Chapter 23 #2
“Different, but equally as masterful as Caravaggio! Seurat proves that everything is an illusion. Very few recognize that it always comes down to pigment, light, and shadow,” she effused.
William grinned. “Ah, a metaphor of life. Like in pointillism, only at a distance can we see the true picture instead of thousands of disconnected colorful dots on a canvas.”
“Absolutely! It’s like taking a thirty-thousand-foot view above any situation.”
“So true. It took some time for me to see things clearly, but unfortunately, by the time I stepped back, it was too late. I’m learning to pay more attention to everything these days.”
William wasn’t talking about the painting any longer, but was he talking about them?
Looking out the window, he craned his head upward. “It sure is pretty,” he said of the Eiffel Tower, then texted someone. “Though not as beautiful as Manhattan in the fall,” he added, shoving his phone into the pocket inside his suit jacket.
Smiling, she recalled the many hours she’d spent sketching the iconic structure through all the seasons, only wishing he were there with her to do the same.
There had been so much she wanted to share and learn with him during the time she’d spent here.
Instead, her only connection to him was following Pemberley Capital’s financial conquests on FacePage and the unabating pain in her heart for breaking up with him.
The car stopped at the entrance to the Champ de Mars, and he announced, “We’re here.”
“Dinner at La Dame de Fer’s restaurant?”
“Nope.”
“Another type of bird’s eye view?” she teased.
“Maybe, yeah. I’ll let you know if I have greater clarity by the end of the night.” Offering his hand, he helped her out of the back seat, then said, “Dinner with the best view in town.”
Leading her through the crowd of picnickers to the left of the swath of green space beside the landmark, they stopped at a red and white checkered blanket.
Two men in black suits and T-shirts flanked a tree, acting as sentries to the picnic spread.
She’d seen one of the men surreptitiously walking behind William toward Bar Vend?me and again at the gallery.
“Are they ... your bodyguards?” she asked.
“Pete, Sean, this is Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth, these are my guys,” William introduced. “They’re two of a team. The others are back in New York.”
“Hi guys,” she said. They smiled before disappearing into the crowd.
At their feet, William had spared no expense: an open picnic hamper spilling linens and tableware, baguettes and wine, chilled champagne, and a couple of hearty charcuterie boards and small dish l’apéro.
Surrounded by onlookers and the few vendor carts flanking the grassy field, the setting sun triggered the Eiffel’s dazzling lights. They were so close, it felt like she could reach out and touch them.
“This is so lovely! You have all my favorites,” she said, gaze switching from the bowl of escargot to the bottle of Chambertin Grand Cru Pinot Noir and a board loaded with Jambon Ham and Roquefort blue cheese.
“It’s nothing but a small gesture to thank you for a well-executed job,” he said.
They settled opposite each other, and she quickly removed her shoes, pleased to see him at least loosen his tie.
“It won’t kill you to remove your jacket and shoes, William. Loosen up a bit.”
“I’m good,” he said.
“They’re just shoes, unless, of course, you have smelly feet.
Then by all means, leave them on,” she teased.
Removing her suit jacket, she stretched out her legs on the blanket and closed her eyes for a minute, mind traveling in the ensuing uncomfortable silence between them. Where do we go from here?
“Do you remember …?” they blurted at the same time.
“You go first,” he politely offered.
“I was just remembering the first night we went to WB’s and the argument we had over your kickers.”
“It wasn’t an argument, more like a difference of opinion when faced with your obstinacy.”
“Justified obstinacy. You wanted to wear boat shoes to a country and western saloon, and I wanted you to do as I say to save you—and me—from humiliation.” She grinned.
He shook his head. “You won. You always won.”
“Not always.”
“True, but I never minded caving to you. I wore the damn boots—didn’t I?”
“And you wore them well.”
He smirked. “I have not forgotten that night—nor the hat.”
“I vividly remember the hat.” She tried to suppress her smile, but could feel the burn to her cheeks, recalling their first time.
Slowly, they were breaking down the invisible wall between them.
Like he said, they were different people now, but they couldn’t ignore their shared memories of the happiest time in their lives.
That was an unbreakable bond, no matter who he was going to marry.
There was no harm in taking this type of trip down Memory Lane, so long as she didn’t engage her heart. “What were you going to say?”
“Do you still have those clunky waterproof boots you wore when I took you skiing at my mom’s Vermont place for your birthday?” he asked, removing his oxfords—still giving her the win.
“You remember my birthday?”
“Of course. I remember everything about you.”
“Everything?”
“Just about.”
Wow. “Um ... I think I still have those boots. I haven’t worn them in forever. Brooklyn isn’t exactly Laramie or Vermont in the winter. Do you still have your cowboy boots?”
“Nope. Long gone.”
“How about the hat?”
“Gone.”
“That’s a shame.”
Under the magic of Paris at dusk, the intoxicating influence of expensive wine and titillating champagne, they ate and talked about the past and the present, laughing and telling stories about newer experiences they hadn’t shared.
She was surprised to learn that he rarely traveled out of the country, yet they had once dreamed of going to exotic destinations together.
And while she loved her home state, she had not been home to Wyoming, stating that Jane was too much “home” for her.
She didn’t elaborate; he didn’t ask. When all the food was put away, they lay beside each other on the blanket, gazing up at the stars and the dazzling tower above them.
Surrounded by the magnificence of the city of love and background to their silence, an accordion played from somewhere across the field, creating a serene, maybe even romantic, cocoon around them.
“Have you ever been to the top?” he softly asked.
“Only the second level, but it felt ... a hollow experience.”
“Maybe we can go to the summit before we leave.”
“I’d like that.”
She gazed up at the antennae rising to heaven, touching eternity at one thousand feet.
Her heart thundered, willing herself to speak the words of contrition rooted in her heart. With her hand resting beside his on the grass, she nervously wiggled her fingers. Finally, she got up the nerve and softly asked, “Is it too late to say I’m sorry for breaking your heart, William?”
Turning his head, their eyes locked. “No. I forgive you, Lizzy.”
Silence settled between them, the air feeling significantly cooler and lighter.
“And I’m so sorry I didn’t fight for you,” he added.
Wow, she didn’t anticipate or expect him to own any part of their breakup, especially because Fitzwilliam Darcy was not one to show vulnerability. “Apology accepted.”
Instead of saying another word, he took her hand in his, locking his fingers with hers. A most delightful warmth ran up her arm. He forgave her, and he’d called her Lizzy. Butterflies.