“How do you know your mom and I have the same ring size?” I asked, with a last hope that maybe I might be the beneficiary of good news.
“She was the one who tried on your eternity band. That’s how I know,” were the final words that made me stop the inquisition.
Jake and Henri looked at each other and said something furtively in French and chuckled. I was obviously missing out on their inside joke.
I abandoned the rest of my theories and waited for the ring. When Henri came back from the safe, he asked me to take off my eternity band and told me he would check it to make sure none of the diamonds were loose and he would clean it as well. I unenthusiastically took off my band while Henri handed the other ring to Jake.
Jake walked over and held out my left hand. His hands trembled and my heart began thumping wildly. He forced a casual smile and slowly pushed an enormous square cut diamond. I felt a chill go down my spine as he placed this dazzling jewel onto my ring finger. I knew it didn’t belong to me but the glow on Jake’s face suggested this ring was meant to bind us as one. The sheer magnitude and brilliance of the ring made me feel a lump of jealousy as well.
While I reveled in Sandy’s borrowed moment, Jake abruptly pulled off the ring and handed it back to Henri.
“Bon! Merci, Henri”
I had to walk out of the room so Jake wouldn’t notice the tears in my eyes. I knew the ring wasn’t mine, but in my heart, I so intensely wished for a proposal that didn’t happen.
Jake walked out after some time and led me outside, and we left, just like that, for the Louvre.
“Jake. What about my ring?” I asked.
“Huh?” His answer was a bit flustered. “How did you…oh! We’ll pick up the band before we leave.” I was in too much of a haze to comprehend his incoherent thought.
Francois from the hotel had arranged a private tour of the Louvre for us. The docent led us around the entire museum, and even took us into rooms forbidden to the public. The “fix-it” room was the most interesting of these rooms. There were specially trained men and women repairing paintings and sculptures damaged during a move or from natural wear and tear.
Though the Louvre was fascinating, my mind couldn’t leave that private room at Boucheron. My thoughts kept drifting back to the ring, Jake’s glow when he placed the ring on my finger, and a picture of the ring on my finger. Jake noticed my preoccupation at lunch.
“Emily…”
I heard him call me, but wasn’t paying attention.
“Emily!”
“Huh? Yes? Did you need something?” I asked in a fog.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been zoned out all morning since Boucheron. Is something wrong?”
Ugh! He noticed.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” I lied.
“What’s on your mind? You haven’t been yourself. Your body is here but your mind is somewhere else. You can’t even concentrate on your lunch, which is a first.”
It was true. Jake brought me to a gorgeous tea salon nestled in an old green very French-looking building in the Saint Germain area of Paris. The server explained to us that this establishment first opened in 1862. This was the type of beautiful but unattainable storefront Sarah and I would visit and purchase a macaron or two. A stunning window display filled with colorful cake plates and fun pastry boxes showcasing cakes and chocolates and tartes greeted us. Inside, a delicious smell of sugar presented in the shape of millefeuilles and éclairs and cream puffs and biscuits, paralyzed me initially.
This place was famous for their pastries, namely my favorite—macarons. These were their “emblem.” At around thirty euros for an array of macarons, I should have enjoyed them more than my French Laundry meal but I still couldn’t focus. Not my monkfish carpaccio with lemon marmalade or the tray of pastries—just about one of every goody the store had to offer—took me away from that ring.
What to say? Surprisingly, I came up with a legitimate excuse. “I think jet lag caught up with me as well.” I lied again.
I couldn’t explain the obsession with a ring that didn’t belong to me, and a proposal that never transpired.
“OK. You’re being awfully strange.” Though there was a smirk on his face, I couldn’t process beyond our immediate conversation. “You want to go back to the hotel instead of the soccer match?”
“No. I’m fine,” I promised. “Let’s enjoy our lunch and go watch futbol.”
Jake wasn’t kidding when he said that Europeans were fanatical about their futbol. We sat with the French nationals and regretted not having worn the French tricolor—blue, white, and red. We saw half-naked men with their national flag painted all over their bodies, and long plastic horns called vuvuzela blew every third second, and the Europeans, too, had a chant or a song for each play. Even with such a spectacle, I couldn’t get into the game. I was still in a daze.
Maybe it was because I didn’t understand the game.
Maybe it was because the men next to me were drunk and obnoxious.