I silence my mind and claim her mouth, let her taste comfort me.
When we head back to the living room, she pauses in the hallway in front of a photo—me at five or six, covered in sand, laughing at something long forgotten. She looks at it for a long moment, and says softly, “You look so happy.”
I don’t mean to respond the way I do, but the words fall out. “I didn’t know better yet.”
“Oh, baby.”
She hugs me, holds me, and I sink into her, let her comfort me when I’m the one who is doing her wrong. When I’m the one who is hurting her because I’m selfish and proud—too proud to let go of centuries of decorum and too selfish to let her go.
She doesn’t press me. That’s what I like about her. She listens without trying to fix anything.
I take her to my bedroom. The housekeeper has made the bed, but everything else is as it always is. Charcoal linens. Modern art. An original Picasso and a Miró. Books on the nightstand. Windows cracked open to let in the city’s breath.
“Will you stay the night,chérie?” I ask lightly, butstill like I’m on my knees pleading. I want her here, in my bed, so that the long days without her will be less painful, less lonely.
“Yes.” She tilts her head and wrinkles her nose. “ButI’m starving, and you promised dinner.”
“So, I did.”
I ordered dinner from Arpège. I can’t take her out to a Michelin-starred restaurant—that would be announcing our relationship from the rooftops of Notre-Dame—but I can make it special.
We eat an elaborate four-course meal, paired with wine from my family’s cellar.
We begin with Saint-Jacques scallops from Brittany, delicately seasoned with bay leaf oil and olive oil from Portugal. It’s complemented by a 2023 Philippe Pacalet Chassagne-Montrachet En Virondot.
Tara is duly impressed.
“These are sweet…so fresh!” Her eyes shine with pleasure as she takes another bite.
I love watching her savor, unpretentious and genuine, as though each taste is a small miracle.
We drink the white wine with the salad course, which features a fricassee of spring, with oyster foam from Saint-Coulomb, leeks, and turnips.
It’s fresh and light, the vegetables cooked perfectly, with the oyster foam adding that bit of exquisiteness, which makes her clean up her plate with a finger.
“I know it’s uncouth, but this is toodelicious.”
“I’m with you. Give me a taste,mon amour.”
She smiles shyly, scooping up the last trace of sauce with her finger before holding it out to me. I take her hand, my gaze never leaving hers, and the air between us shifts—charged, breathless. Her eyes widen, and I know she feels it, too. The wanting. The waiting.
Before I pull the main course from the oven, I grab the wine that’s been resting in the pantry.
Her eyes all but fall out of her head when I place a bottle on the table.
Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, La Tâche 1999.
“Gustave—that’s…are you serious? Shouldn’t you save that?”
“For what?” I ask, as I begin to open one of my most treasured bottles, bought at auction years ago for twenty thousand euros.
“Aspecialoccasion,” she protests, horrified as the cork eases free.
I pour a taste. The aroma fills the room with velvet and earth, violets and spice.
“Having you in my apartment, sharing this meal with you, is more special than any event I could imagine.”
Her eyes fill with moisture. The truth between us remains unsaid.
