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?”
“The truth. That you’re engaged, we’re friends, and you’re my client, and I’m going to show you the real Paris.”
Engaged. Friends. It was a messy start. They turned onto Rue de Rivoli, then entered a park situated much like Central Park—an oasis in the middle of busy traffic and the hum of urban chaos during peak tourist season.
“This is the 17th-century Jardin des Tuileries. We’re just cutting through, but we’ll stop for gelato near the fountain on our way back to the hotel.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I love it here! In a way, it reminds me of Central Park.”
“I was just thinking that.” Although he grew up close to Central Park, he rarely visited since The Breakup. The best he could emotionally manage was a view from the new townhouse.
“Throughout, there are a bunch of Maillol bronze sculptures, which you’d go crazy for. Not far from here is my favorite haunt—The Musée de l’Orangerie,themost amazing museum for Impressionistic work. It’s the home of Monet’sWater Lilies.”
“Can we stop in now? I’d like to see that,” he said, eager to spend more time exploring the garden and her beloved Monet.
“Let’s come back to the museum tomorrow night. They’ll be open until eleven.”
“After an early dinner at Benoit! Sounds perfect.” He could understand why she loved Paris and this park with its green space, green bikes, and green chairs. When her world had taken a brave detour into the unknown after The Breakup, she was surrounded by vibrant people and a new life filled with color and culture. Lizzy was in her element here, and he would have been, too. “How big is the park?”
“Huge. It stretches to the Louvre. We’ll pass the museum, but we won’t be going there. It’s outrageously crowded this time of year. Oh! And watch out for pigeons,” she said with a wickedchuckle. “Those Frenchie flying rats will dive bomb and poop all over you.”
“Again, with the French shit.”
She laughed, then continued to point out various gardens and Parisian history as they navigated the bikes through throngs of tourists, particularly when they got closer to the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre.
As they exited the garden, she pointed ahead. “This is the right bank of the Seine. We have to go to the Left Bank. It’ll be an easier trip from here and a lot less traffic once we cross Pont-Neuf—the bridge.”
“You know I don’t like bridges.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“See, 59thStreet Bridge all over again.”
“William, is that a complaint?”
“Nope. Just making an observation.”
“Trust me. It’s a piece of cake,” she assured, turning onto a busy boulevard running parallel to the river. “You’re gonna loooove this next stop!” They turned onto another bike path, stopping at the entrance of a tunnel.
