Page 49 of Wished

After a moment I turn back to Max, pulling his jacket tight around my shoulders.

I’m in Paris.

We’rein Paris.

I’m in Paris with Max.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Even if we’re only here to reverse my wish. Thank you for bringing me to Paris. I won’t ever forget it.”

He smiles at me, a slow curl of his lips. “I expect that I won’t either.”

And with that, we’ve arrived.

15

The Marché auxfleurs is an Eden blooming in the shadow of Notre-Dame. The centuries-old flower market is a riot of colors and sweet fragrances on a tiny island in the middle of the River Seine. The Ile de la Cite, the little island, is at the heart of Paris.

Max brought me here directly after landing, claiming he didn’t want to disappoint Madame Blinken. It doesn’t matter that he’d never met Madame Blinken before my wish brought her into his life; he was adamant he’d bring me to the market and find a bouquet of freesias. “We’ll explore,” he’d said. He’d let me lose myself in the city and he’d stay by my side.

We have an appointment late in the afternoon at The Musée des Arts Décoratifs, but until then, I’m free to fall in love with Paris.

As I wander through the narrow, flower-strewn paths, I wonder, what better way to fill the heart of a city than with a garden of flowers?

The air is perfumed with the seductive scent of antique roses, the sweet, sunny scent of blooming azaleas, and the cheery, light perfume of delicate gardenias. Happy calls of, “Bonjour, madame” and, “Oui, oui, oui,” and, “Merci, madame,” echo through the orangerie stalls of the flower sellers. Iron supports hold up great glass ceilings, and the open-air stalls let the cool spring breeze blow the dreamy aroma through the flowering paths.

Sunlight paints the yellows brighter, the pinks softer, and the reds a more vibrant shade, so that every lily, every daisy, and every rose becomes the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen. I’m in a dreamland and Max is here with me.

I grin over at him, eyeing a wooden shelf full of hand-painted ceramic vases and a display of potted succulents. He lifts an eyebrow when he sees my smile.

I squeeze closer to him as a group of women chattering in French push past us. We press against a tall lemon tree, the glossy yellow globes are full and ripe, and the sweet scent teases the air between us.

“Why didn’t I ever come here?” I ask him. “To Paris.”

He grips my arms and tugs me closer as a bearded man pushing a dolly full of oxeye daisies trundles past. Overhead windchimes tinkle, and there’s a shout of irritation as the bearded man knocks a display of lavender sachets over as he wheels past.

I ignore the commotion. Instead I’m caught by Max’s grip on my arms, and the friction of his legs pressed to mine, and the careful kiss of my chest against his. I tilt my chin to look up at him. This close I can see the sun shining on his hair, turning it a golden-tinged black. I can see the gold striations in his brown eyes, like little bursts of sunshine. I can smell the fresh-air, deep-woods scent that is the opposite of the heady floral scent combing the air around us. I swear I can almost feel his heartbeat.

Although the crowd has thinned, I don’t step back, and Max doesn’t let my arms go.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe you were waiting for me to take you.”

I smile at that. “Maybe. But I think it’s probably because ever since I started working, I’ve never had two days off in a row. I always thought if I went to Paris I’d want to stay for at least two days. But”—I shrug—“it seems wrong to spend money only on myself when I could use it to help my family.”

“You clean six days a week?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “You haven’t taken a holiday in seven years?”

“I like my job,” I say defensively. Then I remember that Dorene fired me, and I add, “Liked. And I like helping my family. I don’t mind not going anywhere. It’s just as fun having a picnic in the park with my friends or taking a swim at sunset with Emme or watching old movies in the courtyard with Dorene. Besides, when I read a book I travel to new places. Just think, it’s like I’ve already been to Paris because I readA Tale of Two Cities.”

I smile up at him, then I slowly step back. Max reluctantly lets me go, but I can tell he doesn’t want to drop the conversation. For a man who works seven days a week and spends most of his free time locked in his home office, he is surprisingly bothered by my work habits.

I push past a display of bright pink azaleas and enter an enclosed shop lined with terracotta pots full of herbs—lavender, rosemary, basil, and sage. It smells like a culinary escape, and I smile at the herby scent.

The light shines through the glass ceiling in a golden spiderweb pattern.

The proprietor, a small man with a quick smile, nods when I kneel to rub the prickly, needlelike leaves of the rosemary.

“You said you’d feel guilty doing something just for yourself,” Max says in a low voice, stooping next to me. “But if it were your mom or your sister who wanted to do something that made them happy, what would you say to them? What would you want for them? If your mom wanted a trip to Paris, what would you tell her?”

I shake my head and stand. I walk toward the next open-air flower stall, full of hanging wicker baskets, crystal prisms, and wind chimes. They tinkle and the prisms throw rainbows across my path.

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