Jeremy glances at her. Does she read him so easily?
“The grounds are beautiful,” she says, as if he needs further urging.
She’s right, and Jeremy breathes more easily. Once they’re through the front door, the Jardin des Plantes spreads out before them. They walk through gardens that represent different ecosystems while Chantal offers the French names for different flowers, trees, wild ferns. On a central path in the large park, the children follow their teachers in two straight lines, like Noah’s animals. The air is thick with woodsy smells, and Jeremy remembers the evening after the rafting trip in Costa Rica. They had camped in the jungle along the side of the river, and the river guides had cooked fish wrapped in banana leaves on an open campfire. Lindy told Jeremy that she had a crush on their river guide, a wiry, dark-skinned young man who had taught them to spin the boat in the rapids. “Don’t tell Mom I like him,” she had said. “I won’t,” he told her. It was the first time she had offered a secret. He held it close to him, an extraordinary gift.
“I want to live in the country one day,” Chantal says.
Jeremy is surprised. She has told him so little about her life.
“Why not move?” he asks.
“My boyfriend loves Paris,” she says. “Though he told me this morning he’s thinking of moving to London.”
“And you?” He tries to ignore the twinge of jealousy. Of course she has a boyfriend. And what does it matter?
“I spend a lot of time in this garden. This is my favorite spot in the city.”
Jeremy looks around with different eyes. He wants to know why she loves this particular garden and yet he won’t ask. He thinks he might come to know Chantal if he knows this garden.
“Will you move to London with this boyfriend?” Jeremy asks.
“I saw him kissing another woman this morning,” Chantal says. “Maybe I deserve a better boyfriend.”
The sky darkens and then flashes white. A growl of thunder follows immediately.
“Let’s go inside,” Chantal says.
“No. We’ll duck under the trees,” Jeremy tells her. “Let’s watch the storm.”
She looks at him, surprised, and then her face lights up. They can hear the high-pitched shrieks of the children, who dash back into the closest exhibition hall as the skies open.
Jeremy wraps his hand around Chantal’s upper arm and leads her deeper into the woods. They step over a low fence-a sign reads
It is wild. The sky is almost as black as if day had changed to night. Peals of thunder roll across the sky, bumping into one another without a break. And the rain! It comes down in solid sheets, loud, crashing on the paths, the lawn, the tree canopy above them.
Chantal presses against Jeremy’s side as if frightened. But he sees her face-she is thrilled by the storm. He smiles to himself, glad that they didn’t run for cover.
And finally there are no words-even the jumble of French and English in Jeremy’s mind slows and quiets. There is only this: the lashing of wind at the trees, the pounding of the rain on the earth, the clamor of the sky.
Jeremy can smell Chantal’s shampoo-something like tangerines. He breathes her in.
He made love with Dana last night when they returned from their street fight sometime after three in the morning, having walked all the way from the Marais to their hotel near Saint-Sulpice church. She had turned to him as soon as they climbed into bed.
“I need you,” she whispered, and he glared at her. Did she need sex or him? He pushed her back on the bed and, pinning her shoulders down, climbed on top of her.
“What do you need? Say it,” he said.
“You.”
“Sex,” he said.
“You.”
“You don’t need me,” he said. He leaned close to her and she reached up for his mouth-their kiss was full of hunger and rage. They tore at each other, tangling themselves in the sheets, and at one point Jeremy felt Dana’s mouth on his neck, her teeth sharp. They turned each other over and pushed each other back, each fighting to overpower the other. They had never done this, never been rough or scrappy in bed. Their lovemaking was always tender, intimate; their eyes always locked on each other. This time, they barely looked at each other.
When Jeremy came, his orgasm seemed to go on for a long time. And then Dana didn’t wait for him to pleasure her-she took his hand and pressed it between her legs. She held it there and moved against him, her body scrambling for release. When she found it she called out his name.
“Are you all right?” he asked her, when they slid into their sleeping positions, his body curled against her back, his arm wrapped around her and curled between her breasts.
“I need to come home to you,” she said softly.
The storm stops as suddenly as it began. Chantal moves away from Jeremy’s side. It makes him catch his breath, as if he might stumble without the weight of her against him.
She does not name what they are looking at.
They step carefully through the wet grass and over the small fence and back onto the path. Chantal lifts her closed umbrella and laughs. “What a silly thing it is.”
“I hate to leave,” Jeremy says with real regret, “but we need to meet my daughter.”
“Of course,” Chantal says.
“I asked Lindy to meet us across the street at the mosque.” He pauses, searching her face. “If that’s okay with you.”
“That’s a very good plan,” she says. “I would have suggested it myself.”
Jeremy feels a swelling of pride, as if he has written an A paper.
And yet there is some comfort in naming these odd sensations swirling through him today. As if now he can put it in its place. It is translatable, after all.
He wonders suddenly: Did Lindy sleep with the river guide that night? The next day, at the airport in San Jose, she had sobbed before they boarded the plane, and she wouldn’t talk to her mother. When Dana went to the bathroom, Lindy whispered to Jeremy, “I want to stay with Paco. I can’t leave him.” Jeremy kissed the top of her head. “Is this love?” he asked, smiling. “Of course it’s love!” she shouted, and stormed off.
Why does naming a thing give it so much power? Jeremy wonders.
Chantal glances at her watch. “It is almost eleven-thirty. I am the only person in Paris who is always on time. Let’s not ruin my good record.”
That, too, pleases Jeremy. Of course, Dana is always late-the meeting ran over, the photographer didn’t show up, the director demanded twenty takes of the same damn scene. He brings a book with him whenever he sets out to meet her. And he expects to wait. When she finally arrives, he usually forgets any annoyance as soon as she begins to tell him about her day. Her days are filled with stories. He works quietly with his wood and his tools and his silence. At the end of his day, it’s as if Dana opens the window and lets the world in.
They walk quickly through the gardens. Jeremy feels breathless, as if the storm might reappear at any moment. But no, the sky is light, the clouds gone. Chantal has shifted the bags on her shoulders and now, instead of feeling her body brush against his, it is only her tote bag that bumps his hip as they hurry along.
“Jeremy!” Lindy shouts when they reach the gates of the Jardin des Plantes. She dashes across the street and throws herself in his arms before he even gets a good look at the girl. She squeezes tight and he finds himself laughing. His child. There is no question she is his, even though she has only spent half her life with him. She has chosen him, which is even better than what most dads get.
“You’re beautiful,” he says when words come. He holds her out in front of him. It is still true: the shockingly bald head makes her green eyes even more luminous. Her smile is radiant.
