Capturing Paris (31 page)

She was glad they were speaking English. In her state of excitement she didn't want a layer of language between them. “Completely.” She decided not to tell him about her first summer there with Wesley. “My first winter here it did nothing but rain. You know, that cold, continual drizzle that chills you to the bone. Sophie was a toddler then, and sick all the time. She did nothing but cry.” She met his gaze. “I still thought I was in heaven.”

Their champagne arrived. Annie wondered if he felt the same energy, a sexual pull, that had been there all along. He gave no sign of it. He told her more about his childhood summers in the south of France
in the little village of La Motte. He adored his grandmother, and he talked about her garden, the fields of lavender, the buttery peach tarts she made for Sunday lunch. He didn't discuss the book. It was like they were on holiday, and any talk of business was off limits.

The champagne worked its magic, and the salmon was a perfect balance of salty and sweet; it melted on her tongue. She reached for the butter, a plate of pale yellow pats shaped into leaves. He handed her the basket of rolls, plump crusty rounds that felt warm in her hand. The formality they'd clung to on previous meetings faded completely.

“I've always adored French butter,” she said. “The butter in the States is flavorless in comparison.” She slathered her roll with a daringly large amount. “I must take you to Normandy.
Mon oncle
, he has a farm. He doesn't work it any longer, but there, wait until you taste the cheese, and
le cidre
.” He brought his clustered fingers to his lips in an appreciative culinary gesture. “You have never tasted anything like the cider from his place.”

They continued to talk about food, their favorite dishes, where they liked to eat. Later a comfortable silence fell between them. They had a second glass of champagne, the air cooled, and bit by bit, as the sun disappeared, a sea of lights twinkled below them.

“I'm afraid I still haven't finished the final poem.” She didn't want to spoil their lovely evening. Though he hadn't asked, she felt like she needed to offer some explanation.

“I am not worried about that. You should take your time.”

“I want it to be just right. Perfect.”

“Oh, but you must not. In art, perfection is a bad thing.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned in toward her. “Think of a poem like a garden. No, a flower.” He motioned to the rose on their table. “One must pick the flower before it comes to full bloom, before it is perfect. A poem is the same. It is the reader who takes it home and makes it his own. The reader brings his own life to it. It is he who makes it
fini
.”

“You make me feel better.” Annie smiled, relieved.

“For this I am glad.” He hailed their waiter and paid the bill.

He suggested a walk and she agreed. She followed him down the escalator. The entire evening now seemed predestined to her—wherever they went, whatever they did, was bound to happen. There was nothing to do to stop it, even if she had wanted to. By the time they reached the quay along the Seine, she had taken Paul's arm and fallen comfortably into step beside him.

They crossed the river to the Île Saint-Louis and walked the entire length of the island, down the narrow center street, peering in the windows of bookshops, antique-print stores, and tiny restaurants. Voices and laughter rose and echoed between the buildings, along with the buzz of motorbikes. She leaned into him when they stepped onto the narrow sidewalk to avoid a passing car brave enough to maneuver the tiny street.

They crossed to the Left Bank and at place Saint-Michele began to wander in the warren of tiny streets between the boulevard Saint-Germain and the river. Annie loved the feeling of village life in this part of Paris. The darkened streets bustled with activity as people went off to dinner and filled the cozy restaurants, two or three to a block. Annie felt she could walk like this for hours, but she sensed by now that something was about to happen. Paul became more quiet and acted as though he had a specific destination in mind by the way he chose each particular street, turning left and then right with intent. She wondered if they would stop somewhere soon.

They reached the place de Furstenberg, the beautiful square that François had photographed and the site of her unfinished poem. That photograph and her poem were to be the final page in the book. Annie knew that he had brought her here on purpose. They stood together in the intimate space, at the center of the smallest square in the city of Paris. It was quiet here, and the only light came from gas lamps and the glimmer of a few lighted windows several stories above. The tall, elegant houses surrounded them, sheltering them from the real world, that other world that for the moment they didn't inhabit.

Neither spoke. Paul took her face in his hands, as she knew he would, and kissed her. She could feel the photograph come to life. He put his arms around her and she pressed against him, feeling her blood pulse through her veins like the Seine flowing through Paris.

“You will come to my apartment?”

She stepped away and nodded. She gave no thought to right or wrong. She was powerless to stop. He didn't need her, she thought; she didn't need him. It was the pure, simple, uncomplicated thing called desire that was bringing them together. Only that.

He took her hand, and they walked to his apartment building on a narrow street not far from where they'd stood. He kissed her again in the tiny elevator inside the building. Whether it was months of being alone, the champagne, or the magic of a Paris night that had gone to her head, she no longer cared. The elevator came to a stop and he fumbled for the keys to his door. The hall light clicked off just as the door yielded, and they stepped into the foyer of his apartment. She followed him into the living room, their feet soundless on the heavy carpeting.

He did not turn on the lights, but a wall of windows flooded the room with an aqueous glow. He pulled off his scarf and took her coat, tossing it onto a chair. Annie was more aware of the play of shadows on the rug than any furnishings or domestic details. He kissed her again, more emphatically. There was nothing to decide. She followed him into the bedroom.

Later she barely remembered the shedding of clothing, the first sensation of his skin against hers, the weight of his body, the softness of the bed that held them.

The next morning he brought her coffee and they made love again. This time more slowly, in the light, their eyes open. She allowed her fingers the luxury of lingering in his hair. She stroked the muscles down his back, his legs, his chest. She didn't want to forget his body, how he felt, the texture and shape of him. This time it was Paul who seemed to lose himself while Annie noticed every nuance of pleasure. She was the poet savoring the details, cataloging each sensual touch, observing and storing the memories.

The sex was of course different from married sex. There was a certain degree of fear, fear of the unknown, fear of disappointing. But the power, the sense of excitement, could have swallowed her whole; the very newness brought her senses to the edge. That morning they took their time and prolonged the pleasure. He whispered endearments, he
whispered words she didn't understand, he whispered in French. Once, she heard him say “Marie Laure.” He said it clearly, like the tinkling of a bell, and his wife's name hung momentarily between them.

Afterward, he pulled her tightly in his arms, her back to him, like one shell tucked into another. “I am sorry,” he said.

“No, it's fine.” She did understand. He still thought about his wife, just as she couldn't help but think of Wesley.

“I have not been with another woman since the accident.”

She rolled over to face him and put her fingers to his lips. There were tears in his eyes and she kissed him there and on his forehead. She traced her fingers down his nose, across his lips, and across the firm line of his chin. She kissed him lightly behind one ear and tried to inhale all of him one last time before slipping out of bed.

Annie walked home along the quays, taking the bridge at the foot of Notre-Dame. Paul had wanted to come with her, but she insisted that she wanted to be by herself. She kept her coat open despite the cold air. A damp wind whipped across the Seine, and Annie stopped on the bridge and watched the stiff current passing below, barely feeling the change in the weather. The river was high, and people had started grumbling about the possibility of closing some of the roads close to the riverbanks.

This didn't matter to her; nothing mattered to her that morning except the exquisite sense of freedom she felt, like some cloud had lifted in her life. She felt energetic and infused with a new awareness, a kind of clarity that would carry her in the days ahead. She had done it. She had allowed herself that one selfish act, and for now it was all that mattered. The old Annie would never have slept with a man not her husband. She had committed adultery. She smiled down at the churning water. A flat barge passed under the bridge. The laundry of the captain's family flapped on the line on the rear deck. Would his wife, presumably the woman who had clipped the laundry to the line, have ever slept with another man?

She looked up at the sky, the pallid gray she was accustomed to. She buttoned her coat, turned up the collar, and continued across the
bridge. She wanted to get home and finish the place de Furstenberg poem. The words were busily taking shape in her head.

Annie was standing at the windows in her living room when the doorbell rang late the following afternoon. The last poem was complete. She had printed it out and set it aside for one more review in the morning, but she knew she had it right. It spoke of love, of disappointment, the bittersweet taste of desire. When she read the poem aloud it sounded like music to her, the proper melody to accompany François's photograph.

Annie went to the door. Maybe it was Céleste or Hélène stopping by for a cup of tea. Instead, Daphne stood in the entranceway. She looked pale, tired, like a transparency of her former self. “I know you didn't expect me.”

“It's been quite a while.” Annie realized she hadn't thought about Daphne for a long time.

“I decided to take a chance—that you might be home.”

“Come in.” Annie took the cape from her shoulders and led Daphne into the living room. “I have some white wine chilled. Would you like a glass?” Annie felt no animosity. Daphne's unexpected arrival seemed like another predestined moment whose script had already been written.

“That would be lovely,” she said. “You look well. I gather single life still suits you?”

“Some of it does.”

Daphne studied her as if trying to assess what else had changed in her friend. “Tell me, how's the book coming?”

“Very well. I may have finished the final poem today.”

“I remember what you told me about writing them over and over, always trying to find a better word, the perfect metaphor,” Daphne reminisced, her voice melancholy.

They sat in Annie's big living room. She poured the wine, a pale Sancerre, into two short-stemmed glasses. The fading light fell on the buttery walls, the quilts, the soft cushions that made it feel like home. Annie loved the leisurely approach of spring evenings.

Daphne nodded toward the long farm table at the other end of the room. “I remember your wonderful solstice party and sitting at that table.”

“So much has happened since then,” Annie said. She could still see Daphne in the burgundy dress, all the men drawn in by her sultry charm as they sat in the pool of candlelight. Annie remembered feeling sick and at odds during the party. That night, Daphne had quietly taken control of her life. First introducing her work to Paul, encouraging her to make her poetry a priority, and then allowing her to become a part of her world at God House.

In hindsight, it was easy to see that meeting Daphne and becoming her friend had started something, had brought about a shift, a change of outlook in Annie's life. Though he had not sought it, Wesley had undergone a similar change. Both of their lives had spun off in different directions that winter.

“Yes,” Daphne said. “Indeed, much has happened.” She paused as if she didn't know what to say next. “I came to ask your forgiveness.”

Annie stiffened. She had worked hard to forget the awful night when she found Wesley and Daphne together. She swirled the wine in her glass. What could she say now, months later? The damage seemed irreparable.

“Wesley told you the truth. On the night of the storm he did come to God House to ask me to persuade you to go with him to the States. He didn't come running to me to start some kind of affair. I want you to believe that.”

“None of that matters anymore.”

“But it does matter. It's you I care about. I still do.”

“Daphne, that wasn't going to work, not in the way you'd hoped.”

“I know that now. I suppose I was asking too much. I wanted us to be like Antoinette and Mother. We'd become such good friends, so quickly, and I hoped you felt the same way.”

“I did feel very close.” Annie sipped her wine. Maybe it would numb the pain. “You came into my life when I truly needed someone. You were such a help.” Annie struggled to keep her old anger at bay. “Why didn't you send him home that night? I mean, if you cared about me, why did you let Wesley stay?”

“I'd like to blame it on the weather,” she said, not quite smiling. “But seriously, he was so upset that my first thought was to give him a drink. That led to another. I thought that if I slept with Wesley, he'd realize that your marriage was over.”

Daphne looked down at her feet. She didn't act like the bold friend that Annie remembered. She sat holding her wine, her shoulders rounded, and looked hesitant, almost afraid. “Neither of you seemed very happy,” she continued. “I wanted Wesley to leave you. I wanted you to turn to me. I was thinking selfishly. I know there's no excuse.” She sipped her wine. “If it makes you feel any better, you should know he tried to refuse me at first—”