He told her he’d pick her up at eight the next day, and she spent the day racing around, tying up loose ends. By the time he came to pick her up, her bags were packed, everything was ready for her to leave the next morning, and she could spend the evening with him and relax. She was wearing a red dress she had bought that afternoon, and he admired it as soon as she came downstairs.

“You look terrific!”

“I saw it in a shop window today, and I couldn’t resist. I figured I should bring something home from Paris.” She had bought a beautiful scarf for her mother, toys for Amy’s kids, and a pretty sweater for Amy. The red dress had been a final splurge.

He took her to another cozy restaurant, and as usual conversation during dinner was lively. They each expressed a thousand opinions, traded experiences, and laughed a lot. And for the first time neither of them mentioned Tristan and Wachiwi, tonight was only about them. Brigitte had a perfect time, and Marc looked genuinely sad when they left the restaurant and took a walk near Notre Dame, which was all lit up.

“How can you leave a city like this?” he asked her, spreading his hands and looking very French again. He had one of those wonderful expressive faces, with a thousand expressions. He always looked very French, and she liked his looks. Ted had been very Anglo-Saxon. He was handsome but not sexy. There was something sensual about Marc’s lips, although she always pretended not to notice.

“I’ll have to admit, it’s not an easy city to leave.” She looked sad too and she had enjoyed her time with him. But she couldn’t stay here forever, particularly once she finished what she had come here to do. She didn’t want her Indian ancestor to become an obsession. She was going to turn her notes over to her mother to do with as she wished. It was her mother’s project after all, not her own, even if she had fallen in love with Wachiwi.

They walked for quite a while and looked down at the Seine, and then he drove her out of the way, to the Trocadero on the way home. It was the perfect image of Paris, as the Eiffel Tower stood before her in all its splendor, and as though on cue, as he parked his car, the tower began to sparkle, shooting lights in all directions. It was the perfect final night in Paris, and unable to resist the beauty of it, they both got out of the car. She stood looking up at the tower, like a child, mesmerized by the dazzling lights, and the exquisite view of Paris stretching before them, all the way to Sacré Coeur, and as she stood looking at the scene in silence, Mark put his arms around her and kissed her. She was too shocked to pull away or move, and realized she didn’t want to. Instead she put her arms around him and kissed him back. It was a moment not to waste, and a night she knew she would never forget. And whatever he was to her, or wasn’t, she liked him a lot, and would have been open to more than that if she was staying in Paris. But she wasn’t. So all this could ever be was one glorious romantic night kissing someone she truly liked in front of the Eiffel Tower. It didn’t get better than that, except maybe if you were madly in love. But she didn’t need that now, or want it, it would have complicated everything between them. This was simple and clean and fun. She smiled at him when they pulled apart, and he kissed her again, as a young boy came up and tried to sell them a model of the Eiffel Tower. Marc took his wallet out and bought her one. He handed it to her, and said it was in memory of one of the best nights of his life, and she thanked him and agreed.

They said very little to each other on the drive back to her hotel. There was nothing left to say. They both knew she wasn’t going to sleep with him before she left, and he didn’t ask. She was going home, and they might never see each other again, or not for a long time, if ever. The times they had shared had been perfect. They enjoyed each other’s company, respected each other, liked each other immensely, had a good time, and he had helped her a lot with her research. She knew she would cherish the memory of him and this night forever. And when she said goodnight to him, she was holding the little glass souvenir in her hand.

“Thank you for everything,” she said warmly. “I had a wonderful time. Again.” She had enjoyed Brittany with him. And the Bibliothèque Nationale, all the restaurants he’d taken her to, their serious discussions, their laughter, the things he had taught her about the history of France, their walks along the Seine. They had done a lot in a short time.

“I hope you come back soon,” Marc said with a wistful look, and then he grinned. “If not, maybe I’ll come to Boston sometime to visit you. It’s not so far,” he said, as though trying to convince himself. But it was. Their lives were worlds apart. “I hope you find a job,” he said, and she smiled at him.

“So do I. I’ll have to start beating the bushes seriously when I go home. I’m sure something will turn up soon.”

“I’m sure it will,” he reassured her, and then without saying anything more, he kissed her again. They kissed for a long time, and for a crazy instant she wished that she wasn’t leaving Paris and was staying here with him.

“Take care of yourself, Marc,” she said sadly, as she left him. “Thank you for everything.”

“A bientôt,” he said softly, brushing her lips with his own, and then she walked back into the hotel, and he went back to his car.

When she got upstairs, she set the little Eiffel Tower down on the desk and looked at it, and wondered why she hadn’t gone to bed with him. What was there to lose? Her heart, she reminded herself, which didn’t sound like a good idea to her. It was better like this. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, brushed it away, went to brush her teeth, put on her ancient flannel nightgown, and went to bed. But when she fell asleep that night, for her last night in Paris, she dreamed of him.

Chapter 20

Marc called her on her BlackBerry when she was on the way to the airport. He said that he just wanted to say goodbye to her again. He was trying to sound cheerful about it, but she could tell that he was sad, and so was she. It really was rotten luck in a way, she thought to herself, she had met a man she really liked, and he lived three thousand miles away. It happened that way sometimes, but it would have been nice if they lived in the same city. Instead she had had a great time with him, and she was taking home a souvenir of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe that was good enough. She thanked him again for everything, and dinner the night before, and he thanked her for the time she had spent with him. He was no longer trying to convince her to stay. He had understood.

She said goodbye to him, and checked her bags in when she got to the airport. She was flying to New York, to see her mother first, and give her the notes on everything she’d learned in France. Brigitte wanted to hand them over to her, so Marguerite could get on with her genealogy, and Brigitte would keep a copy for herself. It was nice to have, in memory of an extraordinary time and their remarkable Indian relative.

She went through security. The flight was on time, and once they were in the air, she laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Marc had said he would e-mail her from time to time, and she had promised to do the same. And now, she had to concentrate on finding a job. She had had a great time in Paris, but she had to get on with her life. She was looking forward to seeing her mother and telling her about the trip.

Brigitte watched two movies, had a meal, and slept for two hours on the flight. She woke up just as the captain announced that they were landing in New York. It had gone very fast. And once she was in the airport, picking up her bags, she felt as though she had been shot out of a cannon. All the gentility of Paris had vanished. People jostled her, all the porters were somewhere else as she struggled with her bag. There was an endless line of people waiting for a taxi, it was raining, people were shouting at each other, and she wanted to run back into the terminal and catch the first plane back to Paris. Welcome to New York.

She finally managed to get a cab, gave him her mother’s address, and called to tell her she was on her way. They were going out to dinner together, and when Brigitte got to the apartment, she ceremoniously handed over the folder full of meticulous notes about their ancestors, before she did anything else. Her mother hugged her gratefully, and thought Brigitte looked very well. She seemed relaxed and happier and more at ease in her own skin than she had in a long time. Her mother looked at her through narrowed eyes and told her she appeared more “confident.” Brigitte was amused at her choice of words, and then realized she was right. That was how she felt. All her anxiety about what would happen to her next seemed to have vanished. She was still childless, unmarried, and unemployed, but she felt good about herself. The time in Paris had done her good, and so had Marc.

They chatted for about an hour in the apartment, about Wachiwi, the court diaries, the marquis, his brother, the château, and the Bibliothèque Nationale. And her mother was impressed. Brigitte had learned so much in such a short time. It was the most efficient, thorough job of research Marguerite had ever seen, and she was astounded that Brigitte had navigated the National Archives by herself.

“Well, I have to admit, I had some help,” Brigitte confessed. “I met a writer at the library, and he gave me a hand. He’s a historian, and a professor, and he knew the place like the back of his hand, and he showed me around. I probably couldn’t have done it without him.”

“That’s interesting.” Her mother was curious, but didn’t want to press her, but Brigitte volunteered the rest. Or most of it anyway. Not the kiss on the last night. Some things were better left unsaid.