Chapter 31 Cateline
CATELINE
After leaving the hospital, a week passes while I recover in a luxury hotel on the coast of North Carolina.
Connor waits on me hand and foot, even though I insist I’m fine. We take walks on the beach, eat heart-healthy food, and talk for hours. I’m thankful to be alive, thankful for him, and the kisses we share.
One afternoon, he comes back with a pastry box and a bag. Clearing his throat, he says, “I brought you some paper.”
“The newspaper? We already read it.” The hotel slides it under the door every morning. I do the crossword and he reads the sports section.
Connor jiggles the bag. “Fancy paper, embellishments, scrapbooking supplies, or whatever they’re called. Things like that. I don’t know.” He looks sheepish, boyish, almost embarrassed. “Um, happy birthday.”
Giving my head a little shake. “My birthday?”
“Your birthday? Yeah, as you said, we got the newspaper. Check the date.”
“I don’t think today is April fifteenth.”
“My CPA made me quite aware of the date.” Connor winces at the reminder that it’s also Tax Day.
I double-check. He’s right. “I don’t typically celebrate it.”
I expect him to make a fuss and he says, “Yeah, I understand that. How do you say the word my in French?”
“Mon,” I reply.
“Mon,” he says, trying to imitate my accent.
“Okay. All the same, happy mon birthday,” Connor says, slightly boyish and very cute.
It’s as if entering new territory with a woman and sharing something as simple yet intimate as her birthday is a revelation.
I don’t quite get what he means about mon birthday, but I just go with it because he’s being adorable.
“Thank you.” I set down the paper, shocked that I lost track of time. This might be the most relaxed I’ve been in years. I usually know the date and time down to the second.
He scratches his cheek as though the translation didn’t work to his satisfaction. “How do you say the prefix non?”
I laugh. “It’s the same in English and French. Non,” I answer, using the French pronunciation.
“Happy non-birthday,” he repeats.
“Merci,” I answer, getting that he means it like an anti-birthday. He’s recognizing my birthday and being sweet, even though I often get the birthday blues.
Connor presents the pastry box. “Figured it was too early for cake, so I got an assortment of pastries, croissants, and whatever this curly thing is.”
“It’s called a palmier,” I say with the perfect French pronunciation.
“Some say it’s a pig’s ear. I prefer an elephant ear.
But don’t worry, it’s just made of the usual ingredients.
But this chocolate plié au chocolat is the best.” I pick up the pastry with its buttery folds of dough and custard and take a bite.
My eyes flutter shut. “How did you know this is my favorite?”
“Lucky guess.” Connor smirks.
“I’ve never told anyone this, but I have a chocolate tooth. It’s like a sweet tooth, but just for chocolate. French chocolate.”
“I kind of gathered that, Choco-line.” He turns my hand over and kisses the inside of my wrist.
I giggle, then so enraptured by the pastry, I offhandedly reply, “You too.” Then I pause and repeat it with more enthusiasm when I recall that he and I share a birthday and that’s what he meant by mon.
As in, it’s his birthday too. “I mean happy mon birthday or non birthday to you too, Connor.” I feed him a bite of the plié au chocolat.
“Oh, this is good. Très bien,” he says with his Appalachian accent.
I beam a smile, but it just as quickly falls. “I feel bad, I’d forgotten and didn’t get you anything or—”
He brushes his hand down my arm and the softness in his copper eyes suggests that being here together is enough. “I’m more of a bah humbug birthday kind of guy.”
“Isn’t that a Christmas saying?”
“And Happy New Year.”
I laugh. “I like that we share a birthday. That kind of makes it better. From now on, we could call it our birthday, or in Franglais, notre birthday.”
He smiles and tries saying it.
I tell him about how Giselle and I have our own language—Franglais.
“How about not birthday?”
“From now on, we’ll celebrate our not birthday.
” We’ll be sure to celebrate with dinner tonight, whether Connor likes it or not.
For now, I peek in the bag and sure enough, it’s filled with pretty paper, stickers, and little packages of sparkly and pearly supplies.
“I cannot picture you in a craft store.”
“The ladies in there were all too pleased when I walked in. One dumped an entire container of seed beads on the floor.” He pinches his fingers together to show how small they are. “And before you ask, yes, I helped clean it up.”
“Good man.”
He pats his shoulder. “What can I say? I am the best.”
The smile on my face cannot be helped. “I agree.”
He kisses the top of my head, then says, “For the record, I can’t imagine you in a craft store either.”
My lips twist with confusion. “My translation abilities from English to French don’t always include reading between the lines. What does that mean?”
Connor’s eyebrows lift. “You’re fancy. Like a princess, but not at all delicate. You’re strong. Feminine. Disciplined. Gorgeous. Smart. Speak two languages. I’ve wondered, do you think in French?”
“Sometimes. I have some choice words reserved for you.” I follow up with a smile, so he knows they’re très bien, very good words.
“Do you dream in French?” Connor lowers onto the couch, wedging himself behind me and snuggling me in his arms. Here, I feel safe and peaceful. I’m glad this Boston Bruiser bared his butt and barged into my life.
Connor is passing the Blancbourg program with flying colors.
He is friendly, polite, and helpful. In fact, the hotel staff adores him.
He jokes that he’s giving the Boston Bruisers a bad name by going soft, but the softer side of him has always been there.
Though perhaps he never allowed it to come out.
With only a few more days until the end of Connor’s time in the program, we eventually leave our little slice of paradise and travel to the airport. A matte black private plane waits on the tarmac.
“Is this yours?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“No. You can thank Declan for the lift. He’s a flashy kind of guy when it comes to his wealth.”
“And you aren’t?”
“I have substantial savings, a condo in Boston and LA, but other than that, I invest and support wolf rescues and habitats.”
Cream-colored padding and gold details line the interior of the jet. The seats are leather and are what I imagine it would be like to sit on a cloud.
“Before we take off, would you like anything to drink?” asks a woman with red hair, wearing a cream-colored suit, and a slim green scarf around her neck.
“I’ll have water, please.”
“For you, sir?” she asks Connor.
“Same.” He turns back to me. “We fly in style, yet we drink water.” He chuckles.
“Where are we going? You remember I can’t return to Concordia.”
He winks. “It’s a surprise.”
We watch a movie, but I can’t stop thinking about the finances at Blancbourg. Connor dozes beside me. I admire his sloping nose, the line of his jaw, and the lips that have kissed me so many times.
He rouses and stretches his arms overhead. I grin at the sight of the cut cords of muscles that run from his triceps down to his forearms. My heart, steady now, beats out a different thump, bump than it did before the procedure.
“Are we almost there?”
“How do you say almost in French?”
I tell him and he repeats it.
A few minutes later, as the plane starts to descend, I ask, “Why did you ask how to say almost in French?”
“Welcome home,” he says, pointing out the window.
“Home?” Flying in and out of Concordia isn’t as common as traveling by rail, but we’re in a private plane. However, the scenery is different even in the dark, and I can only imagine the officials will turn me away.
“Connor, where are we?” I ask.
“Orleans.”
“New Orleans?”
“No, the airstrip in Orleans, France.”
I’m not sure I heard him right. “France?”
As the plane lowers, there is no mistaking the iconic buildings, churches, and museums.
I gasp. “What are we doing here?”
“You missed dancing and your family. I want to take you home. And we couldn’t get clearance on short order to land in Paris, which is technically our first stop. So we’re nearby. You can show me the city, then we’ll head to Paris, then home.”
I wrap my arms around him because it’s unbelievably thoughtful, but the truth is, I feel torn. I had to fight my way out of the country because my mother didn’t want me to leave. How will she receive me upon my return? With open arms or cold shoulders?
A car brings us to the Four Seasons hotel, where we’ll stay for a couple of nights before traveling to Paris and then to the small town in the Loire Valley where I grew up.
I’ve been to the city countless times, but never experienced such luxury. For once, I’m happy to be here instead of enduring whatever training, show, or performance was on my schedule. It’s overwhelming in the best way.
Swept into hearing my native language, smelling the city smells, eating crepes, and finally having what I consider real cheese and chocolate, I can’t help but gush at every turn as I give Connor a tour.
My heart feels full but not painful. I’m buoyant, not burdened. This incredible man helped bring me back to life. Brought me home, but first, we take the train to Paris.
Connor says he has another surprise. I glance at the ring on my finger. We’ve hardly spoken about my visa situation, but how can it not be front of mind given the fact that I cannot return to Concordia and that we’re in France?
The city overwhelms my senses as we emerge from the Metro. The feeling in the air is alive. The ground under my feet practically makes me want to take a grande jeté. There was so much I loved about ballet, yet my mother took it away...then I went away.
Connor wears a wide grin and holds up two small pieces of stiff paper. “I got us tickets.”