The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (37 page)

"I confess I lied to the building administrator when leasing the flat.  They were looking for a quiet, married couple, not a single man.  And I was married.  On paper.  It was easy enough to embellish the story about my wife being away on business so I could snap up the place.  I've always wanted to live in Paris near the Eiffel Tower.  I couldn't let the apartment fall out of my hands."

"Where did you live before moving here?"

"Uh, here.  In Berlin."

I felt my jaw want to drop, but I didn't allow it.  Had he a home with the wife in Berlin?  Is that what he'd left only two months earlier to move here? 

And he was in Berlin now.

My stomach did a flip-flop.  It was increasingly harder to remain calm and detached.

"We've been married for two years," he said. "This past year we've been separated.  I had my own apartment in Berlin, but the building began refurbishing in August so I was forced to move.  She does travel extensively.  But trust me when I say we have not been intimate for the past year.  We are separated in every definition of the word."

"I'm sorry."  Really? 

Huh.  I actually was sorry for him.  My parents had divorced four years before my mother's car accident.  No matter that the love had been lost, it was still a difficult and abrupt shove-off into the single life for any person to manage.

"You mustn't be sorry for me," he said.  "I thought I loved her.  I would not have married her had I not been in love.  Unfortunately she was a bad choice.  I learned about her frequents affairs—maintained while traveling—after our first anniversary.  I'd installed a new email program and initially set it up with both our emails.  For two days her liaisons were revealed in my in-box before she realized the
faux pas
.  I tried to hang in there, to give the marriage my best shot.  She promised fidelity.  That lasted less than two months."

I could actually see the pain draw his face into a solemn mask.  A mask to protect his feelings?  I hated seeing his eyes so sad.  He was the smiling Frenchman across the street who liked to eat chocolate cupcakes and shake his hips to music.

I couldn't help asking.  "So you think the separation will help…what?"

"Nothing.  It is not a means to think things over and perhaps get back together.  She asked for a divorce.  I agreed.  We are separated while the divorce proceedings are underway.  It could have been so simple.  Sign the documents, say goodbye.  Forever.  But she's being a…"  He sighed.  More of that tense shoving of fingers through his hair. 

He'd relented from calling her a nasty name.  He must still hold some love for her in his heart.  I could sense it.  As he should.  Shouldn't he?  He'd fallen in love, only to realize she had not been as in love as he.

"She's asking for too much," he continued.  "Much more than I want to give her.  Thus, we've been embroiled in a drawn-out war over property and assets."

"That sounds like an awful thing to experience," I said.  "Especially since you must have loved her once?"

"I did.  I tend to fall in love easily."

He'd said he loved me.  I know everyone loved in their own way and time.  Some fell in love at first sight.  Others could be friends for years, then date, then live together, before they finally realized the spark that kept them going was love. 

As well, there were all kinds of love.  Family, friendship, respect, honorable.  So his confession of love for me could be entirely different than the kind a man feels about a woman he's asked to marry him.

Ah hell.  I was thinking again.

"As you have already guessed," he provided, "I am comfortable.  Financially.  She strives to take what was never hers in the first place."

"That's got to be tough.  Now I'm really sorry for getting so upset," I offered.  And I was.  Poor guy.  I wanted to pat him on the head like a puppy then pull him into my arms.

"No, I should have said something from the start."

"Really?"

He shrugged.  "Perhaps not.  How does one gesture 'I'm married but going through a divorce' through a window?"

I smiled, as did he.  The levity didn't last though.

"I am skittish about women, if truth be told," he said.  "That's why, at least I think, when you showed up in the window it was like the right woman in the right situation
à la bonne heure
.  You weren't right there in my face.  We took our time.  We're still taking our time.  I feel comfortable with you."

Wow.  Our situation really did suit him.  For a man who may be leery about dating a woman, sex through glass as well as online was the perfect means to test the waters.  And that explained the reluctance I'd sensed from him.  What man wanted to jump into a full-on touching, hearts-crashing sort of relationship while also involved in a bitter divorce struggle?

But I couldn't be smart and dismiss the fact that he was legally married.  And whether or not he still loved her was not the point.  The fact remained, there was another woman in Monsieur Sexy's life right now.  And until she was satisfied enough to sign the papers and walk away from him, I didn't believe the two of us could move forward.

Maybe?  I don't know.  I needed to think about this.  To dissect my feelings about the whole thing.  And to do it rationally, and not let my thoughts push me over some ridiculous cliff of no return.

"I don't want this to change things between us," he said, "but I'd be a fool to believe it will not.  What we have?  It means something to me.  It is not a fling.  I meant it when I said I love you,
mon abeille
.  You are the only woman I care about right now.  I just wish I hadn't said it to you in a moment of defensive anger.  Love is gentle and sexy with us.  You have to believe that."

"I actually do.  And I promise I won't overthink that.  You love me.  But…"  I sighed and caught my head against my palm.  We both gazed at the screens as if we were watching the other walk away, never to return.  "This does change things."

"If I had the signed divorce papers in hand would that make a difference?"

"Probably.  Then I'd know she was officially out of your life.  But, then again, I don't know.  I need some time to roll this one over in my head."

"Yes, you do.  I suppose this means the party invite has been rescinded?"

The costume party at which I'd hoped we could finally meet.  Touch.  Kiss one another.  Hug.  Begin what we'd been slowly working toward over the past month.

I did still want to meet him.  Wife or not.  Was that selfish of me?  Or human nature? 

"I sensed some reluctance from you regarding our finally meeting."

"And now you know why," he said.  "But I was actually allowing myself to breathe easy and get excited for the party.  A costume party appealed.  I wouldn't have to think about any of this mess.  You would be the only one in my thoughts.  I understand though—"

"No, it's still an offer," I interrupted.  "But I think we should go to radio silence for a few days, to give me some time to muddle this over.  Is that okay?"

He nodded.  "I will miss our conversations, but it is what I want you to do.  I don't want you investing any more time with me unless you can trust me."

"I do know that I can trust you."  Strange as that sounded it felt genuine to say it.  I wasn't compromising my beliefs just to placate the man, or myself.  I had spoken truth.

"I fly into Paris tomorrow evening."

"The party isn't for three days."

  "I'll look for you in the window."

He kissed his palm and blew me a kiss.  I closed my eyes, feeling that kiss upon my eyelids.  When I finally opened my eyes, his screen was dark. 

And my heart felt as if a dark cloud had settled above it.

Chapter Thirteen

I checked the incoming flights from Berlin to Paris and found only one arrived this evening at six p.m.  It wasn't as though I eagerly awaited his return.  Or that I wanted to rush to the window to watch him step out of the cab, suitcase in hand, and have him turn and wave to me. 

The fantasy of meeting him at the curb for a kiss?  Shattered.

Actually, I wanted to not be home when he arrived.  I added in an hour and a half for arrival and cab ride home, and decided I'd do something this evening that would keep me away until at least nine.

I wasn't acting childish.  I was protecting my heart.  I needed to armor up.  It was the only way I could get through this day.

I had a half shift at the map shop, so hopped on the Métro to the fifth, and was thankful Richard wasn't in.  The awkward pass he'd made at me returned to memory as I exchanged keys for the cash register with Vincent, one of the full-time employees, and waved as he left for a family reunion in Rome. 

What was it with men acting strangely lately?  If they weren't flirting or making passes at me they were making me their illicit lover in the shadow of their wife's absence.

No, that was harsh.  He was separated.  A fact that would surely serve the survival of this relationship.  Maybe?

Alone in the shop was not as peaceful as you would imagine.  Sure, it was nice to sit amongst the old maps and prints and browse them, letting my mind wander to the times in which they had been made, and visualize myself wandering a cobbled street and in elaborate clothing.  (I was usually a well-off aristocrat or royal in my imagination.  Why not?)  But just thinking about my imaginary riches swerved my thoughts around to the conversation with Monsieur Sexy last night.

He'd said his wife was trying to take too much from him.  How much was too much?  He'd confessed to being well-off financially.  Was he a millionaire?  The neighborhood where we lived wasn't upper-crust, but it certainly wasn't the ghetto.  It was upper middle income, I'd guess.  Snooty, as he'd mentioned?  Perhaps.  Yet his apartment hadn't advertised excess or riches.  Heck, it had been stark, lacking in decorations or anything of value.  Though he did wear fine suits. 

I should have asked for clarification about his financial status.  We'd come far enough into the relationship that I had every right to be curious.  He didn't have to give me a bank statement.  I'd be cool with a 'well off' or 'filthy' in reply to how rich.

No, he wasn't filthy rich.  It didn't fit him.  Perhaps he merely made enough to live the lifestyle he chose, and fill his life with the things that pleased him.

Like me?  Did I please him?

He'd said he loved me.  Why was I finding it so difficult to accept that declaration? 

"Because that will make me the other woman," I muttered.  I shook my head.  "He doesn't love her.  Accept that."

How could any woman married to Monsieur Sexy have an affair?  Let alone, many?  I couldn't figure it.  Apparently there was something about the man that had made the woman turn her head from him. 

I shouldn't be dissecting their failed marriage in an attempt to pin down what was wrong with him.  That only proved what was wrong with me.  That I liked to dwell, and couldn't let things go. 

But I had to admit this situation demanded curiosity.  And I'd told him that I needed to think about it.  So that was what I was doing.  Thinking, thinking, thinking.

I rapped my fingers on a stack of mail placed beside the cash register.  It was one of those old wooden jobbies with the number keys and the prices on metal tabs that clicked up to show total sales.  Richard was old school tech all the way.

I thumbed through the envelopes and one in particular stood out.  The clear address window showed a pink paper inside with the shop address on it.  When I lifted the edge of the window I could see the red 'urgent' stamp inside.

I had opened the shop's mail on occasion.  Richard appreciated finding his mail neatly stacked on the desk in the back room.  So I didn't hesitate to open this letter. 

I should have left it sealed.

It was an eviction letter.  The shop, apparently, was six months behind on rent.  Two previous letters had been sent.  This was the final notice.  The owner had thirty days to vacate the premises.

"Oh, Richard, why didn't you say something?"

I couldn't envision the shop closing.  This neat little nook tucked amongst the tourist shops and Greek restaurants was a piece of Parisian history that needed to exist.  It had been selling maps and historical prints for four decades.  It provided a cultural respite from the kitschy tourist shops in the area.

He would probably be furious that I'd read the letter.  Not because I'd opened it, but because I now knew.

I shoved the pink sheet back in the envelope and considered re-licking the envelope, but it had torn halfway across when I'd opened it.  Impossible to make it look unopened.

I'd tuck it amongst the other mail and leave the whole stack on his desk.  And hope he had a plan.

***

Two elder women shared tea and conversation at the table next to mine in Angelina.  They were seated before a six-by-six foot mirror that reflected the full house on this lazy autumn evening.  I hoped that I would look as regal as they did when I was that old.  Worn around the edges, and certainly faded, yet still harboring a bright spark in my eyes.