Chapter 6
A kind flight attendant helped Claire download a transportation app and book her ticket to Colmar on a train that departed right from the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport.
After buying coffee and a croissant, Claire found her window seat, put her coffee cup on the tray table, and heaved her roller bag up onto the rack above.
She sat and bit into the croissant—the shattering of its flakey pastry, the flurry of crumbs falling into her cupped hand, the chewy, silky interior dough on her tongue, the addictive butter, creamy and salty—her senses took her back to Sunday mornings in bed with David, café au lait, and croissants.
They’d called them love breakfasts because all that delicious decadence led to lovemaking.
With their active sex life, it was a wonder she didn’t become pregnant, but she’d used birth control, and that worked anywhere you happened to be.
Why had she been so resistant to returning to France with him?
Something was bugging her. When was the last time David asked her to join him? The memory of that night swamped her.
The house was so dark, Claire didn’t think David was home.
She hoped they wouldn’t repeat their yearly arguments about starting a family again.
When she unlocked the door, the aroma of steak au poivre lured her to the kitchen where she knew she’d find her husband.
Candles perched on shelves, along the top of the refrigerator, the counters, and windowsills.
A battered silver antique candelabrum sporting eight flickering candles sat on the bistro table.
Charles Aznavour sang Bon anniversaire over the speakers.
A lemon tarte, her favorite, sat on the counter surrounded by raspberries and candles.
“Bonsoir.” David slid his arms around her and kissed her deeply.
She luxuriated in his passion. “That welcome makes me think we should have anniversaries more often, like every day.”
“We’ll start tomorrow.” He released her and handed her a Kir Royale. “To the happiest fifteen years of my life, and the four months it took me to convince you to marry me.”
“And to the happiest fifteen years and four months of my life. I’m so glad you spilled lemonade all over me. Thank you.”
“I’ll do it again, any time.” He winked.
She ran to the hall closet for his gift, returned, and placed the box on the counter. “Voila. Bon anniversaire. I’ve learned a few more French words over the past fifteen years thanks to you.”
His dimples deepened as he tore open the wrapping paper. “Wow. How did you know I wanted this lens? And it’s a Nikon!”
“Maybe because you complain about not having one.” She finished her Kir. “I think I can pronounce dinner too.”
He pulled out a chair for her, sat opposite and poured glasses of Chateau Lafite Rothschild.
“Can we afford this?” she exclaimed.
“This is the bottle I won at the Sommelier Blind Tasting.” He brought up his glass. “To you.”
She laughed and clinked her glass against his.
“And you.” Watching his kind, loving eyes, she sipped the dark ruby wine, robust and fruity, rich and smooth as velvet.
How had she been so lucky to marry not only a kind man, but also a man who knew wines and how to cook? “Mmm. Black current and truffle.”
“I taste a bit of tobacco as well.” He handed her an envelope. “Your gift, Madame. And it would be the most wonderful gift to me, if you accept it.”
“Hmm. What does that mean?” She held the envelope up to the light. “A Victoria Secret gift certificate?”
Mischief danced in his eyes as he shook his head.
She waved it. “Jewelry?” She sniffed it. “A very flat bottle of perfume?”
She opened the envelope. A tightness encircled her lungs. First-class plane tickets to Paris. “Wow. That’s very…romantic and…thoughtful.”
David’s dimples deepened as his face glowed with pride. “I cleared it with your boss. He approved your vacation time.”
Heat rose in her face. “You spoke to Rick without asking me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I’d never talk to your boss behind your back.
” She took a sip of wine, but the richness now tasted tart.
“I appreciate your wanting it to be a surprise, but asking Rick was intrusive. And unprofessional.” She dropped the tickets on the table.
“I’d never talk to your boss, behind your back, period. ”
He sat back, his shoulders rounding. “I’ve asked you to accompany me on every trip I’ve taken to France since we were married there.
” He rotated his fork making a circle on the white linen tablecloth.
“You’ve always said you couldn’t get away.
You’ve declined my invitation twice a year for every year of our marriage, that’s thirty times, including tonight.
I wanted to make it easy for you to get away, so we could commemorate our marriage. ”
Her jaw was so tight it throbbed. She took a long drink of wine.
“Going away will make my return more stressful. There is no one to take on my responsibilities, and I’ll be slammed with work when I get back.
I hate working under all that pressure. I don’t want to take time off.
” She balled up her napkin and threw it on the table.
“You’d not be taking time off,” he whispered. “You’d be taking time to be with me.”
He was hurt, rightfully so. She wanted to be with him—she just didn’t want to be controlled by him. Her head pounded. “It’s not a good time.”
“It’ll never be a good time unless you take the time.” Hurt rose in his eyes.
She softened her words. “I’ll take the time, just not now.”
“What are you afraid of?” His tone grew impatient.
“I’m afraid of being overwhelmed by work and losing my job.”
“Why would you lose your job? You’re Rick’s star. He’d never let you go.” He poured more wine into her glass.
“How do you know? I’m his only designer. There’s no one else who can pick up the slack when I’m not there. Rick said yes to you to be polite, not because he can run his business without me.”
“Why don’t you want to go to France? We met there, fell in love there, had a wonderful time there, got married there.”
Something rock-hard sat in Claire’s stomach. Everything he said was true, so true that she knew if she returned to the place they’d fallen in love, he’d sweep her off her feet again, and he’d convince her to start a family, and she’d get pregnant, and she just wasn’t ready.
David shook his head and rotated his fork back and forth like a windshield wiper. “The real issue here is you not wanting a family, which you said you wanted.”
Her face burned as if his words had slapped her.
“We have the same argument every year. And every year you don’t listen to me.
” Maybe he knew her better than she did.
That rock sitting in her stomach grew sharp and she hated herself for her words before she said them.
“You’re bringing up children on our anniversary is not a good way to get them! ”
“I am an only child, and I was lonely. I want a family. I would think you’d want children, too.”
“I do, just not now.”
“It’s been fifteen years. How long do you want me to wait?”
“I want a family, I really do, but when the time is right.”
“Time is not right or wrong. You’re thirty-eight. If we wait much longer, we’ll have no time.”
“I don’t like being forced into anything.”
“I didn’t force you to love me, I’m not forcing you to want children or a family, I’m not forcing you to go to France. I’m asking you to be with me.”
“I know. I love you. But I’m not ready for a vacation in France. And I’m not ready to have children!”
“Are you afraid you can only get pregnant in France? It works the same way here, too, you know.”
She poured herself more wine. “You can be very romantic. I can just imagine you in a bubble bath, where you proposed, convincing me the time is right, and I acquiesce. And then I regret my decision because,” she slammed her glass on the table, “I’m…not…ready!”
“On our first anniversary I asked you why you were afraid of becoming a mother, which I deeply regret because you left the house and didn’t return for two days.
I was frantic, so frantic that when you did return, I vowed never to ask you that question again.
Until now. Why are you afraid of becoming a mother? ”
“I’m sorry I left. I won’t do that again.” She worried her hands. “I don’t know if I fear becoming a mother or if it’s because I don’t know how to be one, but the thought of becoming a mother totally overwhelms me.” She reached out to him, and he backed away. “I’m just not ready. I’m sorry.”
He picked up the tickets and his glass of wine. “I don’t think you will be ready—ever.” He left her and shut himself in his office.
She hadn’t thought she would ever grow tired of sitting opposite the table from him—and she wasn’t tired of him—but she was tired of the same conversation that accompanied every anniversary.
She was tired of feeling pressured. Many career women put off having children, and some chose not to. Marti and Stephen didn’t have kids.
She inhaled the aroma of the brandy-peppercorn sauce. It wasn’t fair that he’d cooked this delicious dinner and she’d be the only one to eat it. But she wasn’t about to call a truce or let the steak go to waste.
She filled her plate and cut a double slice of lemon tarte and appreciated it all with Charles Aznavour as he sung La Bohème, about moments of joy, moments of pain.