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“Soon. We’re having a picnic.”
“Under the Eiffel Tower,” Gina calls out.
“A picnic under the Eiffel Tower! Oh, how exotic. Did you hear that, Chuck? They’re going for a picnic under the Eiffel Tower. It’s a dream come true,” Mom says, pulling the phone close to her face. “But you just be careful. Keep your bag on you at all times. Do you wear that money belt I gave you?”
“Yes, Mom.” It’s a white lie but it makes her feel better.
“And the restaurant?”
“Fine, but we really have to get going for this picnic…” No need to tell her it was anything but fine with obnoxious Olivier Dubois staring over my shoulder. I prefer that Mom thinks that I’m having only the best time of my life, which ninety-nine percent of the time is true.
“We’ll catch up during the week. We have to talk specifics about your father’s and my trip to the Big P!”
Super cringe. “Paris, Mom. No one calls it the Big P.”
“Really? I was sure I heard someone call it that on T.V.”
“Definitely not. But yes, can’t wait to talk about it. You’re going to love Paris.”
“You go have a delightful picnic, then. Bye, girls,” she sings out.
“Bye, Mom,” they reply.
“Love you, dear.” My screen goes black as she covers the camera with her finger. “Where’s that hang up button,” she mutters to herself so I save her the trouble and disconnect the call like I do every time. It’s cute.
Laura locks the door behind us and we trek down the five flights with baskets and blankets in hand.
I know I’ve said this before, and I’m probably going to say it a thousand times more, but is there anything more beautiful than Paris in the spring?
With the sun out and the clouds all but cleared away, the esplanade below the Eiffel Tower is lush and green with the fresh burst of the season.
The ground is a little damp, but leave it to Laura to think of everything.
“A tarp,” she calls out before we dare to lay down the picnic blanket. “Can’t have our little buns getting moist now.”
“Ew,” Annelise cries out. “Don’t say that word.”
“Which? Moist?”
“No, buns.” She grimaces at our laughter.
We aren’t the only ones with the idea of a picnic under the Eiffel Tower. The stretch of grass is full of happy picnickers. Every bench has at least one elderly person on it, most of them filled with two or three folks telling jokes and chuckling. Everyone knows the sunshine won’t last. We have to make the most of every second.
Gina grunts. “Why does this sausage have to be so delicious but so darn hard to cut. It’s like it’s taunting me.”
“Give it here. I might hate most things about being away from home, but this sausage is too good to pass up.” Annelise takes the mini cutting board and steak knife. She tosses the knife in the air, catches it, and slices the dried sausage like a martial arts star, much to our gawking surprise.
Laura raises her eyebrows at me as she pours rosé wine into little picnic glasses.
“Pass the tomatoes,” Jess opens her mouth and Chrissy launches a cherry tomato right on target. “Another one, Sissy Chrissy!”
“Quit it with that stupid name!” Chrissy whips the tomato into Jess’s cheek, sending us all laughing.
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice interrupts.
From our spot on the ground, we all turn to see who dares to intervene in our moment. The sun is behind him, his silhouette tall as he scratches his head.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says and shifts his position so we aren’t squinting at him. “I couldn’t help but overhear you speaking English.”
