Danielle Steel - Legacy

The night that she left New York, she and her mother had an early dinner. They talked until she left for the airport, and her mother hugged her tight before she left. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart. Have a wonderful time, and I hope you meet lots of good people there, and have a great time.” They promised to call each other, and Brigitte knew they would. They called each other often, and worried about each other. There were tears in Marguerite’s eyes when she kissed her. All she wanted was for her daughter to be happy. It was what Brigitte wanted for herself too, and she hoped she would be in Paris.

As she went down in the elevator with her bags, it was exciting to know that in exactly nine hours she’d be there. She could hardly wait.

She was flying Air France on the midnight flight. It would land her in Paris at noon, local time. And the human resource office had told her that her keys would be waiting with the concierge of her building, and they had e-mailed her the address. It was on the rue du Bac, right near Tristan and Wachiwi’s house, which felt like a good omen to her.

It was a six-hour flight, with a six-hour time difference from New York. The service on the plane was excellent, and it wasn’t too crowded. The two seats next to her were empty, so she could lie down, and she covered herself with a blanket and slept. She felt refreshed when she woke up, and she had breakfast before they landed. Croissants, yogurt, fruit, and coffee. And the next thing she knew, they had touched down.

She went through immigration and customs without problem, and found a luggage cart for her bags, and they just managed to fit in the Parisian taxi. She gave him the address in French. He nodded and they were off in the heavy traffic from Roissy to the city. It took them almost an hour to get there. And she looked at everything once they arrived in the city. The streets on the Left Bank already looked somewhat familiar to her from her recent stay in April, and she was thrilled when they drove past Tristan’s house on the rue du Bac on the way to her new address. Tristan and Wachiwi were part of her life now, and they would be increasingly so while she wrote the book, which brought them to life for her. She felt as though they were her best friends now, or much-loved relatives she couldn’t wait to see again. She could see them on the pages that she was writing.

She paid the cab driver, pressed the code on the outer door, pushed it open, walked through a narrow passage to a courtyard, and pressed the buzzer marked “concierge.” It was the apartment where the woman lived who ran the building. The building itself looked charming and ancient, but everything looked well tended and clean. And the concierge knew immediately who she was, handed her the keys, pointed to the sky, and said, “Troisième étage.” Third floor. Brigitte thanked her and saw that there was a tiny cagelike elevator that looked barely bigger than a breadbasket. She put her bags in one on top of the other, and then ran up the stairs herself. There was no room for her and the bags. She already knew that the third floor in France was the equivalent of the fourth in the States, and she was out of breath when she got there, and then pulled her bags out of the narrow cage.

She used the keys to enter the apartment, and had already been warned by the school that it was tiny, but it was much better than she had expected. It had an unobstructed view over the rooftops, and at a little distance looked down into a convent garden full of trees, and then her breath caught as she looked straight ahead. She had a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, and at night when it was all lit up, it would be a light show just for her. It was the perfect apartment. From now on the hourly fireworks and sparks of the Eiffel Tower in the dark would be right outside her window. She could hardly wait. She sat down and smiled as she looked around her for a minute and then explored the apartment. She was smiling from ear to ear. There was a tiny mouse-sized kitchen, with a miniature oven, a microwave, and a fridge barely big enough to keep the makings of a meal in. But everything was clean and neat. And there was no bedroom, just the one good-sized room where she would sleep and live, and then she realized that she could see the Eiffel Tower from her bed. There was a round dining table in front of the window and four chairs. The furniture was worn but pretty. The upholstery was oatmeal color, and the curtains were old pink satin. There were two big leather chairs in front of a fireplace, and a small couch across from her bed. There was ample room to entertain in, live, and have a life in, and best of all she had the view. And when she checked, the bathroom was marble and the tub was a decent size. She had everything she needed, and sat down on the bed and grinned.

“Welcome home,” she said out loud, and felt that way. She still had to unpack, but she didn’t want to get started. There was something she had to do first. She had put it off long enough.

She dialed Marc’s number on her BlackBerry, and he sounded surprised. She had only called him once since April, normally they e-mailed each other. He seemed genuinely startled to hear her, but very pleased.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked cautiously. She could hear noise around him, and he sounded busy.

“Not at all. I’m being very lazy. I’m sitting in a café. The one we went to across from your hotel, the first time we had coffee. I come here a lot now.” He loved going there because it reminded him of her. And she knew exactly where it was. She picked up her sweater as she talked to him, left her apartment and locked the door, and kept talking to him on her BlackBerry as she hurried down the stairs. He was only a few blocks away, which made it so easy for her.

“And where are you?” he wanted to visualize her where she was. He was reveling in the sound of her voice, and she was smiling as she ran, trying not to sound out of breath. She had crossed the courtyard by then, and gone through the outer doors, and had just reached the rue du Bac.

“I’m just leaving my apartment. I’m walking down the street,” she said to explain the noise around her. “I just thought I’d call to say hi.”

“That was nice of you,” he sounded happy. He wanted to tell her he missed her, but he didn’t dare. She had been so clear with him about being only friends because they lived so far apart. But even if he didn’t say it, he had missed her ever since she left. For a short time she had filled his days and evenings, and ever since his life seemed bleak without her. He was thinking of going to Boston one of these days to see her, but he hadn’t broached the subject to her yet. He was planning to soon and see how she reacted to the suggestion. “How’s the book coming?”

“I haven’t had time to work on it for a couple of weeks. I’ve been too busy.”

“How’s your new job?”

“I haven’t started yet. I start next week.” He was still disappointed that she hadn’t taken one in Paris, but he didn’t say that to her either. And by then she was standing across the street from him, and saw him at the café. He was sitting at a small table, and he looked just the way he had before. His hair was a little shorter, and he was wearing one of the jackets she had seen him in and liked. Her heart skipped a beat as she watched him, unseen by him. This was more than a friend. She had known that it would be clear to her when she saw him again, and it was. She had suspected it the night she kissed him, and now she knew for sure. She fell silent as she stood there, smiling, so happy that she had come back. She wondered if Wachiwi had felt that way when she first saw Jean, or later her husband. Something in Brigitte’s gut flipped over, and she felt sure it was her heart. She had forgotten to say anything to him for several minutes, she was so engrossed in what she was seeing, and she saw him look concerned.

“Are you there?” He thought they had been cut off, and she laughed. As she did, she saw him smile. It was funny watching him, without his knowing she was there.

“No, I’m not there, I’m here,” she said, teasing him.

“Where? What do you mean?” They were both laughing, and as though sensing her near him, he turned, and saw her across the street, walking slowly toward him. Without thinking he stood up and just stared at her, and then he walked toward her too. They met on the sidewalk, and he looked down at her with the gentlest look of love she’d ever seen.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, utterly confused. She was like a vision, as though his wish had been granted and she appeared.

“A lot of things, I think,” she answered cryptically. “I took a job here… the one you found me at AUP. I was going to thank you but I wanted to surprise you when I arrived.”

“When did you get here?” He wanted to know everything, and he was beaming as people walked around them, as they stood facing each other holding hands. Paris was used to lovers, and no one complained or cared that they were blocking the sidewalk, and neither did they. All they could see was each other.

“About three hours ago,” she said in answer to his question. “They gave me an apartment on the rue du Bac. I have a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower from my window. The place is the size of a postage stamp, but I already love it.” And she hoped he would too. The big leather chairs would be just right for him when he came to visit.

“And you’re going to be working here?” he looked ecstatic. It was Christmas in June for him, and hopefully for her too. He wanted both of them to make this decision, consciously, not just him, and so did she.

“Three days a week, and the book.”

“For how long?” He already looked worried, he didn’t want her to leave.