Amaranth - By Rachael Wade
CHAPTER 1
Rendezvous
For years I imagined what it must feel like to wake up on a beautifully dark, gloomy February day in the city that stole my heart so long ago. Paris. The city I’ve always loved and yet had never seen until now, when I at last embarked on my mission to free myself from the mess I left back home. To consider the trip a success, I had to return to the States unrecognizable in spirit. If I went home the same person, there would be hell to pay. I’d already paid enough.
Once dressed, I shrugged on my special coat, one that cost more than I’d ever spend on any piece of clothing again. What it represented to me, no amount of money could buy. It made me feel Parisian. Wearing it, I could be mysterious and beautiful, perhaps even exotic, far from the life that once held me in bondage. Me and my coat’s little secret. The thought made me laugh aloud.
Cold air rushed through the hotel lobby’s doors, stinging my cheeks while people hurried in and out. I stepped outside and did a quick review of my plans for the day, taking the black book from my purse that held all my notes and maps and flipping through the pages. Working on my novel and visiting my list of must-sees were first priority, but part of me didn’t want to plan anything my first day. I tossed the black book back into my purse, letting the loose pages fly out into wonderful disarray.
While I waited for a cab, a man in his early twenties passed by me walking his dog, looked me up and down with a grin. I looked away. Whoever said the French are grumpy was wrong. Yet I never liked that sort of attention. Partly because of my shyness, but I also had a knack for attracting only creeps. Like the one I left back home. He loved to beat me to a pulp with his words. Eventually, his anger made its way to my face. That’s when I knew it was time to come to Paris. I watched the dog walker stroll away, happy to see a cab arriving.
I instructed the driver to head toward the Louvre, using as much of my two years of French as possible. But when I spotted a chocolaterie, it looked like the perfect spot to bury myself in my Guy de Maupassant novel and crack open my journal.
“Monsieur? Ici, s’il vous plait.” I offered a grateful glance toward his reflection in the rearview mirror when I felt the cab begin to slow.
“You can walk to the Louvre from here if you’d like, Mademoiselle,” he answered: in English. “Bonne journée.”
I glanced at the front of the store before I entered, appreciating the building’s charming character: the weathered windows and doors, the cracks in the stone walls that looked so perfectly broken, the wood sign above the door that appeared so flawed, so aged -- and the empty, frigid terrace, a perfectly secluded area for writing. Minutes later, my first cup of French chocolat in hand, I headed toward the deserted tables outside the shop, struggling to pin my side to the door to push it open. My purse slid off my shoulder and thumped to the ground, spilling my black book with its loose papers everywhere.
I bent to pick up the scattered contents, mindful of my drink in my free hand that it didn’t spill. Little bursts of wind sent some of the papers into the cold slush in a flurry, making the writing a runny mess.
That’s all I had time to think before something lashed into me, knocking me off balance. I tumbled to the ground with an awkward thud and a wince when I made impact with the concrete, and opened my eyes to find my chocolat splattered all around me. I looked down at my poor magic coat, confused and embarrassed.
A repentant voice boomed, “Oh ma’am, I am so sorry! Here, let me help you with that. I am really sorry, I just ... forgive me?”
A tall, slender guy leaned down to pick up my things and offered his hand to help me stand. Intense dark brown eyes, short tousled brown hair, an earnest face. I smiled and shook my head at him, hoping I didn’t look angered by his mishap.
“It’s fine,” I said. “This is pretty much my life on a daily basis.” I pushed my long tangled mess of brown hair away from my face. “Wait. Do I really look old enough to be called ma’am?” I was only twenty-one, for God’s sake. I took his hand and stood, brushed my hands on my coat before I looked into his eyes. I felt myself blush.
“Uh, no, I guess not. Just habit, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, so ... again, I apologize for that.” His eyes brightened with hopes of redemption.
“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for helping me up and everything.” I looked down, intimidated by his fierce eyes, although I couldn’t look away for long. His pale skin and cheekbones were stunning, and a strange scar above his left eyebrow, out of place among his perfect features, ironically added to his charm. I tried to think of something to say, but the words wouldn’t come.
“Okay, well, let me at least get you another drink. Here, sit down.” He beat my response, gesturing to the closest table on the wintery terrace.
“No, please, you really don’t have to--”
“I want to, really.” He kept moving for the door. “It’ll take just a second. That looks like it was chocolat. I’ll be right back.” He darted inside.
Defeated, I slumped onto the chair next to me. I was here to change, after all. I needed to be open, to bend a little. And this guy seemed normal enough. He looked nothing like the bastard I left back in Seattle. But then again, looks can mislead. I contemplated his origin while I lit a cigarette and waited for his return. I wasn’t sure, but he sounded American.
“Okay, here we go.” He handed me my replacement. I noticed he held two drinks. “Some people think it’s a little cold this time of year to be sitting outside like this, by the way. Mind if I join you? We could go inside if you want.” He smiled.
“I like it actually. And sure, but please, don’t let me keep you. I appreciate the drink though.” I sent him a faint smile back.
“The least I could do after knocking you over like that. I was in a hurry, but I found what I was looking for.” He studied my face for a moment, then pointed up at the window above the shop, diagonal to where we sat. “A relative of mine lives in the apartment upstairs, but this is my first time visiting her new place. She’s not expecting me for a little while anyway. I was frantic to get here. Already managed to get lost twice.” He laughed, then sipped his coffee.
I peered up at the elegant apartment front. “This is a great place to live. I bet your family loves it here.”
“Yeah, from the little bit I’ve heard about it, it sounds great.” He watched me take a drag off my cigarette.
“I hope the smoke doesn’t bother you,” I said.
“No. Quit almost a year ago. Sometimes being around it makes me want one, that’s all.”
“Oh.” I nodded, relieved. “In that case, I’d offer you one but I don’t want to be a bad influence. A year, that’s a long time ... good for you.” I took one last puff before I put it out.
“So, you just visiting? What brought you to Paris?” He sat down, wrapped his arms around his chest.
“Yes, visiting.” I cleared my throat. “I’m here for my birthday actually, just came on my own. I’ve wanted to come here since I was a kid, and the timing worked out this year so ... here I am.” Technically, the timing was perfect. If I didn’t get away when I did, I might’ve wound up in one of those battered women shelters for my birthday.
“Your birthday, huh? All by yourself? Bit of a loner are we?” he joked. “I mean, I haven’t met many people during my visits here who came alone, except maybe on a business trip. Especially not for a birthday.” He smiled and often looked down when he spoke, keeping his arms folded against his chest. He seemed genuine. Humble. It was refreshing.
“Just introverted I guess. I don’t mind being alone.”
“You must be pretty comfortable with silence, then.” His eyes bored into mine, like they were suddenly searching for something. “Do you mind me asking what your plans are for the day? That is, if you want any company. Don’t mean to intrude.”
Did I want to be this open? My journal was sitting there in my bag, waiting for me. I couldn’t write if he was around.
“I’m introverted, not antisocial.” I gave him a smile, saw his smile in return. I’d put my pen to work later. “I’m headed to the Louvre. After that, I’m not sure.”
“I can walk you there if you’d like.” He peeled his eyes from mine, lightening the eagerness in his tone.
“As long as I’m not keeping you from your family.” I pointed to the window above us.
“You’re not.” He stood, his face showing pleasure. “It won’t take long. I’ll walk you there and then head back.”
I let him lead the way, this time careful to wrap my purse high on my shoulder and hang onto my drink with both hands.
“So.” He turned to grin at me as we began strolling down the sidewalk. “Do you know what you’re looking for while you’re here?”
“What makes you think I’m looking for something?”
“You have the look. The adventurous glint in your eye. The determination in your walk. You’re taking the city by storm, braving it all alone, searching for something. The look gives it all away.”
While I tucked my hair behind my ear, I allowed a smirk to spread across my face. “What, you psychoanalyzing me?”
“Guess I’m busted.”
“I’m from Seattle and needed to get away, clear my head. Lots of drama back home, that’s all.”
“I know what that’s like. You ever consider moving here?”
“What, to Paris? Have you ever considered it? Where are you from, anyway?”
“I’m from the States but I live in London right now. Love Paris, though. Might get the guts to move here someday.”
“Well, moving here from London is a lot different than moving from Seattle. I’m not that brave.”
“You should consider it. Especially if things aren’t going so hot back home.”
I stuck my hands deep in the coat’s pockets, shivering, considering this. His eyes communicated soft secrets as he spoke, but I couldn’t penetrate his realm, couldn’t decode them. He was careful with his words, but honest. I felt like a giddy child, my reaction to him almost naïve: something I surely wasn’t. I said, “I could never do that.”
“Why not? You said you wanted to come here since you were a kid, right? You seem to have a passion for it.”
“Yeah, but that wouldn’t fix anything. I’d just be running from my problems.”
“Well ... isn’t that what you’re doing here right now?”
“You are psychoanalyzing me, I knew it!” I bantered, pushing his shoulder. “That’s not what this is, thank you very much. Like I said, I’m here to clear my head. So when I go home I can actually do something about my not-so-hot situation. To make things better.” I looked at him, smug.
“And all I’m saying is, it sounds like you have more motives to move here than you’re acknowledging. You wouldn’t just be copping out. There’s something invigorating about packing up and moving thousands of miles away. It changes you. Trust me on that.” Winking, he tossed his empty cup into a trashcan and led me across a busy street. “What’s so bad back at home, anyway? You’re clearly not just here for your birthday.”
No way I’d tell a complete stranger, even if he did have smoldering eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve put myself in a bad situation, and it’s up to me to get out of it.” He waited. “I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to leave him yet.”
He shook his head. “I get the feeling you are. Not that you need some stranger’s opinion, but I’m good at reading people.” He let his eyes wander downward, glancing up every few seconds as we continued to walk, as if to make sure he knew where we were. “I say stay away from him. Whoever he is. Anyone with that much power over you is dangerous.”
My ears perked up at his unintentional perceptiveness, and I wondered if I should tell him more. “Thanks ... for the vote of confidence. Guess I’ll find out when I get home.”
“It must be nice to be comfortable with silence like you are.” He glanced at a bundled-up elderly man dozing on an icy bench as we passed by him. “I need a crowd. Being alone makes my ears hurt.” He exhaled quietly.
“I’ve never been one to be around a lot of people. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that need. I just--”
“Trust yourself.” His eyes searched mine again, and I blushed like the child I felt I was and turned my head to watch an old woman cross the street, a bag of groceries in her arms. She caught me watching her so I looked back at him.
“What about you?” I said. “I mean, you don’t strike me as the type to need a crowd. You seem the quiet type.” And charming, and insanely handsome. I reeled in my thoughts and tried to maintain a cool façade. As if I even knew what one looked like.
“Yeah, I’m a bit of a recluse myself,” he said. “I just prefer to be around people, to observe them. Helps me cope. Too much isolation messes with my head.”
“It’s funny how loners seem to find one another.” I bit my lower lip, looking back to the street to avoid his deep gaze. The Louvre came into view, and I felt a tinge of disappointment. The more I spoke to him, the more I felt a gravitational pull toward him.
He saw the museum too. Speaking quickly, he rattled off more questions about my favorite movie -- Edward Scissorhands -- favorite author -- Flannery O’Connor -- and when he got to my favorite music, I stopped and said, “Why are you asking me all this?”
“Does there have to be a reason? Can’t I just make conversation?” He smirked, challenging me.
I rolled my eyes, giving in. “Rock and classical.”
“Time of year?”
“Fall.”
“Yeah.” He turned his attention toward the museum’s entrance. “I can completely see that.”
I studied him as he admired the museum. Something about him felt comfortable, almost familiar.
“Welcome to the Louvre.” He broke through my trance, gesturing to the beautiful piece of history in front of us.
“I’ve waited a long time for this.” I gawked at the sight, taking it all in. “Thanks for the walk.”
“Anytime.”
“There is one other thing I’m here for, by the way.” I turned, ready to bid him farewell.
“What’s that?”
“To have an experience like this one.”
“Well, in that case I’m glad I bumped into you.”
We stared at each other until he blinked first, and smiled a breathtaking, crooked smile that should have been illegal.
“Listen, I’m in town for a few weeks.” He slipped a business card to me from his pocket. “If you want, give me a call. Show you around some more, maybe.”
“Definitely.”
“Think about the big move. Leave him.” He ran his fingers through his hair, turned to head toward the street. “Let me know what you decide.”
“Believe me, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I never did get your name....”
“Camille. Camille Hart.”
“I’m Gavin. Gavin Devereaux. It was great knocking you over.”
“Yeah, thanks for that.” I shook my head, laughing.
“I just wanted to know you!” he shouted as he began walking backward, drifting away.
Waving goodbye, I watched him head back toward the chocolaterie, back toward the scene that would become the most cryptic memory of my trip to the city that had stolen my heart. I saw him stop to slip some money and a handshake to the older man we passed by earlier. I lingered at the sight and smiled to myself, realizing my mission was now underway.
I wrapped my dream coat tighter around my waist and readjusted my scarf while I stared at his name on the plain black business card. Maybe Gavin was right. In that moment, it felt like heaven to catch a glimpse of an alternate me, in the new life he suggested.
His body faded into the city’s sea and I stood there with only his crisp-edged business card and a vision of an improbable but appealing future. Apparently, Paris was an unstoppable force, a very skilled and thorough thief. Because now, it had ownership of my soul.