The Forbidden Heart (4 page)

“You surprise me, Emmie. You’re older than you look, older than your age.”

“Not by choice,” I said.

And he lost his smile. He understood.

And in that moment, I thought he wasn’t as self-centered as he appeared.

Flying Too High,
Melting the Wax on My Wings

It was a very busy pastry shop. Because of its location and the quality of the breads
and cakes, there was a constant stream of customers, both locals and tourists. One
thing my uncle Alain had told me long ago was that the difference between the French
and the Americans when they entered a shop was that the French spent more time. There
was that “How are you?” exchange, sometimes becoming more than a few words, and then
the ordering. The tourists who came in demanded items immediately and seemed in a
rush. I watched and smiled to myself as this proved true.

Vincent put on his apron to go into the kitchen. “Here, try this,” he said, offering
me a chocolate cookie with nuts.

I did. “Delicious,” I said. “Sinfully so.”

“Only a health-minded American girl would say that,” he replied.

His father broke free from his work and approached us. Vincent quickly introduced
me.

“
Enchanté
,” I said. “You have a beautiful shop,” I told him in French.

“
Merci
,” he said, but it sounded more like a grunt.

He looked at Vincent and then at Denise, who stood by watching us. He asked me where
I was from. I complimented him again on his shop, and he nodded without any modesty
and returned to his work. I noticed he didn’t acknowledge Denise at all. Her mother
was busy at the counter. When she glanced our way, I thought she looked quite unhappy.
She rarely smiled at anyone she served, and when she could pause to speak to Denise,
she had only some criticism of Denise’s hair and the wrinkles in her dress. Between
customers, they spoke a little more. Whatever Denise was saying wasn’t making her
mother happy, however.

While they spoke, Vincent returned to me. “Are you busy tonight?” he asked.

“Busy? No. When?”

“I don’t get out until eight,” he said.

I looked at Denise, who was just standing there with her head down while her mother
lectured her about something.

“I thought I might have dinner with Denise, but . . .”

“Did you tell her so?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not busy,” he said. “Meet me here.” He slipped a business card into my
hand.

Denise turned toward us, and I quickly put the card away. We left the shop and continued
on a slow walk following the river.

“Isn’t your mother feeling well?” I asked her.

“No. She never feels well these days.”

“Does she see a doctor?”

“She doesn’t want to see anyone. So what did you think of my cousin?” she asked, anxious
to change the subject as we walked farther away from the shop.

“He’s very nice, and you’re right, he’s very intelligent, well read. I hope he does
get to pursue his education.”

“And good-looking.”

“Oh. Yes, very. What a busy pastry shop, too. Everything looked delicious.”

“I didn’t know he was going to New York. I should go along. I should see New York,
right?”

“
D’accord
. You should see New York, but he might want to go alone or maybe . . . with someone
else.”

“You think so?”

“It’s possible. You shouldn’t feel bad if so.”

She didn’t reply. “You probably have had lots of boyfriends,” she said after a while.

“No, not really. No one serious, if that’s what you mean?”

“Yes. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend, either. I don’t even think about it anymore.”

“You should. Look, Denise, you could be a very attractive woman,” I said. We paused.
“You have to think about yourself a lot more. You should lose weight,” I said finally,
and firmly. “People do, and they’re happier and healthier.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Try harder. I’ll help you. We’ll figure out a diet for you, and whenever you’re not
working, we’ll exercise, take long walks. I’ll be like your trainer. My sister taught
me a great deal about makeup and hair, too. We’ll work on all that. Then when you
want, we’ll go out together and flirt. But you have to get yourself ready for it . . .
like a prizefight or a big game or something. You have beautiful eyes, and your hair
could be very attractive, too.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, obviously encouraged by my enthusiasm.

“
Absolument
. C’mon,” I said, hooking my arm into hers. “Let’s begin. We’ll walk faster, and when
you have dinner tonight, avoid fattening foods. I’ll work up a daily menu for you
from what I remember my sister ate and taught me about food.”

“Your sister sounds like a wonderful person.”

“She knows who she is now,” I said.

“What does that mean? Don’t we all know who we are?”

“No. We know who others think we are, and more times than not, it’s not who we are.
You’re not who others think you are. You’ll see.”

“Even my mother?”

“Especially her,” I replied, and she smiled.

“How do you say, lead on,” she declared, and we continued marching like two young
women who had had far too much rosé to drink. Our laughter trailed behind us like
cans tied to the bumper of a car for newlyweds.

Nearly two hours later, we worked our way back to her apartment. She wanted me to
come up and have dinner with her, but I was intrigued with Vincent now.

“My mother wants me to clean the apartment,” she said. “But we can still have dinner.”

“I think I’d better get back to have dinner with my uncle.” Instinctively, I knew
she would be very upset if she knew I was meeting Vincent. “I haven’t had dinner with
him for more than a week because I’ve been at the restaurant. But we’ll start the
new regime for you tomorrow. Once a week is weigh-in.”

“Weigh-in?”

“To see how many pounds you’ve lost.”

“Oh.
Oui
.”

“Thanks for a wonderful day, Denise. I enjoyed being with you,” I said, then kissed
her good-bye and started away.

“Emmie!” she called.

I turned. “Yes?”

“Welcome to Paris!”

“Ah,
oui
.
Merci
.
À bientôt
.”

I walked off feeling very good about it all and not thinking about my little white
lie. Maybe I could help someone else and not wallow in my own self-pity after all.

Uncle Alain wasn’t at home when I arrived. I showered and redid my hair. Then I played
with a little makeup and chose something new to wear, an outfit Roxy had bought me
before she left Paris, a pair of skinny-fit rust-colored trousers and a white lace
top. She had also bought me a light black leather jacket, and I had a pair of black
cutout lace-up wedges. Just before I left, Uncle Alain appeared. He nearly gasped
when he saw me.

“You look beautiful,” he said. “And a little sexy. What’s up, Emmie?”

“A sort of date with Denise’s cousin,” I said.

“Oh. Who is he? How did you meet him?”

“His name is Vincent. We met him for lunch. He works in his father’s pastry shop,
but he wants to do more with his life. He’s well read, and he writes poetry, and—”

“Things going a little fast?” he asked. “You sound quite taken. How old is he?”

“I’m not sure, exactly.”

“But older than you by what? Two years, three?”

“Maybe three,” I said. “It’s not unusual for a girl my age in America to go out with
a boy three years older than she is, Uncle Alain.”

“Where are you going?”

I showed him the card.

“I know this place. Good pizza. Not very formal,” he said. “Will you promise to be
home by twelve?”

“You’ll make me Cinderella.”

“Never mind. Twelve,” he said firmly.

“I promise,” I said. I kissed him on the cheek and started out.

“Emmie.”

“Yes?”

“Be careful. Life moves fast when you think you’re standing still.”

I laughed, threw him another kiss, and hurried out.

I was proud of how well I could navigate Paris streets now. I had spent time studying
a street map. I walked quickly and tried not to pay attention to the whistles and
comments I heard men shout out at me. Would Roxy be proud of me or upset? Was I going
too far too quickly, flying too high? My heart sank a little when I arrived at the
restaurant and didn’t see Vincent there. I knew I was attracting attention standing
outside the front entrance and hovering near the patio outside, almost filled by now.
Had something prevented him from coming? Just as I started to consider going home,
I heard him call my name and saw him pull up on a scooter. He was in the same clothes
he had worn at lunch, but he had on a dark brown leather pilot’s jacket. He removed
his helmet and settled his scooter.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “My father always has one more thing for me to do. Hungry?
They have great pizza here.”

“Yes, my uncle told me.”

He smiled, took my hand, and led me to the hostess, who, like the one at the lunch
café, obviously knew him. From the way he greeted this one, I thought he knew her
a little better. Where did Denise get the idea that Vincent was like a monk? People
see and believe what they want, no matter what, I thought. The hostess led us out
to a free table on the patio. Vincent ordered some wine immediately and sat back.

“May I get something out of the way immediately?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“You are a very beautiful young woman.”

I nearly laughed, having expected him to say something like that he had a girlfriend
but just wanted to be more of a host and a friend, or that he was doing this to keep
me befriending Denise, who obviously needed a friend.

“
Merci
. Is that it?”

“For now,” he said. “I’m starving.”

We ordered salads and a large pizza with chicken. The wine came, and he proposed another
toast.

“To discoveries,” he said.

“What kind of discoveries?”

“Good discoveries about each other,” he replied.

My mind raced. He wasn’t that much older than most senior boys in high school in America,
but to me, he seemed more like one of the young men Roxy might have escorted, suave,
confident, and dazzling. How would she handle him? I wondered. More and more, I was
finding myself thinking,
What would Roxy do? How would Roxy act? What would Roxy say?

I have to be myself,
I thought.

“Well, discoveries are made by explorers,” I said, and he looked as if he had just
heard he won the lottery. He laughed, tapped my glass again, and began asking me more
questions about New York. Naturally, he wanted to know more details about my life
and what really had brought me to Paris. If there was one thing I didn’t want to do,
however, it was to put any heavy darkness on our date. He seemed to understand and
shifted the topic to more suggestions about how I should enjoy Paris, what I should
expect. He sounded very brotherly at times, and I found myself resenting it. If there
was one thing I didn’t want to be, it was some young girl who needed more guidance.

After our pizza, he asked me if I would like to hear some of the new French jazz.

“Where?” I asked.

“I have a friend who plays in a band, but we won’t go to his club. It’s too far. He
has great recordings in his apartment, which is very nearby. We share a lot of things—music,
clothes. He’s my best friend,” he continued when I just stared. “He won’t mind.”

My silence made him a little uncomfortable. Maybe the wine had gotten to me, but I
felt as if I was floating above it all, the conversations around us, the sounds of
the street and the restaurant, even him.

“Okay? Should we go there?”

“Sure,” I said, and he paid our bill and led me out to his scooter. He handed me his
helmet.

“I must take care of my precious cargo,” he said.

I got on behind him, wrapped my arms around him, and screamed with delight when we
started away quickly. I was in Paris, and I was flying high.
If only Roxy could see me now,
I thought. She would lose her fear of my wallowing in self-pity.

Rainbows and Promises

Vincent’s friend’s apartment was really only minutes away. A more skeptical girl would
think he had chosen the restaurant for that reason. It was always his intention to
bring me here. Was that so wrong? Unexpected? I wasn’t in France to visit Disneyland,
I told myself. If you want boys to think of you as older, be older.

He pulled into a small parking lot in front of the building and took the helmet off
me, running his fingers through my hair.

“Très bien?”

“
Oui
. I’m fine.” Was that his way of asking if I still wanted to go to his friend’s apartment?
Asking if I still wanted to be with him? He wasn’t thinking of playing Scrabble. It
would be easy to look at my watch and say, “Well, maybe I should head back. I promised
my uncle . . .”

“I’ll take this with us,” he said, indicating the helmet. “Paris is still a city.
People find their things disappearing.”

He locked his scooter and then took my hand and led me to the front entrance. He knew
the code that opened the front door. When he opened it, he looked at me. There was
that slight hesitation again, but I said nothing, so we headed for the elevator.

“How long have you known your friend?”

“Oh, more than ten years,” he said. “He was working in a jazz band while he was still
in school. They travel, too, go to festivals in the summer all over Europe. They dream
of going to the United States. They’re very good. You’ll see. Do you like jazz?”

“I like everything,” I said.

“Tous?”

“When it’s good,” I said, and he laughed.

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, and we went all the way down the hallway
to the last door on the right. He pulled out a key, opened the door, and stepped back
for me to enter. It was a small apartment and not, I thought, kept too neatly. The
small entryway opened to the living room. He rushed about, scooping up empty wine
bottles, a box of takeout food, and some newspapers. There were glasses on the floor,
a bowl of something days old, and cigarette butts in every available ashtray. But
he was right about the music equipment set up against the right wall. It was obvious
his friend had put all his money into that. I knew enough about it to know that the
speakers and the tuner were expensive. There was a music stand on the side, with sheets
of music over it.

I continued into the room while he cleaned it up. The windows looked down at the street,
but other buildings blocked any real view of Paris. I was happy they were opened,
imagining what the odors might be if they weren’t. I recalled Roxy describing the
roach hotel she had stayed in the nights after our father threw her out and before
she was brought to Mrs. Brittany. From her description of what she tolerated, I understood
how important it had become to her not to come running back to our home. I couldn’t
imagine having that sort of grit and stubbornness. Just the thought of being where
she had been turned my stomach.

Vincent returned from the kitchen with another bottle of wine and two glasses. He
had obviously just rinsed them out. He brushed down the sofa and put the glasses and
the bottle on the coffee table, pushing aside a pile of magazines and two full ashtrays
and small change.

“Maid’s on vacation,” he joked, and opened the bottle with a corkscrew that was on
the table. He poured a glass for each of us and went to the stereo. “Ah, here’s the
CD I want you to hear,” he said, and inserted it. I sat on the sofa and sipped my
wine. It was heavier-bodied but not as good as the wine we had with our pizza.

“More back bite than usual for a French Burgundy,” I said.

He sipped it and nodded. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“Except I’m not begging,” I said, putting the glass down. “My sister always says it’s
better to drink water than bad wine, especially with dinner. It can ruin your food.”

“I have to meet this fantastic sister.”

He sat beside me as the music began.

“Listen to that saxophone. That’s Nikki.”

“Your friend?”

“Oui.”
He sat back and closed his eyes. “I like writing lyrics,” he said. “Poetry to music.
His music inspires me.”

“Have you written songs, then?”

“Absolument.”
He sat forward. “I’ll play some of that for you next time. I’ll bring along my own
discs. I have this friend with a great voice. She’s not pursuing a career as a singer,
but she should.”

“Denise says you want to continue your education, but your father wants you to remain
with the pastry shop.”

“He’s an old-fashioned guy. I’m working on him. He’ll come around. Denise worries
about me too much. She should worry more about herself.” He smiled and took my hand
in his. “It’s good what you’re doing with her. She’s had a very difficult time of
it. She needs someone like you. I could see immediately that you’re a very caring
person,” he said. Then he kissed me softly on the lips and moved closer. “I love that
saxophone,” he whispered. “Don’t you? Sexy.”

His lips were tracing along my cheek and then onto my neck. I leaned back, and he
kissed me again, only this time longer, his arm sliding under my lower back to lift
me gently as he moved me under him. I was getting lower against the back of the sofa.
The music continued and seemed to get louder. He kissed me again and again and now
whispered mainly in French. I caught a few words—“sweet taste, beautiful, soft, loving.”
I felt his hand move under my blouse and, in what I thought was a very dexterous motion,
unbutton it from the inside. It was as though he had done it hundreds of times.

“You’re a very sophisticated girl,” he said. “You could teach Denise a lot about life,
I’m sure.”

He had my bra undone and followed up quickly with his mouth over my breasts, his tongue
moving gently over my nipples.

“Délicieux,”
he said. “You taste like . . . a fresh peach, firm and full of flavor.”

I could feel myself spinning out of control. How, I wondered, did Roxy keep control?
Did it only come from experience, or was it in her nature never to lose herself? Was
that one of the things she had learned at Mrs. Brittany’s school for escorts? Despite
what her life had become and how she had finally wanted to get out from under Mrs.
Brittany’s manipulation and supervision of her life, she always raved about the things
she had learned at her mansion on Long Island. She never denied that Mrs. Brittany
had probably saved her life. It was just the price she had paid for it that finally
disturbed her and drove her to do what she was doing now.

Vincent pulled off his jacket and his sweater. He brought his bare chest to mine,
whispered my name, and began a slow, sensuous journey with his lips, moving down over
my breasts toward my waist and then undoing my pants so he could continue to the small
of my stomach, all the while slowly sliding me more and more beneath him.

Was this going to happen?

Did I want it to happen?

How many times had I talked about this with my girlfriends at school? The ones who
had already lost their virginity never made that moment seem special to me. In some
cases, it was something that they had wanted to get over with so they could move on
into that mysterious and supposedly wondrous world of the mature woman, wiser about
men and life, independent and supposedly full of self-confidence. Shouldn’t I want
that, too?

Incredibly, despite my racing heart and quickened breath, the argument I had first
heard between Emile and Didier in the restaurant right after Denise’s birthday cake
and candles returned to me. Did a woman remove herself from the image that the man
she would come to love wanted of her, or did she prepare herself for him?

Why didn’t my mother and I talk more about this? Why didn’t I ask Roxy more questions?

Vincent raised his head and smiled at me. “You are wonderful,” he said. “A girl like
you makes it possible to know the magic of the night.”

Were these tried-and-true lines for him? I wanted to believe them, embrace them, but
I also knew Vincent was far from the discerning and very particular boy Denise had
claimed he was when it came to women. She wanted to be blind to it, but it didn’t
take me long to see it in the way he greeted young women. There was nothing fundamentally
wrong with that, I thought. He was a handsome, virile young man. All the boys I had
known flashed before my eyes. Weren’t the ones who were like him more attractive and
interesting, not to mention exciting? As a parent, what sort of a son would I rather
have?

You came up here willingly, Emmie Wilcox,
I told myself.
What did you really expect when you agreed to have this rendezvous? You didn’t keep
it from Denise because you wanted to surprise her later with how much you had learned
about Paris, did you?

His fingers gently began to move my pants down, taking my panties along with them.
He was at me again, his lips now moving softly over my thighs as he seamlessly moved
between my legs, sending the most unexpectedly delicious and exciting feeling surging
over my body. It was as if there were dozens of hands now touching me, caressing me.
My breasts seemed to lift themselves gently, like mouths longing for a gulp of cool
water. The natural tightness and resistance in my legs began to wane. He was moving
my pants down to my ankles.

“You’re so sweet,
très jolie
,” he recited. It was almost like a prayer sung before dinner. How much of it did
he really mean? Was it merely a lover’s prescribed ten steps or something? He had
my pant leg over my left foot. He was unwrapping me with surgical precision.

You shouldn’t resent this, Emmie,
I told myself.
Would you rather be with a clumsy, inexperienced man, someone virginal who made it
all seem more like blundering into the moment, a moment maybe ruined forever by his
crude, inelegant, and animal-like behavior? You can lose your virginity only once,
and it will follow you for the rest of your life.

I couldn’t believe I was having this debate with myself in the midst of all this passion.
Vincent was gently lifting my legs as he brought his lips back to my thighs. Then
he paused to undo his jeans. In that moment, I looked toward the doorway. I knew it
was only my imagination, but there she was looking at us with great pain in her face
as she shook her head slowly. Roxy.

You’re not ready,
she whispered.
It’s not your time. Wait.

My body tightened so quickly that it caught his attention.

“Don’t worry. I have what we need. It’s safe. We’re fine. This is good,” he recited.
He smiled. “You don’t need any lessons.”

“No!” I cried.

“Quoi?”

“I do need lessons, Vincent.”

He retreated a little, his face looking incredulous. “You are a virgin?”

“I’m sorry you got a different impression,” I said.

I could see the wheels turning in his head. Did he want to make love to an American
teenage girl who was a virgin? There was no legal problem, but he didn’t like being
fooled about me. Was that right? So he thought I was sophisticated, worldly. Where
was it written that in order to be so, a girl had to have lost her virginity?

“I’m not often so surprised,” he said. Was his ego bruised? Actually, he looked more
worried than embarrassed. “I’m not making any promises, Emmie. You understand what
I mean?”

I looked toward the door, where I had imagined Roxy standing and watching us. I guess
I looked so hard that for a moment, he thought someone might really be there. He spun
around to look and then looked at me again.

“What?”

“I was hoping it would be something more special for me,” I said.

“It still can be.”

“Not now. Not yet,” I said. I started to dress.

He watched for a moment and then stood up. “Sometimes you Americans can be such prudes.”

I paused and smiled. “You don’t simply put a seed into the ground, Vincent. You prepare
the ground first to ensure you will have a good crop.”

His smile widened. “I’m not planting a seed. No babies please.”

“There are other things to grow from making love.”

He shook his head. “You are different. You’re not a prude. You’re . . . too wise for
your age,” he said.

“
Peut-être.
But I didn’t want to be.”

Despite this interruption, I could see he still liked me. Very much.

“Okay. I’ll till the soil,” he promised. “It will be special for you. I promise.”

I started to laugh when his mobile rang. He reached for it, and I finished straightening
my clothes. I saw that he was just listening, and what he was hearing had drained
his face of blood.

“I’ll be right there,” he said in French.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“She tried to commit suicide,” he said.