Page 82 of Reverence

“And now she is the ruin of it. What good did love ever do me? You never loved me enough and she?—”

Another peel of laughter that dissolved in the air and fell like hail to the floor. Helena grabbed her by the shoulders and actually shook her, startling her out of the hysteria.

“And she might have loved you too much. Maybe all these unsaid truths that we have kept from you are what was trulyruinous. We wronged you, dear.” Helena stopped and gulped, and the tears she had been fighting ran freely down her cheeks now. “I did. And as for loving you? It was never an issue. You and I are a regret I’ve nursed quietly for years and will probably carry forever, and Cesca… Well, if dragging you to New York, saving you from joblessness, and giving you a new lease on life is not atoning every day for her utter awfulness, I don’t know what is. As for Katarina? I sense that her silences hold a much bigger meaning than ours ever could.”

Helena stepped out of the kitchen and extended a hand to Francesca.

“I think we will leave you now, dear.”

“But we need to talk, amor?—”

The buzzing in her ears intensified. She felt like a badly written character. One who was led around the script by her nose, events happening to her and nothing being in her control. Maybe it was time to take some of that agency back from the author penning the story of her life.

“I do need to talk, Cesca. But not with you. You’ve done and said more than you should have. You propped me up for years. Both of you, and Gabriel. He’s gone, and you need to let me stand on my own two feet, no matter how unsteady I literally am. I’m grateful to and for you. But enough now.”

Both Helena’s and Cesca’s faces showed surprise and resignation, and Juliette felt the weight of her words sinking, the meaning of them impacting her friends. A brick to the storefront window of their friendship. They would either replace it later, patch it up with cardboard, or let the entire thing sink. But those questions were for another day.

The door closing told Juliette that for the first time in seven years, she was truly alone. And the blood-red wine on the kitchen floor was a lousy companion for a broken heart. But italso felt like the one companion she had actually chosen herself. And wasn’t that a wonderful feeling?

30

OF RETURNS & YELLOW CHRYSANTHEMUMS

Rue de Rivoli was quiet, and the absence of sound soothing. Paris met her with rain and silence, and Juliette knew this had once been her true home. It was also the home she’d never be able to return to, not fully. One couldn’t enter the same waters twice—the Seine, a stone’s throw away from her, was testament to that, the river ever changing. But damn if she could breathe with her full chest for the very first time in seven years.

Her cane beat the steady tattoo of her steps on the empty sidewalks. Her hands were full of chrysanthemums. A fall cliché if she had ever seen one, and yet their color and vibrance did not grate. They felt like the missing piece in the puzzle that had been her trip to France.

If the customs officer at Charles de Gaulle airport was surprised that a lone woman coming from JFK had no luggage bar a small purse, he did not bat an eye. In fact, he gave her the longest look, and when he finally spoke, it was to say, “Welcome back” instead of “Welcome to Paris,” and Juliette’s heart, already working double time, went into overdrive.

She took the most circuitous route possible, asking the taxi to drop her off at the Tour Saint-Jacques. And gave herselfsome grace. To just wander aimlessly the streets whose every cobblestone and every crack in the asphalt she had known. Some of those had been fixed, new ones formed in their place. Life went on.

And some things remained the same. Madame Broussard, the flower lady on the corner of Rue Saint-Honoré,had gazed at her above her glasses, and Juliette could have sworn a smile was playing in the dark hooded eyes.

“The usual?”

That one question hit Juliette in the center of her chest and had her on the ropes like nothing else on this trip. Not the Louvre, not the Opera building, and yet here she was fighting a losing battle with tears and reaching for her wallet.

“Non.” The arthritic hands plunged into the plastic bucket and pulled out an immense bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums.

“I… Madame… I can’t…” Juliette’s arms were suddenly filled with wet flowers as she instinctively accepted what was handed to her.

“It’s autumn in Paris, mademoiselle. And it means only two things. Chrysanthemums and ballet season. And the latter is you.”

Juliette gulped and forwent wiping her eyes.

“Not anymore, madame.” She juggled the bouquet into a more comfortable hold and gripped her cane harder, trying to steady herself as much as her emotions.

“You are Juliette Lucian-Sorel, ma jolie, a stick doesn’t change that.”

With that the woman waved her away, turning to another customer, and Juliette was left floored on the corner of Rue Saint-Honoré, arms full of flowers, water dripping down her sweater.

From there, it seemed she had no other way but to Rivoli. Past the Louvre, past the Tuileries. She entered the almost-deserted Angelina, so rare, and ordered a cup of their famous hot chocolate. The maître d’ greeted her by name, and so did the server. They took care of her flowers and sat her in the back, away from the wandering eyes of the handful of patrons.

The thick liquid slid down her throat like a blessing, and yet as she sipped Juliette knew she was just stalling. The darkness was falling on Paris, and she had a hunch the staff was allowing her to lollygag instead of pointing to the door. Her second cup was making her queasy, and she acknowledged it was time.

Drunk on Angelina’s chocolate… Such a lightweight, Juliette…

She said goodbye with the air of someone being taken to the guillotine. Well, Place de la Concorde wasn’t all that far from here.

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