Page 61 of The Two of Us

“Do you have anything on Joan of Arc?”

She continues emptying the box as she nods. “The nineteen-year-old peasant girl who heard voices from God. I have two. The first is a shorter read covering more of her life before the war. The second is an all-encompassing history. That’s the one you’ll need if you truly want to understand the warrior. Though, I can’t see why a young chérie like you would spend all her time reading instead of taking part in the many mistakes Paris has to offer.”

I scrunch my nose. “Why would I want to make mistakes?”

“Sometimes mistakes are fun.” she winks.

The woman is older than my mom, but I can’t pinpoint her age. Not that it matters. Like most of the women I’ve seen in Paris, she’s effortlessly beautiful. She’s made no attempt at covering the crow’s-feet at her eyes or filling the lines around her mouth. Her face says she’s well lived and isn’t a stranger to laughter—so much so, the remnants have permanently etched themselves onto her face.

I pull out my coin purse. “I’d like the full history, please.”

To my surprise, she graces me with a full smile and says, “Great choice.”

While she sets off to a corner of the store that looks like it’s been ransacked by a group of bandits, I scan the contents of the basket in front of me. Handmade trinkets created by local artisans lie inside. Each handcrafted piece is unique and yet, they each carry the same sort of magic that only exists in a city like Paris.

I gently move each piece aside and a glimmer catches my eye. It’s a suncatcher in the shape of a small cat curled in on itself. It’s a tiny little thing, taking up little space in the palm of my hand and I lift it up to the morning light coming in from the window. I twist the cat side to side and fractured light breaks off in a million directions, drowning books and surfaces and my own skin in rainbow streaks. I hold the entire color spectrum in my hand.

“That one is the last of its kind. The artist who makes them, Céline, has advanced Rheumatoid Arthritis and can no longer work with her hands. Her son brought over the last of her pieces and they sold out in a day. That one must have gotten lost at the bottom.”

Her expression is grim and I wonder if she knows Céline personally. If she feels the pain in her own hands whenever she talks about her.

I twirl it in the light once more. “I’ll take it.”

I place the suncatcher on the counter alongside the biography she retrieved from the back. As she searches for tissue paper to wrap my purchases in, something else from the basket catches my eye. I only need to examine it for a few seconds to know it was created for him. We don’t speak anymore and I’ll probably never give it to him, but I have to buy it, if only to hold on to it for safekeeping. I set the piece on the counter for the woman to include in my purchase.

“Fifty euros,” she says.

I blanch in embarrassment. I should have asked how much each item costs before allowing her to wrap them up so nicely.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, placing my money on the counter. I assume the biography is the more expensive item. “I’m a bit short. Can you take out the book?”

She nods and carries the brown bag toward the register behind her to retrieve my receipt. Confusion fills me when she places the bag in my hands. It is weighty. I peek inside, seeing all three items.

“Excuse me, I think you made a mistake. I didn’t give you enough money for all of this.”

She shrugs and turns away from me, the dismissal clear as she begins unpacking another box.

“Like I said, chérie, sometimes mistakes are fun.”

***

The next two weeks pass in a blur as I spend every spare moment I have reading about Joan of Arc. I jump in and out of bookstores, binge French films, and devour every baked piece of heaven Jean-Paul brings home each morning. JP tries not to hover and I show my gratitude by gracing him with a fact about Joan of Arc each time we cross paths. My mom remains entranced in her work and the only times I see her are before bed when she comes in to say good night, buried under layers of dried clay and linseed oil.

I’ve all but forgotten about the film festival when Jean-Paul comes home one evening and stands in my open doorway with his hands on his hips.

“Um, bonjour?” I say.

“I know casual is the American way of life, but to wear sweatpants to the Paris International Film Festival? Mara. This hurts me.”

My eyes widen as I remember the date.

“Ah, you forgot.” Jean-Paul sounds relieved. “If you get ready quickly, we will still have good seats on the grass. We will leave in twenty minutes, yes?”

“Yes!” I scramble for my towel and a presentable outfit. “What about my mom?”

“She will meet us there.”

Forty-five minutes later we pull into the parking lot of the festival. I grab the tote at my feet before stepping out of the car, triple-checking that I remembered to bring a small blanket and light sweater. When Jean-Paul pops open his trunk, I hold in my laugh.

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