Page 100 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Your sugar cube reign
Overthrown by the fellowship of tacos!”
In the crowd’s frenzy, Sebastien and I get separated. His face flickers in alarm.
I shake my head, trying to convey that it’s okay, that a Cannes garden party is not the curse, and dancing to a song about candy and tacos isn’t going to kill me.
“I love you!” I mouth as I get swept up against the stage, still dancing, and he disappears into the throng.
The chorus comes up again, and I throw myself into the bad lyrics. I haven’t had this kind of fun since clubbing during my college days. I sing even louder to match the ratcheted-up fervor of the band.
Suddenly, though, I find myself looking at a bald man who seems familiar, but I can’t place him.
He isn’t dancing, just milling around on the edge of the crowd,partly obscured by the shadow of the speakers and theJawsshark topiary looming above him. Goosebumps prickle my arms.
Then I recognize him—Aaron Gonchar from Northwestern’s journalism program, with a lot less hair than when we were students. He was the guy who got kicked off the grad school paper with Merrick.
My heart pounds in a frenzy, my palms sweat. Is Aaron here on Merrick’s behalf?
But then I laugh at myself.
Merrick hasn’t tried anything since he left Alaska and filed that suit against me for slander, which the Weiskopf Group attorneys did indeed get tossed out of court. And Sebastien hasn’t mentioned anything else since then.
Relax,I tell my overactive imagination. I never liked Aaron, but that doesn’t mean I need to be creeped out by him being here. Besides, after grad school, Aaron got a job at celebrity gossip media outlet TMZ. I’m sure he’s in Cannes reporting on the film festival and all the movie stars. It’s just a funny twist of serendipity that we’re at the same party.
“There you are,” Sebastien says, swooping in through the dancing crowd. He pulls me in close and kisses me.
“I’m fine, you know,” I say, teasing.
“I do now,” he says, kissing me again.
“And areyouokay?”
“As long as I’m with you,” Sebastien says.
“Good.” I squeeze his hand. “Then let’s dance.”
It might be because the speakers are right behind us, or maybe the band hurls itself even harder at the music, but the song gets faster and louder. I hold on to Sebastien and we wave our arms in the air with everyone else, sing-shouting,
“I hereby declare
Your sugar cube reign
Overthrown by the fellowship of tacos!”
The wild, carefree energy is infectious, and maybe there really is something a little profound about the song, although not, I think, what the singer intended. But there’s a magic to music, anability to carry you away into another realm that gives you permission to get lost, if only for a little while.
Impossibly, the music gets even faster, and we dance furiously to match its volume and rhythm. We’re caught up in the frenetic joy of the crowd, enjoying the Candy Land frivolity, and by the time the song is over, I’ve forgotten all about Aaron Gonchar.
HELENE
Sebastien and I spend Junein Spain, beginning in the Basque region up north with lazy seaside days, hopping from charming café to café forpintxos,appetizer-sized slices of bread topped with all sorts of delectable things—spicy peppers, mushrooms fried with garlic, and my favorite,txangurro a la Donostiarra,spider crab meat and tomatoes, sprinkled with toasted breadcrumbs. My pregnancy-sized appetite is very happy to be in Spain.
Being here also makes me think of Hemingway and his writer friends, and my manuscript starts calling to me. It’s been “resting” for a couple of months now, while I’ve been resting, too. It’s probably time to dust off my computer soon and get back to work.
Maybe after Barcelona.
There, Sebastien books a private tour of La Sagrada Família before it opens to the public in the early morning. It’s an astonishing feat of architecture, as if someone built a Gothic church out of bleached coral, and I feel utterly relaxed, weaving through the labyrinth of the cathedral without the crush of crowds. (Sebastien, worried about the baby, wanted me to have space so I wouldn’t bepressed up against throngs of germy tourists, with me breathing in all their exhalations and touching the same turnstiles and rails. Sebastien is over the top, but I understand why. Still, I dubbed him Mama Hen Montague because of his fussing. He laughed and accepted the compromise.)
