Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
“Lizzy! Wait!” William called out from the restaurant when he spotted her walking down the hallway. She looked like Lizzy of old, wearing a bohemian-style yellow shirt over black leggings and those pigtails he had first fallen in love with.
Turning with a glorious smile, she said, “Bonjour, Monsieur D’Arcy!” She cheerfully greeted, stopping his heart.
“Good morning, Elizabeth.”
“Did you sleep well last night?”
“Not really. I try to keep away from alcohol, but last night was an exception to the rule.”
“I didn’t realize. Were you drunk?”
“Not on the wine.”
“Are you hungover?”
“Something like that. So, where are you off to today?”
She grinned. “I’m spending the day doing everything I love and miss.”
“It’s supposed to rain,” he dolefully said.
“You know, a little rain doesn’t stop me. You used to like the rain.”
Yes, he remembered that day on his apartment rooftop. He’d never felt more alive than dancing with her in the downpour. Shifting his weight, he put his hands in his pockets. “Is that an invitation to join you?”
“Of course. Are you game?”
“Well, if you don’t mind the company, I won’t mind the rain.”
“And you promise not to complain?”
“I’ll ... refrain from all negativity.”
“Good, because if you’re going to be a stick in the mud, you should find some other way to spend your day.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up three fingers.
Scanning him from head to toe, she said, “Great! Then the dress trousers and button-up shirt have to go.”
“Other than gym clothes, this is all I brought with me.”
“Oh, please. Turn around, go down to the Galerie, and purchase something casual in one of the boutiques. And I don’t mean khakis and a polo shirt. I’m talking shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers.”
“Shorts? Where the hell are you going?”
“Complaining already?”
“C’mon, sneakers outside of the gym?”
She propped a hand on her hip. Her brilliant smile and dancing eyes flashed with exacting precision to his heart. “Be happy I’m not asking for cowboy boots. Jeez, you haven’t changed at all.”
“Point taken, but I seriously doubt I can find what you’re demanding in the Galerie.”
“At least try. I’d hate for you to ruin such nice pants.”
“Ruin? Fine. And you’re right, some things never change. I will cave to your will ... again, Mademoiselle,” he teased, loving how she made him feel.
“Great! I’ll meet you at either the concierge desk or outside in thirty minutes. Since you’ll be joining me, I have to make some last-minute arrangements.” She looked around his body, then smiled. “Oh! And ditch the bodyguards.”
He didn’t know what he was in for, but so long as it was beside her, he was game.
Their magical night under the Eiffel Tower ended with him alone, tossing and turning, wanting to continue their conversation—about anything—at two in the morning.
Surprisingly, he wasn’t drunk on the libations, but they did manage to loosen him up a bit, soften his heart so much that he accepted her apology without even discussion.
What had Caroline been thinking to do this to him?
What had he been thinking, allowing himself to slip back into yesterday so easily?
He feared that the inability to protect his heart was going to be his vulnerable end this time, and so long as Jane was still in Lizzy’s life, any pseudo-friendship was going to end badly, again.
Still, with an unusual spring to his step and a staccato in his heart, he rushed down the hallway to the open shops, eager to spend their fleeting hours together until returning to New York.
Thirty-five minutes later, wearing a polo shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes, he dashed down the front steps to the sidewalk.
“You’re late,” she said, standing beside two green ebikes.
“Well, it took me a minute to find what you wanted.” He opened his arms to show her he capitulated. “I ended up trading clothes with a tourist browsing around in Armani. The shoes are a little tight, but I’ll survive.”
“That’s eww-ish,” she said, crinkling her nose, reminding him of the night he took the bloviating water bottle client to Cavalleria. Yeah, he was a little repulsed, too, but at this point, he’d walk barefoot over burning coal to spend more time with her.
“Electric bikes? You can’t be serious?” he asked, suspecting the horrifying truth that he’d have to straddle one of those things.
“Dead serious. We’re going to spend the day touring the Sixth Arrondissement, specifically the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district where I went to school.”
“On those?”
“Yes, silly. So, that’s now your second complaint in as many minutes.”
“I’m not complaining, but I could easily hire a car and a private tour guide. We could see Paris in style with champagne and without breaking a sweat.”
“Where’s the fun in that? I’m your personal tour guide, and it won’t cost you a penny. Well, maybe lunch and a hot chocolate.”
“You, I can manage, but bicycles—over cobblestone—fun? I’m not wearing protective gear.”
“So, I guess, then a helmet is out, too?” she astutely surmised his concern for his nuts.
He gave her a look that made her laugh, which was music to his ears.
“Ok. No helmet, but just so you know, the traffic could be a little intense this time of year, and Parisian drivers are crazy,” she said rolling a bicycle to him. She stood there watching—and smirking—as he struggled to straddle it.
“It’s been like twenty years since I’ve been on one of these,” he complained, expecting her retort.
“Oh, poor baby. Do you need me to adjust the seat for you?” she teased, pointing to the lever at the front of the seat.
Yes, please. “It’s good. I got it. I’m not that much of a spaz.”
The next thing he knew, she plugged a walkie-talkie earpiece into his ear, then one into hers.
Climbing upon her bicycle, she said something in French to the bellman, followed by the guy’s tutorial on how to start the bike.
The bellman laughed, then she laughed, and, to his mortification, instinctively knew they were laughing at him.
“C’est tipar!” Lizzy declared into the walkie-talkie mic, whatever that meant, but she was full steam ahead on her motorbike. Petrified, yet simultaneously stoked that she was his tour guide, he followed behind her shapely bottom. It was going to be one hell of an adventure.
“Please don’t ride like a maniac,” he begged into the mic. “I don’t want a repeat of that night when you drove my Mustang over the 59th Street Bridge. My life passed before my eyes.”
“Ha! Chicken.” She laughed like a psycho. “Just make sure you stay in the bike lane and be a polite rider. No one likes a lane hog. Some Parisians will send you to the guillotine if you act like an arrogant tourist.”
“Good to know.”
“To your left is Marconi’s Café. Don’t get coffee there. It used to smell like poo, the place and the coffee.”
“Also good to know.”
Ignoring the charted route on the matching GPS strapped to their handlebars, Lizzy turned down a cobbled alley. Again, she maniacally laughed, “You’d better grab vos parties intimes,” she advised for the bumpy road. “And look out for dog poop. The stuff is everywhere!”
“Gee, you’re full of shitty information. Don’t quit your day job,” he teased, bike bouncing over the stone-destroying stones.
He’d hate to admit it but the ebike, along with Lizzy’s anecdotal tour facts, was an amusing way to see the city, apart from the physical harm, of course.
They weaved in and out of bike traffic and down picturesque, narrow streets of little tourist interest beyond selfies and overflowing flowerpots.
Lizzy stopped in front of a gallery, kicked her bike stand, and jumped off with an alarming squeal into his ear.
He slammed on the brakes, almost flying over the handlebars into a pile of dog shit.
Running toward a red-haired, older woman walking a chubby bulldog, Lizzy spoke in animated French, hands flying, back and forth cheek kissing, then hugging.
The two of them conversed at the speed of light.
He understood only a handful of words: New York, Sotheby’s, Beaux Arts, René, and Pont-Neuf.
The squished-faced dog stared at him with black, sorrow-filled, bug-eyed orbs, looking like he needed saving.
“Bonjour,” the woman called out to him parked at the curb.
She smiled and waved, and he waved back.
Then she said something that made Lizzy bite her lip and slap the woman’s arm.
Oddly, the woman tugged under her eye, and they both had a good laugh; he suspected at his expense and would have to reconcile that he was probably destined to be the brunt of everyone’s jokes today.
The women kissed cheeks, then Lizzy bent, letting the ugly-oddly-cute pooch slobber all over her face. Her laughter made his heart dance.
“Au revoir,” followed by more hand gestures (which included the woman tapping an index finger on the side of her nose) and a minute later, his tour guide was back on her bike, declaring “Allez, on y va!” with a raised arm.
Whatever that meant. They were off pseudo-bicycling without any effort beyond navigating the traffic, nut protection, and keeping one eye on Lizzy.
“What was all that?” he asked.
“Helene was a professor of mine. She thinks you’re hot. I told her you were once a nude model and that’s how we met.”
“You didn’t.”
“I also said you had made quite an impression on me, and I had to paint you. Wink-wink.”
Laughing, he shook his head. It was becoming apparent that the more things had changed, the more they’d stayed the same.
Underneath the professional veneer of Ms. Elizabeth Bennet, gallery owner and high-profile art broker, his spirited Lizzy, filled with life and joy, remained.
All it took was Paris, pigtails, and, maybe, him?
It was too soon to tell. He’d just let the day unfold and hope for the best.
“She asked about our current status,” she said.
“And what was your reply?”