“Do you love him?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I just don't know if I love him enough.”

“How much is enough?”

“Enough to grow old together, and put up with all the miseries and disappointments that come your way in life.” They both knew that they never failed to come, no matter how much you loved someone. You had to be willing to stick it out. Peter wasn't. Would Jean-Pierre? Who the hell knew? Paris didn't. Nor did Bix. Jean-Pierre probably didn't know himself, but he thought he did. And in March, he proposed. His visa was running out in a month, and he wanted to know what Paris was going to do. She was desperately sorry he had asked. Once he did, there was no turning back. And he was devastated that she did not instantly accept. She gave it a great deal of thought.

He wanted her either to marry him so he could stay in the States and get a green card, or move back to Paris with him, so he could resume his life. But that meant giving up everything she had now. She loved working with Bix, and her life in San Francisco. It meant leaving the States. But Jean-Pierre was more than willing to stay. And he could only stay legally if they got married, so he could work. He felt he couldn't put off his real life any longer. He had given her a six-month gift. But she knew she couldn't hold him back forever. It wasn't fair to him. He had to go back to what he'd been doing before, as a star photographer in a bigger world. Or stay with her forever here, and drum up work on a bigger scale, probably in L.A. But they couldn't live in the twilight zone forever, as he pointed out to her when he told her how much he loved her, and wanted her to be his wife. In some ways, she wanted that too, but she couldn't help but worry about the future, and what would happen when he grew up, because he wasn't a grown-up yet. He was nearly there, but not quite, and his boyishness erupted constantly. It made her feel like his mother. And she hated that. She didn't want to be his mother. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to be his wife. There was no question that she loved him. The question was how much. And in all fairness to him, she felt he deserved someone who was sure.

It took her three weeks to figure it out, and it was already early April when they took a long walk in the Marina, and wound up on the lawn at the Palace of Fine Arts, sitting on the lawn, and watching the ducks. She loved going there with him. She loved going everywhere with him. It took every ounce of courage to say the fateful words to him that he had waited for, for three weeks. She said them in a whisper, and they tore at her heart, and were like a cannonball in his.

“Jean-Pierre, I can't marry you. I love you, but I just can't. The future is too uncertain … and you deserve so much more than I can give you … kids, if nothing else.” And he deserved to be a kid, if he wanted to be. The problem was, she needed an adult, and she wasn't sure he ever would be. Or not for a long time at least.

“Will you live with me in France, unmarried?” he asked in a strangled voice. His heart felt like a rock in his chest, just as hers once had. She knew it only too well, and hated doing it to him. But it was better this way in the long run. Better now than later. Better a terrible pain now than a total disaster later on, for both of them. She silently shook her head, and he walked home alone.

He said almost nothing to her that night, and he slept downstairs. He would not sleep with her again, would not touch her, would not beg her. And in the morning his bags were packed. She did not go to work that day, and they both cried uncontrollably when he left.

“I love you. I will always love you. If you want to come, I will be there. If you want me to come back, I will.” She couldn't have asked for more, and she was throwing it away. She felt insane. But right. At a terrible, terrible price. For both of them. “Je t'aime” were his last words.

“Moi aussi,” she whispered, and sobbed when he was gone. It was almost beyond bearing, but she bore it, because she knew it was right. She loved him. Too much to make a mistake. And enough to set him free, which was the greatest gift of love she could give him, and the right one, she believed.

She didn't go to the office all week, and when she did, she looked like death. She had been there before. She knew it well. She didn't even call Anne Smythe this time. She just gritted her teeth and lived through it. And on the second anniversary of the day Peter had left her, all she could think of was the double loss. And this time she knew that she had learned yet another painful lesson. That she could not give her heart again. Ever. Peter had taken the biggest part of it with him. And when Jean-Pierre had left, it had cost her the rest.





Chapter 27




Peter and Rachel's baby came the day after Wim's birthday, on the seventh of May. Three days after Paris's. She was numb by then, and almost didn't care. Almost. But some part of her still did. All she could think of were the moments she and Peter had shared with their babies. A time when life was beginning, not over for her as it was now. It just added to the bleak landscape she saw all around her, and a sense of utter despair.

Although she said little to them, and never mentioned Jean-Pierre, her children had no idea how to console her, and worried about her. Meg talked to Richard about it every time she spoke to her mother, and finally called Bix.

“How is she really? She sounds awful, but she keeps telling me she's fine. She doesn't sound fine to me.” Meg sounded worried, and sad for her mom.

“She isn't fine,” he confirmed, much to Meg's chagrin. “I guess she just has to get through it. I think it's a lot of stuff on top of each other. Your father. His new baby. Jean-Pierre. It all hurts like hell.”

“What can I do to make it better?”

“Nothing. She has to get through it herself. She'll find the way back. She has before.” But the road back was more arduous this time, and seemed to take longer. Although nothing would ever be as bad again as when Peter had left her, except death. This time she did not die. But she crawled back slowly, on her own. And the only thing that kept her going were the plans for Meg and Richard's wedding in the fall. They were having three hundred guests, and she and Bix were handling it all. Meg had total faith in them, and was leaving all the decisions to her mother.

It was in June, two months after Jean-Pierre left, that Paris finally couldn't stand it any longer, and sat for an entire night staring at the phone. She had promised herself that if she still wanted to call him in the morning, she would, and do whatever he wanted her to do, if he still did. She couldn't tolerate the agony anymore. She had been lonely for too long, and she missed him more than she ever knew she would. At eight o'clock in the morning in San Francisco, five in the afternoon in Paris, she called Jean-Pierre. Her heart pounded waiting to hear him, as she wondered if she could be on a flight by that night. If he still wanted her, she knew she would go. Maybe the age difference didn't matter after all.

The phone rang, and a woman's voice answered. She sounded very young. Paris didn't know who it was, and she asked for him. The girl said he was out. Paris spoke to her in French. She was able to now, thanks to him.

“Do you know when he's coming back?”

“Soon,” the girl said. “He went to pick up my little girl. I have the flu.”

“Are you living there?” Paris dared to ask, fearing some horrible reprisal for her intrusion. She had no business doing that to him, and she knew it, but she wanted to know.

“Yes, I am, with my little girl. Who are you?”

“A friend in San Francisco,” she said vaguely, wanting to ask the girl if she loved him, and if he loved her, but that was going too far. And she didn't need to know. They were living together, he hadn't lost much time. None at all. But she had wounded him deeply, she knew, and they each had to put balm on the wounds in their own way. He owed her nothing now.

“We're getting married in December,” the girl volunteered. It was June.

“Oh,” Paris said, feeling a torpedo shoot through her. It could have been she. But it couldn't have been, she knew. She couldn't do it. And her reasoning had been right at the time, for her, if not for him. Just as Peter had done what he had to do. Maybe they all did, even if others got hurt. It was love at a price. “Congratulations,” Paris said in a dead voice.

“Do you want to give me your name and number?” the girl asked helpfully, and Paris shook her head. It took her a moment to find her voice.

“No, that's all right. I'll call back. You don't have to tell him I called. In fact, better not. I'll surprise him when I call. Thank you,” Paris said, and hung up, and then sat there for an hour staring at the phone. Just like Peter, he was gone forever, living with this girl. He hadn't wasted any time. She wondered how it had happened, and if he really loved her, or if it was rebound. Whatever it was, it was his. Their lives had come unhooked. Their time together had been a magical moment, but that was all it was. Magic. And like all magic, something of a trick. An illusion. Something that she wanted it to be, but not necessarily what it really was.

She dressed and went to the office, and when Bix saw her, he shook his head. The one thing he was not going to suggest this time was that she start to date. She was in no condition to go out with anyone, and he suspected she wouldn't be for months. It was another two months before she looked human, as far as he was concerned, and by then Meg's wedding was only a month away. Paris hadn't even bought a dress, although Meg's had been hanging in the closet of the downstairs apartment for two months. It was spectacular and had been made according to a design Bix had drawn. There was an endless train, and the dress was white lace.