Page 116 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“Forget the cornetti.” I take the box and set it on top of the banister.
Helene smirks. “You said to protect it at all costs.”
“I changed my mind. Some costs—such as this box physicallyseparating you and me—are too high.” I sweep her up into my arms, and she holds on around my neck.
This close, Helene’s skin is warm with a subtle sweetness, probably dusted with sugar from the pastry box. But when I kiss her, it’s not cornetti I taste but honeyed wine, the hallmark that is always her and me, no matter where or when. I kiss her more deeply, trying to pull us together until we merge into one.
And then I lead her upstairs, because I want to make love to her, slowly, gently. For hours and hours, until the memory of us being apart is completely replaced by the memory of us together between tangled sheets.
HELENE
Sebastien’s bedroom is muted elegancefrom another era. The bed is made of heavy, dark wood, contrasted by soft, cream-colored linens. An armoire, chest of drawers, and mirror opposite the bed match it, and there’s a sitting area with a pale gray velvet settee. Soft, golden sunlight filters in through sheer curtains that billow in the open balcony doors. Regal bronze wallpaper covers the walls.
He lays me down on the bed and insists on undressing me without assistance. Sebastien peels off my jacket, my jeans, then proceeds to kiss from my ankle, up my calf to the back of my knee, and along my inner thigh.
His fingers inch up to the bottom of my shirt, lifting the edge, sending goosebumps rising over my skin. He kisses the swell of my belly, pausing for a moment with eyes closed, as if paying respects to the life we’ve created inside.
Sebastien brings himself face-to-face with me, and for a brief moment, his mouth meets mine and our tongues dance together again. But then his lips trail down to my neck. My collarbone. His touch is as gentle as a zephyr, but with a searing heat beneath it. I ache with wanting.
“I love you, Helene,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.”
My hands find the sash of his robe and untie it. His skin meets mine. We dissolve into each other.
Sebastien doesn’t just make love to me. He worships me.
And here is a truth I now know: Every woman deserves to be wooed like Juliet, cherished like a queen, revered like a goddess.
As for me, I’m not just one of those to Sebastien.
As fate would have it, I am all three.
SEBASTIEN
For three blissful months, wehave cornetti and coffee every morning in sidewalk cafés. In the afternoons, Helene works on her manuscript, and then we make love and drowse together in bed afterward. Every evening, we stroll the streets of Verona arm in arm. We feel the heat of summer shift into the crisp calm of autumn.
Then, in early October, I’m cooking dinner when a glass shatters in the dining room and Helene gasps. I drop my wooden spoon into the pot of tomato sauce and run into the room, all of the fear of the past roaring in my ears. “What is it? Are you all right?”
But she starts laughing. She keeps looking down at the tiled floor, grinning and giggling, but when I follow her gaze beneath the table, I see nothing amusing, only broken glass and a puddle of water.
“What’s so funny?”
Helene, still laughing, meets my eyes. “Not funny. Wonderful. Glorious.Incredible. Sebastien…my water just broke.”
“The baby,” I whisper, finally catching up. I am terrified, but I’ve also waited for this moment for centuries. A smile dares to cross my lips.
She beams back at me. “Yes. Our baby’s coming.”
HELENE
Everyone in the hospital speaksItalian, and the lyrical music of the language tints the evening with a beatific glow. I feel the contractions, sharp and insistent, but even though they hurt, I welcome them because it’s our baby announcing her arrival. She wants to make us a family.
All of my focus is on this single fact. The logistics of the maternity ward fall into a blur in the background—a nurse helps me into a gown, inserts an IV into my hand. The anesthesiologist gives me an epidural. Another nurse checks my dilation, times the pauses between contractions.
I only begin to pay more attention to the happenings in the hospital room when the doctor arrives, her hair back in a grandmotherly bun. Instead of coming to me first, she sees something in the expression on Sebastien’s face and goes to him. “Everything ismolto buono,very good,” she says, patting him soothingly on the shoulder. “Do not worry.”
“It’s true,” I say, beckoning Sebastien to my side. I take his hand, which is quivering. “You’re going to be a daddy soon.”
