Page 150 of Ten Years and Then…
There was something beautiful to stop and admire no matter which direction Nora looked in. And in every view, she saw herself and Daniel.
That houseboat tied up on the bank of the Seine, directly below her, its flag fluttering proudly in the chilly breeze—what if they bought it? They could both find jobs in Paris, surely. Spend their working days in charming old buildings. Eat decadent, butter-drenched meals in tiny bistros tucked away on side streets. Climb aboard their floating home, go below to their bed and make love in time with the gentle motion of the boat in the river.
The Louvre, over across the river—what if she and Daniel came back here next year, with her mother? Karen Langley would be in her glory, giving Daniel an art history lesson he’d never forget.
Or Notre-Dame, there on the Île de la Cité—what if they came with his parents and took them there? They were a Catholic family; they’d be overwhelmed at the beauty and majesty of it.
She could picture herself and Daniel eating in every restaurant she passed, shopping in every store.
And now here she was.
She stood outside Shakespeare and Company. Even if Daniel hadn’t heard of it before this trip, it was in every guidebook. He would be thinking of a bookstore, because a bookstore—the dusty shelves of Turn the Page back in Albany—was where he’d first learned her name. And if you had to pick only one bookstore in the whole of Paris, it would be this one.
If he wasn’t there yet, he would be shortly. And then she wouldn’t have to picture anything.
She could start living it.
Daniel, five minutes later
The concierge suggested he take the Metro rather than walk. He didn’t want to be wheezing and out of breath from a thirty minute walk in the cold when he saw Nora for the first time in two years, so here he was aboard the number 4 line headed towards Château Rouge.
It was crowded, but nothing like the last time he’d been on the subway with Nora. Eleven years ago to the day, New Year’s Eve 1988. They’d been squashed together, not that either of them had minded it one bit.
Next to him sat a young couple—probably still in high school, if he had to guess—making out as though they were the only ones on the train.
In their minds, they probably were. And if Nora was sitting here next to him, it would be the same. He’d kiss her, and go on kissing her, regardless of what else might be going on around them.
When the conductor announced Saint-Michel and he stood to make his way to the door, the teenagers were still at it.
Good for them.
He made his way off the train, up the stairs to the mezzanine, and then another flight up to the street. Then it was just a short walk to the bookstore.
Because a bookstore was where he’d first heard her name. Where she’d made him laugh by reading out loud—with character voices—from some ridiculous romance novel.
She had to remember that just as well as he did. And if she was going to pick a bookstore, she’d do her best to make sure he could find her. Where else but the most famous bookstore in the whole city? It was even called out on the tourist map he had back in the hotel room. There was nowhere else she could be.
She wasn’t outside—of course not, in this cold. He couldn’t blame her.
He went inside, and in a way, even though it was different in every visible aspect, it reminded him of Turn the Page. The smell was the same, for one thing—you couldn’t mistake the scent of old books for anything else.
And like Turn the Page, he had the feeling that even though the shelves looked chaotic, everything here somehow made sense.
But where would she go in here?
It was obvious, wasn’t it? The romance shelves. Which he’d never find on his own.
He went up to the cash register, where a bored-looking young man with steel-rimmed glasses was slouching. Daniel supposed that retail cashiers were the same the world over. “Where would you have romance—uh, libres de amour?” He wasn’t at all sure that was right, but he was certain that amour meant love, so hopefully that would be enough to get the point across.
The clerk sighed with deep impatience. “I expect you mean livres d’amour,” in perfect, accent-free English. “We don’t have a separate section for romance. But you might try upstairs, through the library.” Daniel’s blank look led to an even more exhausted sigh, and a severe eyeroll. “Go up the stairs, directly behind you. The library will be straight ahead. You’ll see a desk with a typewriter, and a door to the left of that. Go through it, and you’ll be there.”
Daniel thanked the man, which just earned him another eyeroll, and went upstairs. As promised, the library—complete with a plush red armchair and side table—was straight ahead, along with the desk and typewriter. And the door to the left.
And through that door, standing at a shelf, engrossed in the book she held in one hand, was Nora.
There was no mistaking her.
She was more beautiful than she’d been two years ago aboard the ship. Or eight years ago when she’d given him the necklace. Or eleven years ago, on another New Year’s Eve.
