Fanfare (26 page)

“Maybe you should do something more low-key,” he mused.

“I’m sure I’ll find something to fill the time with. It’s impossible for me to sit still for long,” I joked.

“I’m well aware of that fact. On that note, I think I’ve come up with something for you to do.”

“Like what?” I teased suggestively.

“Well, for starters . . . you can open the door.”

“Huh?” I gasped.

“Open the bloody door, love. I’m outside.” He chuckled.

I dropped the dishtowel on the floor, raced to the front door, and yanked it open.

Sure enough, my tall drink of water stood in our front yard with a huge grin on his face and his cell phone in his hand. A taxicab idled in our driveway with its lights on.

“Wha- what?” I stammered as I clicked my phone shut.

“Do you want to go with me to a museum?” he asked without missing a beat.

I raced towards him and threw my arms around his neck.

“Are you crazy?” I demanded through my laughter.

“Yes. Do you want to go with me to a museum?” he pressed as he waved back at the house behind me. Mami had come to situate herself by the front door with a look of flabbergasted shock on her face.

“Um, what museum?”

“It’s a surprise. You’re just going to have to trust me. Yes or no?” His eyes sparkled with merriment as he gazed into mine.

“Yes, of course—but—”

He didn’t let me finish. “Go upstairs and grab your passport.”

“Are you nuts? Where are we going?” I insisted.

“I told you: to a museum. I know you’ll like it.”

“Thomas!” I cried.

“Cristina! Come on, you promised to live outside your head more. Trust me. Go get your passport.” He placed a kiss on my forehead and strolled over to Mami and hugged her.

Confusion and excitement warred within me as I considered arguing further with my obstinate boyfriend but decided against it as I raced upstairs to retrieve my passport and brush my teeth. Upon further contemplation, I changed my clothes and threw some necessities into a small bag to take with me.

I came back downstairs. Tom and my mother were seated at the little table in our breakfast nook. She held both of his hands in each of hers and lavished words of thanks on him. He smiled kindly at her with such caring compassion that I could feel myself fall in love with him all over again. As I walked over to them, she released his hands, and he hastily rose to his feet.

“Mami, I guess I’ll call you from . . . wherever it is we’re going!” I shook my head at Tom and didn’t even attempt to hide my bewilderment.

“Go, go!” she sniffed.

“Are you crying?” I demanded.

“No! Esto, I’m just surprised to see Tom. Pero, please call me when you get there!”

“Don’t worry! I will!”

“I won’t worry, querida. Not anymore,” she said quietly as she hugged me. She turned towards Tom and positioned herself on her tiptoes to embrace him tightly. As she pulled away, she put her right hand on his cheek in a gesture I always associated with deep affection. I guess my mother liked surprises more than I did.

In the cab, I wasn’t too surprised when Tom directed the driver to take us to the airport since he specifically asked me to grab my passport.

“We’re not really going to a museum, are we?” I intoned.

“Of course we are. I wouldn’t ask you to go to a museum if I had no intention of taking you. Unfortunately, there are no museums open around here right now, so we have to go someplace else.”

“Like?” I pushed.

“Like . . . a museum you need a passport for,” he teased.

“Seriously, tell me! Anyway, I’ll find out where we’re going as soon as we get to the airport!” I said with exasperation. While glancing circumspectly at his disheveled good looks, I decided I needed a proper kiss, and he needed some “persuasion.” I leaned over to him and pressed my lips lightly on his neck and across his jawbone. He sighed as his hands moved to my lower back to pull me closer against him.

“Tommy?”

“You’re wicked.” He groaned.

I grinned. “Tell me.”

He smirked back at me. “I will. But first, let me tell you a story.”

I shoved him away jokingly. He chuckled for a moment and proceeded with his tale.

“I promise it’s relevant. Besides, you could use some patience.

“About a year ago, I was forced to attend these mall autograph signings all over the country. One particularly sad Sunday, I saw a petite girl with an angry face cutting her eyes at me from the queue. It intrigued me because she was clearly bored out of her mind. We definitely shared that sentiment. When she came closer, I saw that the angry girl was actually quite beautiful. Further intrigued, I attempted to engage her in dialogue with the help of some inane questions. She proceeded to accuse me of being a racist sod. I was hooked. So, I began stalking her through email and text messages. In a pathetic attempt to learn as much about her as possible, I asked random questions of her on almost a daily basis.” He stopped to press a kiss to my forehead.

“Sounds like a really interesting story. Yet, I fail to see the relevance.”

“It’s relevant. You already know where we’re going. You told me on Monday, January 12, 2009.” He stared evenly at me with an intense look that suddenly made me feel lightheaded.

“What was the question?” My mind searched through tomes of emails.

He merely smiled back at me patiently.

Museums. Passports. Questions in January. No way. No freaking way.

“You’re-you’re . . . are we going to Paris?” I squeaked.

“Could you please pull around to the Air France terminal?” Tom said smoothly to the driver, faced me again, and wagged his eyebrows in a manner that clearly affirmed my rather inarticulate assessment.

Speechless, I threw my arms around his neck. He laughed softly as he returned the embrace.

“Happy Birthday.”

“My birthday is not for another two weeks!” I croaked.

“I’ll be in Madrid then. I changed your birthday this year. Temporarily.”

I managed to find my voice again. “How omnipotent of you, oh mighty one!”

We breezed through airport check-in without any undue notice and were directed by the Air France staff into a private waiting area prior to boarding our flight. The plane sped down the runway at eleven that evening. I tried hard to fall asleep, and Tom continually pressured me to rest since we would arrive in Paris in the middle of the day. Honestly, it did not matter to me in the slightest if I spent the next forty-eight hours awake. I would gladly suffer the consequences.

We were going to Paris! The man I loved was taking me to the city I adored. It was wondrously cheesy, and yet it was also one of the most amazing things anyone had ever done for me.

Go to hell, Ryan Sullivan, and take with you every silly fairy tale you believed was meant only for children.

“Where do you want to go for lunch?” Tom asked as we waited for a chauffeured car upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle.

“I have no idea!” I laughed with exuberance as I absorbed the slightly overcast sky and the sound of the French language rolling off the tongues of those around me.

“That’s not helpful,” he replied merrily.

“Tell you what: you pick an arrondissement, and I’ll pick a place to eat!”

After much debate back and forth, he selected the eighth arrondissement. I thought for a moment and asked the driver to take us to the area of Madeleine. A cup of piping hot coffee and a croque-monsieur from Fauchon suddenly sounded incredibly delicious.

One of the wonderful things about the stereotypical snobbery the world often accused the French of cultivating was the fact that they were rarely impressed by the things that drove the masses wild elsewhere. I was certain that people recognized Tom as we traversed Madeleine and spent a ridiculous amount of time browsing through the cases of pastries at Fauchon. Several times I saw a few individuals do a double take as their eyes glossed over us. Yet, not a single person approached Tom, nor did anyone give him any undue amount of attention. It was wonderful. The French were not easily overcome, and the British movie star traipsing through one of the loveliest sections of their city was not something that merited more than a cursory glance of appreciation. The bronze-skinned midget by his side was even more negligible. I can’t think of a time where I appreciated being completely unimportant more.

As we strolled up and down the boulevards, and time passed with carefree swiftness, I noticed Tom glance at his watch more and more recurrently. He also grew increasingly quiet and introspective. For some reason, the faintest trace of anxiety marred his brow.

“Are you meeting your other girlfriend soon?” I joked as he noted the time once again.

“In a bit, yes. I was kind of hoping you would—”

I interrupted him before he could finish. “We may be in Paris, but you’d better not say anything that even remotely sounds like ménage!” I teased. I couldn’t fathom what caused his unease, but levity was generally a good antidote.

“Shit. It was worth a shot. In all seriousness, we do have an . . . appointment in about half an hour.”

“Why didn’t you just say that? Let’s get a cab.” I started towards the street corner, but he grabbed my hand and stopped me.

“The car is coming to pick us up in five minutes.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “The car?” I jeered with a grin.

He did not release my hand. Instead, he focused his gaze on me with the same intensity I recalled during the cab ride to the airport in North Carolina. Behind his beautiful grey eyes, I saw a hint of something ineffable. Electricity sparked between us and radiated warmth in our shared glance. It wasn’t confusion that I saw amidst the flecks of green and gold. It was . . . fear?

“Is something wrong?” I blurted.

He glanced down and chuckled. The odd moment faded as the current of charged energy broke free its hold on us.

“No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s exactly right.”

“You were just looking at me kind of funny,” I mused.

“Sorry. I must be knackered.”

“The car” rolled before us, and we stepped inside before I could think of anything else to say that would prod him to offer further explanation for his odd behavior.

“Where are we going now?” I asked cheerfully.

“You know that, as well. I was supposed to take you to a museum.” He grinned as he inclined his head towards the driver, giving me leave to divulge the destination.

“Au Musée d›Orsay, s›il vous plait,” I intoned.

“Oui, Mademoiselle.”

“Have you ever been before?” I asked Tom.

“No, but I spent some time learning about it prior to coming here. I’m actually a big fan of Impressionist art as well.”

“I love Van Gogh. I don’t know why exactly, but I’ve always loved his work,” I commented.

“It’s because you’re a nutter. You understand him,” he joked.

“There’s a thin line between genius and insanity.”

“And you’ve definitely crossed it,” he continued. His left knee bounced up and down rapidly in a habit I knew indicated he was nervous about something.

“I’m not the one who showed up randomly at your door on a Friday night and decided to go across the Atlantic!”

He laughed and ran his fingers anxiously through his hair. What the hell was going on with him?

We rolled to a stop in front of the museum, and I was dismayed to see a mass exodus of art lovers leaving the premises. I checked my watch and came to a heart-sinking realization.

“I think the museum is closed already!” I moaned.

He took my hand and marched towards the entrance as though I hadn’t said anything.

The guards nodded at Tom and removed the rope currently cordoning the entrance to let us pass through. Waiting beyond was a grey-haired man with a tag identifying him as “Head Docent.”

“Hello, Monsieur Abramson. You’re right on time,” he said warmly in accented English.

“Hello, Henri,” Tom replied as though he had known this man for years.

“And you must be Mademoiselle Cristina,” Henri announced as he turned to me and smiled encouragingly.

“Bonsoir, Henri.”

“Thanks again for being so accommodating. I promise we won’t be long,” Tom stated to Henri.

“Please, Monsieur. Take your time.”

Henri led us towards the main Impressionist gallery and turned around to give us privacy as we strolled from painting to painting.

“Did you plan this with Henri?” I whispered to Tom.

“No, Henri and I go way back. I know he doesn’t look it, but the man is a wicked poker player.”

“Right. No, really . . . did you plan this?” I tried again.

“It’s a lot easier to enjoy an art gallery when the tourists aren’t paying more attention to my ugly mug, don’t you think?”

I smiled indulgently as I considered all the trouble he went through to take me to my favorite place in the world for my birthday: the Impressionist gallery of the Musée d’Orsay in Paris.

Pausing before a Van Gogh painting, I leaned in to study the brushstrokes. They were almost violent in their quantity and texture. The tiny dashes of color crashed into one another with seeming simplicity, but the picture as a whole appeared anything but effortless. Each individual element of a painting always made me feel as though I received a tiny glimpse into the artist’s mindset at the time. To me, Van Gogh’s work was vibrant and a bit aggressive. I loved it.

Tom walked ahead to look at something by Gauguin. We shifted from painting to painting in companionable silence. Twice, I caught him staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Each time, he smiled with a trace amount of discomfort and pretended as though everything was fine. We continued to make our way down the gallery. As I neared the rear wall, I noticed Tom backtrack to a painting he had already observed.

His behavior really started to puzzle me, but I was too in my element to let it overcome the enjoyment of being here with him.

I paced the back wall and noticed a small glass case standing alone in the far right corner, nestled between a Pissarro and a Degas. Confused by the existence of a display case in the back of the Impressionist wing, I strolled over to it. From behind me, Tom exhaled slowly and audibly.