Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 13

  Oliver clears his throat and cocks his head to the side, the teasing glint in his eyes that I am becoming familiar with, returning. “I honestly can’t believe you’re on the ground, taking a picture,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  “Oh, you should see the shot I got of the Eiffel Tower. I probably got bubble gum in my hair, but I don’t care. The picture was that good.”

  I peer through the lens again and begin snapping away. For all my talk about a great shot being worth any sacrifice, my butt is starting to freeze on the cold pavement.

  Oliver squats down and leans over me. “This entire album better be bloody publishable for all the effort going into it,” he says.

  I look at him again, smiling. He smiles back, that crooked smile of his that I am getting to see more and more lately.

  I stand upright and tuck my camera back into its bag as we begin walking. “Now that you’ve located me and brought me back to civilization, you can head back to Jessie’s. You don’t have to babysit. I mean, it’s Christmas—“

  “A time for family and loved ones, you might say?” he asks, a knowing smile playing across his lips.

  I ignore his blatant jibe at the absence of Cary in my afternoon and nod. “Yes.”

  He runs a hand through his mess of dark curls and sighs, looking at the ground as we walk. “It’s okay,” he says finally. “I don’t mind…this.”

  I nod, staring solemnly, awkwardly ahead of us as well. “I don’t mind either.”

  Twenty minutes later, I scoot into a booth at a hole-in-the-wall café that Oliver assured me would be open today.

  I rub my hands together, breathing warm air into them. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “Says the girl who was just laying on the cold concrete for a photograph,” Oliver quips, removing his jacket and scarf and placing it on the booth beside him.

  “I think this calls for a warm white mocha, don’t you?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You seem to switch up your coffee order daily.”

  “Not usually,” I say, fiddling with the menu. “Just on this trip.”

  The waiter walks over and hands us a drink menu. I only know it’s a drink menu due to a black and white drawing on the cover of martini glasses with an olive garnish.

  “Parle vous englais?” I ask the waiter, who nervously shakes his head and backs away, as if I’ve just asked him for his life savings.

  Furrowing my eyebrows, I try to figure out how to order my hot drink. Perhaps if I talk slow and use hand gestures—

  Before I can formulate a plan, Oliver says something to the young man in rapid French and with a nod the waiter hurries off.

  “That was good.” I say to Oliver, leaning forward. Though I shouldn’t be shocked he speaks French. His sister lives here. He seems to know the city remarkably well. “Do you speak French or just know how to order in French?”

  “I speak it, though not well.”

  After a moment, the waiter returns with three drinks – a cappuccino for Oliver and two white mochas for me. I look at Oliver incredulously. “You ordered me two?” I ask.

  “Don’t you always order two?” he asks, looking unsure – almost boyish.

  “Yes,” I assure him, kind of touched he’s paid attention. “I always get two.” I grab the first of the white mochas and take a slow, cautious sip. It is hot, so I blow on it before attempting a second sip. It succeeds in warming me, making me feel comforted and safe, here inside this little restaurant.

  “I do have to ask, though,” Oliver says, sitting back with his cappuccino and fixing me with a curious look. “How do you sleep?”

  “I’m immune to the effects of caffeine,” I share. I have to explain this to a lot of people. Apparently most people only drink a cup or two a day of coffee.

  His smile widens as I shrug innocuously.

  “So, where is your husband today?” he asks.

  I sigh, all positive feelings toward this man nearly vanished. “Oliver, if we played a drinking game for every time you asked that question, I’d be wasted this entire trip.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. And he actually looks like he means that. “But I have to ask.”

  “Why do you have to ask?” The words seem to explode from inside of me. But he infuriates me. One moment he is completely helpful and friendly, and the next he’s just nosy and annoying. “You make it sound like you’re being ordered to ask this. So please, Oliver, tell me. Why do you have to ask?”

  He sighs and places his cappuccino back on the table before staring down at his lap, a look of regret etched on his face. “I just want to understand,” he finally says quietly. “Understand what is going on with you two.”

  I laugh haughtily. “Is that part of your job?”

  He breathes in deeply but still avoids eye contact. “You have no idea,” he mumbles.

  “You are the concierge at my hotel,” I explain slowly, like I’m explaining to one of my third graders that it’s not okay to pull on another third grader’s braids no matter how long and ‘pullable’ they look. “I know this is basically the first vacation I’ve ever taken and all,” I continue, “but from what I understand, concierges sit at a desk and recommend good restaurants to guests or give maps to people like me who get lost in a parking lot and explain how to get from point A to point B.”

  “I helped you today when you were lost,” he adds, like that’s a point in his favor. “And we’re at a good restaurant now.”

  “In Paris,” I point out. “The hotel is in London. Again, I’m not that well-traveled, but - “

  “I’m very hands-on,” he says lamely.

  “With everyone?”

  He looks at me and I just stare right back, my arms folded across my chest. Waiting. He doesn’t say a word, though. He looks like a million things are on the tip of his tongue but he seems to think better about saying each one of them out loud. “How would you like it if I played twenty questions with you every time I saw you?” I ask.

  “You did ask me my last name that one time.”

  “That was one question, Oliver,” I say, exasperated. “Let’s try one more.”

  “Okay,” he says reticently. “What do you want to know?”

  I lean back and smile. This might be fun. “Last night, Jessie said working at The Chaizer must be hell for you. What did she mean?”

  He shakes his head and laughs sort of humorously. “You don’t miss anything, do you?” he asks.

  “I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

  We stare at each other, locked in our stupid stalemate, for what feels like an eternity, when the waiter returns to take our orders. Oliver orders quickly in French, while I stare blankly down at my menu. I really don’t feel like asking Oliver for advice right now, and he’s not exactly offering to translate the menu either. Probably because I’ve just asked him a question that most likely annoys him, that he has no desire at all to answer. I choose the first dish I see and then hand the menu to the waiter who, seeming to sense the tension at our table, rushes off quickly. I look back at Oliver expectantly.

  “Fine,” he says after a long moment. “I talk now. You talk later.”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  “Jessie,” he starts, in a tone that lends an unspoken ‘who I am going to kill later’ tag to it, “can be dramatic. What she called ‘hell’, I would simply call ‘annoying.’” He looks up at me, meeting my gaze and sighs. “She was referring to something that happened three years ago,” he explains. “When I got married.”

  “You’re married?” I ask, my eyes wide as saucers. I am having trouble processing this information, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like Oliver’s an old friend or even an acquaintance. He is allowed to be married with kids, and I shouldn’t be shocked. Though if he were, I’d like to think he’d spend the holidays, you know, with them.

  “Was,” he corrects me. “For a very short time,” he hastens to add. “Apparently she didn’t want to get married at a
ll, but she never let on. She thought it’d be bad form to cancel the wedding.” He clears his throat and looks at me. “She was afraid of what people would think. So she went through with it.”

  I watch him intently as he speaks. His face is a perfect mask, like he’s just relayed a story he heard that had absolutely nothing to do with him, rather than a bad memory from his own past.

  “Anyway,” he continues. “She was supposed to meet me at the airport but she never showed.” He shrugs and looks down at his lap. He’s clearly done talking about this topic. But I’m not.

  “She stood you up on the way to your honeymoon?” I ask. I feel like something is twisting my heart, as he nods in confirmation. He leans back in his chair and fixes his gaze on some unseen space between us. And I can see it. He’s not so good at pretending. He is not as detached as he wants to appear. This experience hurt. It probably still hurts.

  Still reeling from shock, I ask, “how could anyone do that?” He looks up at me, his mouth falling open in shock at my burst of emotion. “And to someone they loved enough to marry?” I add. “Not that marrying someone equals caring for them. Clearly it doesn’t. I mean, look at every celebrity couple ever.”

  At his quizzical look, I hasten to add, “Not that I’m suggesting this woman didn’t love you. I’m sure she did! She just seems….”

  I trail off. I’m sure I’ve already insulted him with my ramblings about how his ex clearly didn’t care about him and how she could be likened pretty easily to Britney Spears, like he needed to hear that when he probably agonized over it himself on a daily basis. “I’m sorry,” I stammer quietly after a long moment of silence. “That story is just— “

  “ – in the past,” he says calmly.

  “I don’t get it,” I press, fidgeting with my napkin. “Jessie’s right. Working at The Chaizer must be hell for you. Happy honeymooners everywhere, making out in the lobby, in the hallways, even at the front desk. Why do you do it? She seemed surprised you worked there, so I assume it’s not your normal job.”

  Leaning back in his seat, Oliver fixes me with a small smile. “That’s two questions,” he says.

  “Come on,” I urge.

  “It’s just a temporary job,” he says quickly. “Now you.”

  I sigh, recognizing a closed case when I see one. Well, he answered my question, which, innocent as it seemed when I asked it, turned out to be a pretty hefty one. Now I owe him.

  “He’s out again with his friend,” I say, slowly, methodically picking out each and every word. Lying is not easy. Or pleasant. At all. “He used to come to Europe all the time, but they haven’t seen each other in quite a while. They’re just, you know…making up for lost time.”

  “And he can’t take you with him?” Oliver asks, resting his chin in his hand, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’s your honeymoon, after all. Aren’t you supposed to be attached at the hip on these things?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit with a shrug. “But I’m having a really nice time.” I peer at him closely before adding, “I think that’s what counts.”

  He regards me strangely, after the words are out of my mouth. Before he can say anything at all, the waiter hurries over, putting two dishes down, interrupting the moment. I break our gaze and look down at my food. Immediately I do a double take. My food has eyes.

  “What is this?” I ask when the waiter is gone.

  “Prawns,” Oliver answers, smiling coyly. “It’s what you ordered.”

  “Oh. Right.” I cock my head and look once again at my food, as if this angle will magically make it look more appetizing. It doesn’t work. My food is staring at me. “I guess I didn’t realize that it had eyes.”

  He laughs. “Why don’t we switch,” he suggests.

  “You don’t have to – “

  “I like prawns,” he cuts in. “So long as you like garlic chicken.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s settled then.”

  I look at him incredulously as he switches the dishes and picks up his fork.

  “Do you actually eat the eyes?” I ask, like we’re talking about a mega international scandal rather than shrimp.

  “It’s the best part,” he says, his smile growing. “Most flavor.” He takes a bite as my mouth falls open.

  An hour later, we walk side-by-side down the cobblestone streets that lead to Jessie’s little house in a comfortable silence. With my scarf wrapped around my mouth and nose in a pointless attempt to keep warm, narrowing my eyes to keep the wind out of them, I think about the lovely area we had just come from.

  “What was the name of that place again?”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times,” Oliver says, peeking down at me quickly.

  “Come on, I want to add it to my scrapbook.”

  “To go with the fifty photos you took while there,” he says, dryly. “I can write it down for you when we get back to Jessie’s.”

  “And that’s great and all, but I really want to master the pronunciation, too, in case people ask.”

  He looks skyward and releases a long, low breath. “Last time.” He glances at me. “The Quartier du Marais,” he says in a perfect French accent.

  I giggle, which is just ridiculous. I don’t giggle. I never giggle. The word giggle is so completely flighty and wispy and opposite of all things me. But I can’t help it. I love the sound of his French accent. It’s kind of cute.

  And that area – that quartier – was so quiet and beautiful. We headed there after leaving the café, and I fell in love. Oliver explained that during the holidays, Paris is pretty quiet, because the Parisians leave town to head to family homes in the nearby provinces. And that’s exactly how it was in the quartier. Quiet. Still. I heard the echo of church bells ringing somewhere in the city far from where we walked. It felt like the only people alive in the world were Oliver and me. I’ve never felt like that before in my whole life.

  I wrap my arms tightly around myself as the wind whips around us, sweeping through my hair and soul. This really has turned into an amazing day.

  “I want to show you one more thing before we go to Jessie’s,” Oliver says, looking down at me.

  “Oliver, I think I saw the whole city today. I think I even possibly saw the whole city backwards today.”

  He smiles but persists. “You’ll love this. I promise.”

  I sigh and follow him, with complete trust, down a little dirt pathway just a block away from Jessie’s. I look up to see where we are heading, but only spot a tiny cottage a ways ahead. A paint-chipped white picket fence lies slightly ajar in the front yard, almost welcoming us inside. Why would Oliver think I should see this?

  Then, all at once, it becomes clear as I hear him beginning to laugh. A sign stands proudly on the front yard and though it’s barely visible in the twilight, it clearly says “A Vendre.” There is a bright red slash through the sign.

  “This place,” Oliver explains, collecting himself, “is not for sale.”

  I push him lightly, trying not to laugh at myself again. He playfully, gently tugs on my scarf, which causes it to unravel a little, exposing my red nose.

  “Did you buy this place?” I ask coyly. “Because it’s lovely.”

  “I did not,” he says, still smiling. “I know that you like to keep on top of the buildings in Paris that are for sale and not for sale.”

  I reach up and grab the hat off his head. He makes a move to grab it back, but I back away too quickly. He just stands there, smiling, his eyes bright from the cold and laughter.

  I grab my camera.

  “You are going to get a picture of this sign,” he assumes aloud, as if doubting my sanity.

  “I am going to get a picture of this sign,” I assure him. And while my face feels nearly numb from the cold, I can still feel my smile getting wider.

  I peer through the lens at the sweet cottage that is not for sale and hear Oliver bustling towards me until he’s right beside me. Very close to me, in fact. Close enough that I am aware of
his smell – a mixture of spicy soap and fresh air – and his height (my eyes level with his shoulder). I hand him his hat and he takes it, but doesn’t put it on. I swallow hard, put the camera to my face again and take the picture quickly.

  When I look up at him, his smile has vanished. He seems to be done making fun of me, done laughing for the moment – though there is still a spark in his eyes. He looks quietly content as he stares at the sign and then slowly back at me.

  “Let’s get back,” he says.

  I follow after him, wondering what happened, what had been happening all day. This nearly perfect day has honestly been completely strange. Trailing behind Oliver, I’m struck with an awful realization.

  I don’t hate this man anymore. Not even a little.

  * * *

  I’m Hip Now.

  Posted by @Delores at 1:57 PM on december 25 on TheGrayBlog

  That’s right, kids. You all think that I am so set in my ways that you can only tell me big news when you’re either drunk (Julie) or about to fly away from me literally (Lucy). And I thought you should know that I am a reformed woman. Maybe it was my makeover the other day (by the way Julie, all my friends thought I looked like Sharon Osborne, THANK YOU…) or the news that I’m going to be a Nana again, but I have a new lease on life. No need to hide from me. I’m quite chill. Case in point:

  Julie – who needs a paying career? They are overrated. Make me pretty.

  Lucy – next time you want to go on a vacation, I will help you pack. As it is, you probably forgot half the things you needed for exactly this reason.

  I love you all, kids. Your hip, cool, newly lightened-up:

  -Mom

  PS: Julie, if you could put down your air brushes for a bit honey - I am going to need some help with Christmas dinner. Lucy was in charge of the turnips, stuffing, cranberry sauce and seating list. I’ll die on the spot if I end up sitting next to Uncle Melvin because Lucy is off in who knows where doing God knows what.

  * * *