Page 8 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
When I’m acceptably bundled up, I wander into the kitchen. It’s a cozy nook with flowers painted on the counter tiles, an old stove from the seventies, and a refrigerator that huffs and puffs as if it wants to make sure I’m aware how hard it’s working. It reminds me of one of those animated trains my little nephew loves, Thomas the Tank Engine and his railroad friends, each with their own personality. I smile wryly at the fridge and say, “I dub thee Reginald the Refrigerator.” It sounds like the name of a curmudgeonly old butler and fits my long-suffering fridge quite well.
There’s a welcome basket on the counter with a starter pack of pods for the coffee machine and a package of English muffins. I’m grateful for the gift of breakfast already made, because there’s no other food in the cottage. I’ll have to run some errands today, like going to the grocery store to stock up Reginald the Refrigerator and the pantry.
I brew a mug of hazelnut coffee and inhale deeply as I sit on one of the two stools at the counter. There’s something luxurious about flavored coffee. Maybe because my life before was so focused on making other people happy—namely my soon-to-be-ex—and small things like adding sugar and milk to coffee were forbidden, lest the extra calories show up on my hips and he find yet another thinner, cuter intern to suck his dick.
Stop thinking about him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that will also wring away the infidelity, the feelings of helplessness, the despair of never being enough despite how hard I tried.
When I open my eyes again, I reach for one of the yellow notebooks I have stacked on the kitchen counter. Immersing myself in a happily-ever-after story gives me a boost, a reminder that better possibilities exist. I flip to one of my favorite vignettes I’ve written, set in Versailles, when Marie Antoinette and pretty dresses and fancy petits fours still reigned. The protagonists in this story are Amélie Laurent and Matteo Bassegio, but of course Matteo looks, in my mind, just like Sebastien. And I’d much rather think about him than Merrick.
In the gardens of the palace at Versailles, Matteo admires Amélie from across their little rowboat, the bright light off the Grand Canal silhouetting the slight upturn on her button nose, her delicate chin, the blond ringlets pinned elegantly at the nape of her neck. Behind them, the golden palace sits like a king overlooking his botanical realm. There is politicking and backstabbing and gambling in those glittering, mirrored halls.
But out here in the gardens, a deceptive tranquility reigns. The royal demesne is vast, full of groves and hidden pavilions, parterres and paths, an orangery, statues carved by Europe’s preeminent artists, and fountains that put on spectacular shows. In the middle of it all is the Grand Canal, a long stripe of water populated by swans and rowboats. A slight breeze skips across the water, and Amélie laughs as she holds her ribboned hat to her head.
She and Matteo have seen each other nearly every afternoon for the past two months, ever since he arrived here in France as an ambassador from the Republic of Venetia. Amélie’s family is minor French nobility, high enough on the hierarchy to maintain residences on the outer perimeter of Versailles, but not so high that Amélie has to worry about spending a little time with Matteo. The courtiers aroundKing Louis XVI have more important political intrigues to attend to than harmless flirtations.
“Is the rowing a great deal of work, Monsieur Bassegio?” Amélie asks. “I hate to think I’m enjoying myself while you labor in the sun.”
“Nothing is work when it comes to you, Mademoiselle Laurent. Although if you don’t mind, I might take off this waistcoat. I know it isn’t proper, but—”
“Oh, you poor thing, you’re probably steaming in that. Of course you should take it off.” Marie Antoinette’s court is forgiving of these small slights to etiquette.
Nevertheless, Matteo catches the blush rising on Amélie’s cheeks as he sheds his waistcoat. What he wouldn’t give to cross this boat and kiss her right now! But that would only unbalance their boat and land them both in the Grand Canal, and seeing as they are surrounded on all sides by other courtiers strolling through the gardens, Matteo restrains himself and resumes the rhythmical rowing of the oars instead.
“Tell me about Venetia,” Amélie says. “I’ve never been, but it sounds terribly romantic.”
Matteo smiles but pauses for a moment, considering what to say. Venetia is a large republic, spanning from the Adriatic Sea all the way inland to the Duchy of Milan. Matteo lives in the capital city of Venice as a newly appointed doge, something akin to elected nobility.
He rows farther down Versailles’s Grand Canal, away from the clutter of traffic near the boathouse. The shush of the waves reminds him of home.
“Venice is a poem built on water,” Matteo says. “Gondolas glide silently through the canals like the carriages of angels. The sea daily courts the land, the tides kissing the steps of the brick buildings good morning and good eve. The noble campanile in Piazza San Marco keeps watch over us like a proud sentry. And the bridges grant wishes to lovers who dare to meet under the shy light of the moon.”
Amélie sighs. “How divine. I hope to see it someday.”
“I shall take you there, if you like,” Matteo says boldly.
The blush blooms again on her cheeks. “Would you really?”
“Let us go today.”
She laughs. “If only!”
Matteo pulls the oars out of the water and rests the handles in his lap. The boat slows to a gentle drift. “Why not?”
“A million reasons,” Amélie says, still smiling. “First, even if I could go, I would need to pack, and that alone would take several days. Second, an unmarried woman cannot simply run abroad with a man. It is one thing to be here at court with you, but quite another to go gallivanting unchaperoned to a foreign land.”
“Then marry me.”
Her parasol nearly drops into the water. “What did you say?”
Matteo locks the oars in the riggers and inches closer to Amélie, carefully maintaining the balance of the boat. He takes her soft hands into his. “Marry me, and we’ll move to Venice, and you shall live like a princess on the edge of thesea.”
He can feel her pulse fluttering through her fingers. What he is asking is far more than an innocuous flirtation. His heartbeat matches the nervousness of hers.
Whatever her answer, though, Matteo will bear it. Because ever since that first afternoon when he joined her party for an impromptu game of pall-mall in the gardens, he cannot relax unless she is near. In the mornings, when the business of the Venetian state requires his attention, Matteo’s restless pacing in his offices has worn a trough through the carpet. At night, his incessant tossing and turning in bed and frequent calls for yet a different pillow or a warmer blanket drive his attendants to drink. It is as if the fabric of Matteo’s soul has frayed, and only Amélie’s words and sweet smiles are capable of weaving the threads back together.
She slips one of her hands out of his and fans herself. But her other hand still rests in his clasp. She hasn’t made a decision thus far.
