Paris by the Book(72)

I smiled, or tried to, though he couldn’t see, or hear, that. Or maybe he could.

“Leah?” he said. “It’s . . . been a while.”

“It has,” I said, and then, again, nothing. Because this meeting was a terrible idea. What I needed was time—a week, a month, more—to reassess, think things through.

“It was a really long line,” Declan finally said. “And they were really grateful. And really rich.”

“Declan,” I said. “I can’t—I mean, it sounds amazing, but—let’s do coffee, okay? Still free—I’ll pay.”

“That’s not really what I was talking about,” Declan said.

“I know,” I said. “I’m not really talking about what I’m talking about either.”

That sounded more nonsensical than even the worst of my SMS missteps, but as we efficiently made plans to meet in the Place des Vosges, I could hear in his voice—sad, heavy, spent—that it was the one exchange all morning he’d understood perfectly.



* * *



—

Bises, one cheek, the other, and the scent, the smile, almost made me stop and kiss him on the lips. But then my phone buzzed, and there was my other life, interrupting.

Good morning my dear I am sorry for last night I will need COFFEE and now: a text from Eleanor, vital, to be sure, and yet I worried she had absolutely no idea how much she was spending using her American cell phone in France. I shook my head, apologized to Declan, and quickly texted Eleanor back: I’m meeting a friend. I’d texted her in English, of course, but I wondered how that friend would translate.

We need to TALK, Eleanor said. See you at the store in a horse.

“Ellie?” Declan said.

Hooray, Eleanor texted.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have a little less time than I thought.”

HOUR, Eleanor texted.

It took Declan and me far less time to skip past pleasantries to anger.

“So this is how it’s going to go down?” Declan asked. The waitress brought our cafés. I didn’t really want coffee; I wanted a shot, even a beer. I wanted this to be our first drink, I wanted to be headed off to go dancing soon, and I wanted to be paging through The Red Balloon again in my kitchen, and this time, instead of studying Robert’s face in a photo, I wanted to close the book and study Declan’s.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“It’s been over a week since I’ve heard from you, you know,” Declan said. “I mean, I’m sorry I took you out dancing the night your daughter got sick, but that was your idea—”

“Declan,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts. You were very kind. I was very distracted. I am very distracted. There’s been a lot going on.”

“I’m sure,” Declan said. “I mean—I know. The hospital. Daphne. It must have been very scary.”

After I’d fiddled with my cup and saucer long enough to let my own anger melt into sadness, I told him about Eleanor, about everything. Everything I should have told him earlier. I told him that I had not been a widow and now might be—but for the fact that I was increasingly convinced my husband was alive. There’d been a note in a book. There’d been Daphne’s shout on the bridge. There’d been the back of someone’s head in the fuzzy corner of a frame from a DIY surveillance video system installed by my teenage daughter’s Canadian boyfriend.

I told him that almost all my favorite memories of Paris involved him, Declan.

“Like the mugging in Ménilmontant?” he said. “Or the time you learned the French term for ‘police psychologist’? Or when you invited me out for coffee to—to do whatever it is we’re doing now?”

“Like a fifty-course midafternoon meal lit by a million flowers. Like a daytime whatever in my kitchen with wine instead of coffee. Like when you took me dancing and kept asking afterward if everything was okay—kept asking, even when I didn’t answer.”

“You’re not answering me now,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I—if I’m hearing you—”

“You are,” I said.

“I can’t be,” he said. “What you’re saying is that a woman’s arrived from Milwaukee, and she’s told you the police think your husband is dead. There’s a boat, some kind of report. Your daughters haven’t heard about this yet—”

“And won’t,” I said.

“You keep pretending that I don’t know them, your girls?” Declan said. “Not well, but enough to know that—they’ll—”

“Fine, yes, I need to tell them, but that’s my problem, not—”

“But that’s not—I don’t think problem’s even the right word.”

“Problème is an excellent word. In English or French.”

“The problem is you think—you know—he’s still alive. And you think—you think you saw him. You think you were getting messages from him before, you thought you saw him before, but now—now you know.”

“I think I know,” I said.