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“Anna,” Max says, shaking his head. “Don’t worry.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You aren’t the one who would end up in prison.”
“But if I forget you,” he says, “isn’t that another sort of prison? I’ll be sentenced to never knowing what I’m missing.”
My lips part on a small, surprised exhale. “Does that mean?—?”
“I hope I don’t forget this,” Max says. “It’s been unexpected.”
“In a good way?”
“In the best way.”
We smile at each other, then Edith opens the door, here to collect the parure and send us on our way.
On our way out, back through the marble halls and echoing chambers, down the grand staircase, I can’t help but think about the fact that no matter what happens tomorrow, we still have tonight.
20
The sun isa bright white orb in the bleached blue sky, hanging like a glittering diamond over the Jardin des Tuileries. I blink into the light, letting my eyes adjust to the startling reality that yes, I am in Paris, and yes, it’s as wonderful as I always imagined it would be.
Although I can’t quite decide if it’s wonderful because it’s Paris or if it’s wonderful because I’m here with Max.
Little spots dance in my vision as I take in the sun glittering off stone and statues, and Max takes my hand in a firm, welcome grip. The spring breeze teases us, the cool air kissing my cheeks. The shadows are lengthening beneath the museums and monuments, reaching across the cobblestone and dipping toward the stretch of trees spanning the park.
I shiver as we walk, because although the sun is warm and the air is more temperate than the museum, there is still a bit of late-spring chill in the air. The unfurling red and yellow tulips, the pearl string of pink flowers on the redbud trees, all shout that spring is here and summer is rushing toward us. There’s a soft, subtle floral perfume and green metal chairs are spaced about on the crushed limestone, tempting people to sit, relax, and enjoy the changing of the seasons.
A white-haired couple sit in a pair of green chairs reading a newspaper together under a pink magnolia tree. As Max and I pass, the woman glances up, notes our clasped hands, and gives me a knowing smile, as if to say, “Ah, young love!”
I can practically hear the birds singing and the strains of an accordion playing “La Vie en Rose” while she imagines me and Max gliding into the sunset of dusky pink clouds, fluttering rose petals, and romantic amour.
My chest thuds hollowly and I give a tremulous smile back, feeling somehow as if I’ve lied to a woman I don’t know and I want to apologize for the mistake.
But then we’re past the couple and Max gives my hand a squeeze.
“Thank you,” he says, and when I glance at him in surprise he lets out a sharp laugh at my expression.
“What? Why?” I ask, looking around. We’re in the mecca of tourism, within shouting distance of the Louvre and in the shadow of the the Arc de Triomphe. There’s an odd juxtaposition of serene park and fragile tulips quietly reaching toward the sun, clashing with the thousands of people that hurry through every day on their way to the next monument.
“For today. I’ve had ...” He glances across the short, cushioned grass, the crushed limestone and naked, weathered statues, back toward the Seine and our little island interlude. “A wonderful time.”
“Are you feeling sentimental? Already regretting the end of our marriage?” I ask, trying to keep the mood as light as the candy-pink petunias dotting the flower bed we’re passing.
But who am I kidding? Petunias aren’t light—they’re one of the hardiest flowers around. If you want a flower that survives, you pick a petunia. They barely need any attention; they aren’t fussy at all. Just add sun, some water, and voila, you have a flower that will bloom for you all summer long. Fine, a bit of deadheading is necessary, but don’t we all need to let go of what’s not working every now and then?
“What are you thinking?” Max asks, “You have the strangest expression on your face.”
I wrinkle my nose when I look up at him. “I just realized I’m a petunia.”
“A petunia? The flower?”
I point at the bright pink blooms. “There are some flowers that are fussy. That need coddling. That need constant attention. The soil has to be the perfect pH. They have to be fed composted fish brains, alfalfa meal, or a generous helping of manure ...” I wave my hand, shooing that away.
“So you’re telling me you don’t need to be fed manure?” he asks, his lips twitching.
“No. I’ve never been one to appreciate being fed a load of crap.” I grin. “I’m just ... easy. I don’t need a lot in life. I don’t need a big house or lots of money or constant adoration. It doesn’t take much to make me happy. For instance, for years I loved—” I’m about to say that for years I loved him, and all it took was standing in the partial sun of his presence, the remnants of his life, for me to fall. But I cut myself off just in time and instead say, “The small things. That’s a petunia. Just sun, water, a bit of food, and they bloom beautifully all summer long. But”—I narrow my eyes thoughtfully on the flower bed—“I was only wondering if maybe it’d be better if I was a rose. Or an orchid. Let me tell you, orchids are the worst to care for, but people love them. They’re obsessed. There are clubs for orchids, fan sites, societies. It’s like the harder something is to care for, the fussier it is, the more people love it. Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong. I’m a petunia when I should’ve been an orchid. People notice orchids. They don’t notice petunias.”
Max stops. Pulls me to the side of the path under the shade of a chestnut tree. The leaves rustle in the wind, whispering above us, and the light dapples over Max’s face, darkening his eyes.
