked a thought of irony: because ghosts are dead, they don’t live. My spine tingled at the way he had said the word, “
humans.”
I began to understand he believed that the brownstone was truly haunted. His hint was enough to make me believe it, too. Just a little…

***

Weeks had passed since that evening. I hadn’t seen nor heard from my mystery man, or whoever he was. Maybe, he was still hiding out in the brownstone. But, I wouldn’t have known. I’d been holed up in my place plotting the hook for my next novel. I hadn’t been out past sundown, and I certainly was not in the mood to party since I had gotten so sick the last time I had gone out.

Nuilley called me a few times, wanting me to join her at this café or that nightclub. She knew all the hotspots; I begged her off, realizing that my best friend was living
The Life of Riley
.

As much as I loved to hang out with Nuilley all she wanted to do was party. Our schedules were going in two different directions. I had more to accomplish with my nights than going to parties and drinking. I had my work, and I dove into it with a new enthusiasm. I chose to shut myself off from the world, all but Mr. Piccart. An old man with a big film collection was becoming my confidant, and my most trusted platonic friend.

I also gave up on all temptations of spying on my neighbors, for now. As for the man that hid in the shadow of the balcony, perhaps, he was as I told Mr. Piccart, just a figment of my overactive imagination due to all of the consumption that night…and wishful thinking.

Though time after time after that night, I felt a powerful presence, especially in the building and in my apartment, and once, when I bought daffodils for myself. I felt him with me that day as if he were beside me when I walked home from the flower market. Feeling his presence near me made smile, but perhaps, it was the armful of daffodils that lifted my spirit.

Thereafter, I bought flowers for myself once a week. I believed that he was with me, every time. The feeling of this imaginary friend, as crazy as it was, especially since I was an adult, it felt comforting to me. I began to feel not so alone in Paris. The city was growing on me as if I had surely been meant to live there. Perhaps I had.

***

I paused and addressed my captor, “Doctor Tagorski. “I have always felt a strange connection with Paris, but it wasn’t just to pursue my career in writing here; it’s so much more than that. If someone had told me my future prior to moving here, I think I would’ve told them I would rather drown myself in a bathtub,” I said blithely, referring to losing my memory and being held captive.

“
That’s so self-destructive,” Doctor Tagorski said, frowning. His mien was over the top humorless.

“
I’m joking...really. Paris has been an amazing experience.” I laughed and told him that, at my own expense, because things were getting too serious. “Well, up until now. I don’t know why you insist on holding me here.” Doctor Tagorski opened his mouth to speak but I wasn’t in the mood to hear more excuses. “Yeah, I know you think I stole some girl’s identity but seriously I didn’t. So what, that I know have no idea how I was injured? That’s not a valid reason for keeping me here. I shouldn’t be in this place, it’s for mentally disturbed people, and I’m not crazy and—”

“
Miss Eden, I can’t argue all the facts with you until I understand everything and your memory is fully recovered. I’m not sure what we are dealing with here, and until I do, I’m sorry. It’s not my intention to make you feel as if you’re a prisoner. That’s not the case. Please let’s continue. And know we—I want to help you.”

”
We”
certainly had a strange way of trying to help me: his nurse had tried to kill me and Dr. Tagorski had attempted to give me electric shock therapy.

Suddenly, I felt like crying. My emotions dropped like a dead bird, then it all came back to me; the day that changed my life forever in Paris.

-30-

Charades of Rain

I exited through the main entrance of the old brownstone, sauntering along the rocky path through the courtyard that would eventually meet with the street to the city.

Throughout the garden, roses were in first bloom. I peeled off my gloves. I love wearing anything vintage, especially from the nineteen forties. Carefully, I plucked several open blossoms from the rose bush. I cradled the small cluster of beauty in the palms of my hands, inhaling its intoxicating fragrance.

“
Ah-choo!” I sneezed, dropping the flowers to the ground.

I gingerly knelt down, balancing my weight on my four-inch stilettos and picked up the scattered roses. I ran my fingers across their velvety textured petals. They felt as soft as baby powder. Tiny dewdrops still clung to each petal.

I once believed that dewdrops were tears left by sad little fairies that desired to be mortal. How I’d still like to believe in this romantic fantasy. As I touched the fragile dewdrops, they disappeared, melting like sugar onto my warm fingertips.

As I flitted down the hillside cobblestone road, I heard in the near distance the low rumbling sound of a lawn mower. I stopped and stretched out my arms into the cool breeze and drew into my nostrils the crisp scent of the fresh-cut grass that wafted on the air.

The scent of fresh-cut grass unraveled a quintessential memory in my mind, the same way a magician uncoils his handkerchief from his hat. It just happens, like magic and takes me back to a time long ago:

I’m a child again, visiting my grandmother in Connecticut, and waking up at dawn to the imperceptible sound of a lawn mower’s motor. I can see from my open bedroom window my great-grandfather riding around on his big red mower. The monster mower seemed to come alive to me as it chomped into the dense green blades of grass. As it spit the freshly cut grass from the sides of its mechanical mouth, it released the scent of watermelon rind. I could almost smell the sweet mixture as if I were still there...

A few bike riders swiftly passed me by, startling me back to reality, so I continued to walk on toward the city while observing the budding of spring awakening after a long winter of hibernation.

When I turned the corner into town, I could see that overnight the tourists had returned in handfuls. Nearly all seats in the outside cafés were occupied with beautiful people. They basked in a nonverbal state of mind, like that of a cactus that never moves. They nibbled buttery croissants, sipped lattes, drank vino and chain-smoked cigarettes, watching the day go by.

If you don’t have the habit of smoking upon arriving in Paris, you will before leaving. Parisians certainly have a way of making the habit seem very vogue and quite sexy.

I took a detour through the park; it was stocked with lazy lovers stretched out on blankets and snuggling. Spring had definitely arrived with a bang. I hoped it would bring new love to those that yearned for it, and that included me.