“Do you like it?”
I inhaled the strong, heady perfume, deep and rich and velvet. “Maybe.”
“Isn’t Ecuador famous for roses? Or is that bananas?”
I laughed. “Both.” We unpacked the picnic we’d brought: a baguette, a wheel of Camembert, slices of ham and tiny, dark grapes. “They have these giant rose farms, and they’re just stunning—full and deep and perfect. They’re some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. And I’m just a walking cliche—roses are my favorite.” I tore off a chunk of bread and unwrapped the cheese. “But they breed them for beauty, not fragrance, and so they have almost no scent. And I always sort of thought a rose without a scent was like a person without a soul.”
He stopped assembling his sandwich and grinned widely. “Look at you. Yeats two-point-oh.”
I laughed. “What can I say. If I don’t find Ivernis, I can always write greeting cards.”
Afterward, we dusted off the crumbs and took pictures of each other in front of the Tower. A girl, not much older than Anna, watched with a beleaguered expression as we took selfies and finally walked over, determination in her step and resignation in her voice. “Want me to take that for you?”
Despite her self-sacrificial tone, she took six pictures in quick succession. When she handed the camera back and strode away, she only made it twenty yards before visibly sighing and walking over to another hopeless couple.
So then we spent the next twenty minutes watching her as her instinct to help overpowered her desire to ignore everyone. “I always daydreamed about being a spy,” I admitted when she finally headed out of view. “Probably stemmed from my nosiness.”
He rolled over onto his stomach. “Not a bad cover, being an archaeologist. Good reason to travel and bug people.”
I grinned and waved my flower in his face. “It’s actually a classic. Archaeologists have been spying since the first world war.”
“What? No way.”
I relaxed back on my elbows, admiring the drifting clouds. “My favorite story is about this Egyptologist who passed messages in hieroglyphs, and just told the occupiers that it was an inscription he needed help translating.” I raised my brows. “See? We are the most badass profession.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’d make an awful spy.”
“You don’t think I’d make an awesome femme fatale?” I fluttered my lashes at him.
I’d completely been kidding, but his gaze went dark and he reached out to brush my hair behind my ear. My heart fluttered. Mike made me feel like I was as stunning and amazing as any woman that graced the silver screen.
Then a crew of loud American boys tripped over their own feet, and we pulled apart as they milled before us and pushed one of their members forward. He cleared his throat and performed the ubiquitous chin nod at Mike. “Hey. Are you Michael O’Connor?”
I’d been with my mother a handful of times when she’d been recognized. She’d always slipped out the scornful half smile, the drops of disdain. If they offered a hand she raised her brows, if they smiled she frowned.
Mike grinned. “Yeah, that’s me. What are you guys doing here?”
They were study abroad students at Sciences Po, and they clamored for Mike’s attention. A couple of them checked me out until Mike blatantly wrapped his arm around me. And then, so easily I barely noticed it was happening, he extricated us from the group, leaving them with shining eyes and puffed up chests.
“You’re
“Ryan and I used to make bets about how fast we could get out.” He let out a laugh. “You should see Keith. If he gets bored he walks away from people mid-sentence. Abe pretends his mom’s calling.”
“Aw, that’s a cute one.”
“Yeah, that’s why he does it. Subtle publicity work when he’s hemmed in by old ladies. I don’t think he pulls that one on guys.” He quirked a brow. “Speaking of mothers. I have some ideas for how we should spend the rest of the day.”
“Like eating bonbons and checking out the Louvre and the gadgetty, steampunky museum?”
For one hopeful moment, interest distracted him, and then he leveled a deliberate look at me. “Like I looked up your mother.”
I let my head thump down on him. “Nooo.”
He marched on. “Apparently, when she moved to Paris at thirteen, she lived in model housing in, coincidentally, this neighborhood.”
All of a sudden hot anger swamped me. I shoved my hair out of my face. “Who cares? What do you want to do, traipse around her old stomping grounds? What’s that going to do?”
He shrugged, still keeping those light, steady eyes fastened on me. “It’s where she grew up.”
I snorted. “She never grew up.”
“Can you blame her?”
I tilted my head, some of my anger fading at the odd note in his voice.
He stared at the Eiffel Tower. “She spent years working when she should have been having a childhood.”
I also looked at the metal structure. “It got her fame and money.”
“Was it worth it?”
He looked so calm, his chiseled face imperturbable. It struck me how few people he ever let in, how few realized there was anything behind the charm. “I don’t know. Was it?”
He turned back to me and reached out to trace my cheekbone with his finger. “I’m just saying. It was a large part of her life.”
I laced my hand through his. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
The walk through the narrow streets was beautiful. Even the tourist shops added flare. Bright scarves caught our attention from sidewalk stands. Every block seemed to have a
I was in heaven.
Little nooks and crannies kept jumping out at us, demanding our attention: a hidden churchyard with a mossy fountain; a marble plaque on a building declaring this the site where two members of
The model house was tucked away, down two quiet streets, through a gate and a private garden. The gate pushed open, though it looked like it was supposed to be latched, and we walked past potted plants and into the small lobby of the building.
On one wall, bright flyers waved in the summer breeze as the door fell shut behind us, while straight ahead a man in a suit glanced up from behind a counter. He didn’t quite frown as he took in everything from our sandals to my ponytail, but he spoke with no little disdain. “
My French, which I’d had to learn for grad school, was decidedly rusty. I cleared my throat and tried anyway. “
He heard my accent and didn’t even bother speaking in French. “The residences are private.”
“Oh.
Mike leaned closer. “What’d you say?”
“Just that my mom used to live here and we wanted to look around.” I shrugged and turned. “Well, that was a fail.”
Mike grabbed my arm. “Hey, no.” He turned back to the man. “Her mom lived here for five years.”
I twisted so I could catch his wrist and tugged him toward the door. “It’s not a big deal. We tried.”
The man behind the counter didn’t deign to chime in.
