Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! (19 page)

Just like that I handed over the password to my past to my best friend. And for all my efforts to remain sealed up, the truth was, I wanted her to have it. I wanted her to use it well. I trusted her.

With disarming irreverence for my sacred secret, Amy simply said, “All these years I thought his name would have been Bob.”

“Bob?”

“Bob or Mike or some other clearly American name. I never guessed he was French.” With that, she turned and headed for our restaurant.

Standing alone in the middle of my drama-soaked memories, I realized Amy wasn’t afraid of my story the way I was. She knew there had been a “him.” She knew that from the first time I told her I didn’t like Paris and didn’t want to return. She knew, and yet she hadn’t pushed me to tell. Now that she knew, she refused to bow to the inappropriate shrine I had constructed for this man. This altar in my heart was about to be disassembled, and I would soon be set free. I just knew it.

All I had to do was give her my story.

“Amy?”

She didn’t hear me. She was already half a block away. I hurried to catch up to where she stood in front of a small
wooden door with the number 14 over the doorpost. If she wasn’t feeling rushed to hear about Gerard right then, I could wait, too.

The window beside the door was framed with lace curtains. The inside appeared to be lit only by candlelight.

“I think this is the restaurant,” she said.

“Are you sure? It looks like a home. It’s so small.”

“This is what he said. Number 14. Let’s try the door and see if it opens.”

“Amy,” I cautioned. If it was someone’s home, I would have thought it would be a good idea to knock first.

But Amy pushed on the latch, and the door easily opened. This was her night for trying closed doors and boldly walking right in.

A short man in a dark vest stood by one of the six candlelit tables and welcomed us with cool reserve. Amy explained who we were, and the greeting changed to match the warm glow of the room. We were shown to a table set with sparkling crystal. Only one other couple was seated in the restaurant at the opposite end.

Everything about this haven from the rain spoke of Old World elegance and charm: the intimacy of the seating plan, the dark woods, the amber candlelight, the crisp white table linen. I felt as if we had been invited to a special banquet in our honor.

When Amy extracted a few more details from our waiter, we were surprised to find he was the owner as well
as the only waiter of this petite restaurant. He was the inspector’s brother, and we were to order whatever we wished, as the inspector’s guests. However, the inspector would not be joining us. Business detained him, but he wished for us to enjoy the dinner.

“What do you think?” I whispered. “Should we stay?”

“Of course. We were invited.”

Amy took the chair offered to her. I took the one across from her, and our extravagant dining experience began. The waiter spoke to us discreetly, apparently describing our dinner options. We gazed at a printed menu, but it seemed more important to listen to his suggestions regarding the specialties of the house.

As Amy began to translate the options, I told her to go ahead and order for me. I’d be happy with whatever she chose.

“Great idea.” Amy turned to the waiter. She asked him something, and he seemed to come alive. The two of them carried on a lengthy těte-à-těte.

“What did you order?”

“I have no idea.” Amy grinned. “I went with your suggestion. I said something like, ‘My friend and I would be honored to have whatever you recommend.’ I think he said we’re having seven courses. He might have said five. He has an accent.”

“Oh, really?” I grinned at what I thought was Amy’s attempt at a joke.

“No, I’m serious. His French pronunciation is different. It’s not Parisian. He must be from another part of France. I was just starting to understand a fair amount of what the locals were saying, and now this guy has me wishing I had a dictionary with me.”

“I’m sure it will be delicious whatever it is.”

Amy glowed. This was the Paris she had long dreamed of; we were partaking of the finer things this city had to offer.

I told myself not to do anything to embarrass her or to ruin the ambience. This was not the time or place to tell her about Gerard. But she had the password now. She knew his name. Even that small piece lifted from my heart made me feel a little lighter.

We talked in low voices about the various small pictures in dark wooden frames on the wall. Bottles of Badoit mineral water were opened at our table and served with a flourish. Our cloth napkins were removed from the table, flapped open, and laid across our laps for us. Amy kept smiling.

After a light salad of mixed greens was served with a flavorful dressing, the next course placed before us swam in melted butter and garlic. The waiter announced the delicacy, and I looked to Amy for translation.

With a straight face, she said, “Frog legs.”

Something deep in my psyche rejected anything toador frog-related. “Amy, please don’t take this the wrong way,
but I can’t do this. I can’t eat these. I can’t even look at them. Just the word
frog
makes me smell car wash wax and see a flashing neon toad sign.”

Amy laughed and suggested I look the other way while she downed the rare treat.

The third course, a simple presentation of white asparagus tips decorated with a dark yellow swirl of sauce around the rim of the plate, helped me forget all about the frog legs. I finally relaxed and settled in, realizing we had no place to go and nothing to do but spend the rest of the night dining. I’d never felt so enveloped inside a dining experience before.

When the waiter set the main course before us, I looked at the pretty picture it created for a moment before picking up my fork. White pieces of fish with a yummy-smelling sauce nestled inside a fan-shaped seashell like babies in a bassinet. Cuddled up next to the seashell on the plate was a whole, cooked onion stuffed with creamy-looking rice. Basil and a hint of sage rose on the steam from the dish.

“Ooh.” Amy pointed to the fish. “Coquilles St. Jacques!”

Seeing the uncomprehending look on my face, she added, “Sea scallops, Lisa, cooked in an herbed butter sauce and topped with Swiss cheese. It’s a classic French dish.”

The first piece I put in my mouth made me close my
eyes and chew slowly like a connoisseur of all seafaring delicacies. The scallops almost melted in my mouth. I knew my taste buds would remember this experience forever.

Amy tried to express her tandem enjoyment, but all she could say was, “My mouth is so happy!”

We laughed, and I looked over my shoulder. The other couple in the restaurant seemed oblivious to us and our laughter. Around us floated contented sounds: forks tapping the edge of knives, sparkling clinks of crystal stemware being lifted and returned to the table, simmering sounds of delicacies being prepared in the tiny kitchen behind the cutout window, cello music rolling out the low mellow notes of a melancholy heart from the speaker behind the small lamp with a burgundy shade. We were sequestered in a pocket of time where the rest of the world faded away.

“So,” Amy said, sliding into my thoughts with an equally slow-measured pace. “His name was Gerard, was it?”

I couldn’t believe how calm I felt. “Yes, Gerard. That was his name.”

“And?”

“And … how much do you want to hear?”

I thought she would say, “Everything.” I thought that’s what I wanted. What I needed. It would have been typical of Amy to say, “Tell me everything.” But we weren’t in a typical place. And we weren’t gluttons. We were in a place
where only a little was sufficiently satisfying when prepared and served with expertise.

All Amy said was, “I want to hear about what happened in your heart the last time you were in Paris.”

I began my story with, “Well, I was young, he was charming, and …”

“And you were in Paris.” Amy swished her hand as if that fact explained everything.

“Yes, I was in Paris, but …”

Amy looked at me with an expression of acceptance. I knew I could tell her anything. I took a courageous breath and plunged in.

“The other girls I was traveling with flew home a week before I did. Originally I was going to go back to London and stay at the same place where we stayed the first four days of our trip. But then I met Gerard. At the tour office. He sold my girlfriends and me tour tickets for a day trip to Versailles, and then he turned out to be our guide.”

I told Amy how much fun we had that day. I told her how Gerard wasn’t like any other man I’d ever met, so sure of himself and so quick to express what he was feeling.

“He turned down our group offer to take him out for coffee after our tour of the palace at Versailles. But he whispered to me that I was the enchanting one and kissed me on the neck.”

“The enchanting one,” Amy repeated. “Suave.”

“He definitely was suave. The next morning my friends
and I were leaving the youth hostel, ready to go our separate ways. Across the street I saw Gerard. He came toward us with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on me. Then he held out a single red rose and said, ‘One more day, Lisa.’ I stayed one more day and that turned into two days and …”

“You fell helplessly, hopelessly in love.” Amy smiled, as if I were telling her a fairy tale.

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “I fell in love with him. Hopelessly, helplessly, completely.”

Rolling my shoulders back and drawing in another deep breath I said, “Oh, that felt good.”

Amy lowered her chin. “Did you never admit that to yourself before?”

“No. At least never aloud.”

Amy reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Then keep going. Keep telling yourself the truth, Lisa.”

I leaned back in my chair, and that seemed to be the signal for our waiter to bring the next course. He smoothly presented us each with a small aperitif glass of lemon sorbet to clear our palate before the dessert.

Then he set a copper sauté pan of cherries in the center of the table and sparked the delicacy in flames. Amy and I “oohed” in unison and watched the fire quickly dissipate. The cherries jubilee was served with dark coffee in a silver pot that had a long, elegant pour spout. A plate of fine cheese was placed in front of us, but the strong smell made
both of us turn away. To be polite, we tried a small taste of each piece, and then gave our waiter a slightly desperate look. He returned and removed the plate of cheese as a gracious gesture to our unappreciative taste buds.

As he poured another cup of strong coffee for both of us, he made it clear that we weren’t being rushed but rather invited to linger as long as we wanted at our secluded table.

During our dessert, I had considered what to tell Amy. I knew I could spend the rest of the night giving her little details of how Gerard and I strolled for long hours along the Seine and sat at sidewalk cafés on the Champs-Elysées, sipping coffee and holding hands. None of those details seemed necessary. She got the point. I fell in love. This conversation seemed more for my benefit than hers.

I reentered my tale by telling her the first thing that came to my mind. “Gerard said I was strange.”

“Strange?”

“His English was fluent, but there were a few glitches. I think he meant
different
or
unique.
At least that’s what I told myself. My views of life were so different from his. The second time we went out for coffee I arm-wrestled him to see who was going to pay. He said French girls never arm-wrestled.”

“Did you tell him that not many French girls grew up with brothers like yours?”

“Yes.” I brushed a few crumbs off the linen tablecloth
and smiled. “I won the arm wrestling, so he had to pay. Then I told him I could take him in leg wrestling, too, but I never proved it.”

“Leg wrestling, huh?” Amy’s eyebrows asked all the questions that I knew were inevitable.

“We never did, just so you know.”

“You never leg-wrestled? Or you never went to bed together?”

“Neither. I told Gerard that if what we were feeling for each other was real, then it would last. You know how cautious I was. I told him I was saving myself for my husband. He never had heard that before from a woman. I think my morals intrigued him at first. That was part of what made me strange.”

“And also made you so attractive to him. He fell in love with you, too, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I thought so. But it couldn’t have been real. It didn’t last.”

“Oh, it lasted, all right,” Amy said. “We’re talking about him now, aren’t we? I’d say he’s still in your life.”

I wasn’t prepared for her comment. Yet she was right. This man had never completely left me. I carried around his memories secretly, sacredly, in my heart. That realization made me feel sick to my stomach. I did what I always did when the shame-beast pounced on me. I defended myself.

“I honestly thought what I felt for Gerard was real. I
mean, real enough for what I understood about love and life and myself at that age.”

“I’m sure it was real. There’s no shame in that.”

“Yes, but Amy, I look back now, and when I’m honest with myself, I see that I could have so easily given myself to him.”

“You did.”

“No, I just told you. We didn’t go to bed together. We were more than a little familiar, if you know what I mean, but I didn’t give myself to him.”

Amy looked at me with a very grown-up version of the same expression she had given me the summer night under the pink canopy of her bed when she told me where babies came from. “You did give yourself to him, Lisa. You gave Gerard your heart. You fell in love with this man. Truly. Sleeping with someone doesn’t somehow make your love authentic.”

I had no response. All these years the only comfort in my memories of Gerard was that I’d done the right thing by staying on this side of virginity. I had left Paris with a broken heart but with my morals still intact. Yet Amy was right. I’d given Gerard the freshest, most vulnerable and eternal part of me, and he had rejected it. I’m not sure I ever gave that part of myself away entirely again. Not even to my wonderful husband.