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“We have twelve hundred pieces displayed. More than five thousand in our entire collection.” She gives another flick of her fingers toward a glass case holding a diamond and sapphire diadem from the 1800s.
I blink at the sparkle of the stones as they catch the light.
Edith turns to look back at us, still moving quickly through the collection, her heels clicking briskly on the floor. “But you know that, having contributed many pieces over the years.”
She speaks with a southwestern French accent, which to my ear has a more Spanish or Catalan feel, where the silent “e” is still pronounced, and so is the “r.”
She speaks French in an almost singsong voice, slowly swinging through all the syllables in every word. And wow, do I appreciate it. The Swiss French I’m used to is spoken more slowly and uses different words and phrases than Parisian French. Since we arrived this morning I’ve struggled to keep up with the pace of the language. It’s as if the city, so fast-moving, has caused the people who live here to shorten all their words to keep up with the rush. They swallow sounds, drop the “e” and the “i,” shorten sentences, and hide the “pas,” so I can’t tell whether anyone means yes or no. It’s left me in a sort of daze, and I’m incredibly grateful Max somehow has the ability to drop his native accent and blend seamlessly with the city.
So Edith, with her singsong accent, is a welcome relief.
She guides us through the restricted section, where the historical methods of jewelry production are explored, and then into a small, windowless, white-walled room with a round table, four chairs, and a decided lack of sparkle.
“I’m grateful you could arrange this on such short notice,” Max says as Edith gestures for us to take a seat.
“It isn’t a problem.” She waves away his thanks. “It will only be a moment. I’ll retrieve the parure. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Once her footsteps have faded down the hall, Max pulls a chair free for me, its legs scraping against the ground. It’s quiet in this small room. Cold. Without thousands of diamonds winking at me, I finally know where to look.
I sit and Max settles next to me.
I breathe in the scent of his warm leather jacket, the lingering trace of fresh park air, and a hint of freesia. Max has been holding them for me, unwilling to give them up even though they’re fading fast. Now they’re on the cushion of the chair, tucked under the table.
Max smiles at me—a long, slow, happy smile that pulls me back to his words on the footbridge. His promise. His lips curl as I draw in a shuddering breath.
Sometimes when you take off a thin gold necklace, you drop it on top of your dresser, and almost magically it coils into a spiral, wrapping around itself. That’s the feeling I have right now. There’s a shimmering gold chain dropping inside me and coiling in a tight spiral at the base of my spine. It glows and pulses and shines.
Max makes a soft noise at the look on my face, and then he moves his chair close and presses his thigh against mine. At the pressure I nearly climb on top of his lap again and straddle him, just like under the weeping willow.
Max slowly takes my hand, threads our fingers together, and then rests our joined hands in his lap.
He’s dark. His black hair is longer on the top than on the sides and his stubble is already thick from a half-day of growth. His features are hard-planed, with a sharp nose and a square jaw. His gaze is direct. He said he’ll always know what I’m thinking, but right now he’s easy to read too.
He wants me.
He wants me with a heat that burns.
I can’t decide if it’s a wish come true or if it’s the worst possible outcome.
My heart alternates between quick, fluttery beats and slow, aching thumps.
Tonight I’m going to lay myself bare. And tomorrow, all the heat and passion? It’ll likely be gone. I wonder whether Max’s theory —that passion burned out leaves only ashes and pain—or my theory—that one flaming night can light the rest of your life—will prove true.
Only time will tell.
Max strokes my palm in a slow circle and a tingle works its way up my arm. The dry, cold air of the museum is replaced by a flushed heat.
Neither of us say anything. The sounds around us are loud. The creaking of the chair when Max shifts. The rustle of my dress when I move closer to him. Max’s long exhale. Heavy footsteps in the hallway. A murmured conversation as colleagues pass. Every sense is heightened. Hearing. Touch. Smell. Taste.
I can still taste his kiss on my lips. It tastes like addiction.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He leans close and says sotto voce, his words vibrating in the shell of my ear, “Do you remember what to do?”
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking. He isn’t talking about kissing or sex or how two bodies come together. He’s asking if I remember what we discussed on our hurried walk from Pont Neuf to the museum.
“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”
Then the already familiar sound of Edith’s brisk walk clicks down the corridor. We turn toward the door as she enters the room carrying a large burgundy leather case.
