9. Winnie

9

WINNIE

A listair was chattier than normal on our walk to the Marais. He pointed out interesting architecture and explained that each arrondissement had its own character, much like any other city.

“They’re distinct neighborhoods, some more commercial than others. The Latin Quarter is the bohemian, artsy section of town,” he reported, pointing across the Seine. “Just over there, beyond Notre-Dame. Did you know the bell in the cathedral is named Emmanuel and weighs over thirteen tons? Did you know there are at least a dozen replicas of the Statue of Liberty in Paris? Did you know the city was originally called Lutetia in Roman times?”

No, of course I didn’t know any of that. I hummed along, stopping to snap pics every so often.

“Why Lutetia?”

“I’m glad you asked. Lutetia Parisiorum. Lutèce is Latin for mud or swamp and the Parisii were the Celtic people who lived here before the Romans. Caesar described the area as a great marsh along the riverbanks, or…Marais, which means swamp. The marsh was drained over the years to make way for proper ho using. As far back as the Bronze and Iron ages, the locals would have wanted to be close to the river.”

“Why? Swamps are notoriously smooshy and smelly.” I paused in front of a fashionable boutique, tilting my hat to get a better look at the impressive array of leather goods.

“The Seine has always been an important trading route to other parts of Europe,” he said, motioning me to follow him down one narrow cobblestone street to the next as if he knew exactly where we were heading. “It’s no wonder the Romans wanted it. As with every city they conquered, they made Paris their own. There are countless Roman ruins in the area…baths, a forum, aqueducts, statues, coins. It’s quite amazing.”

The truly amazing thing was that Alistair had all these facts on standby in some corner of his brain where I stored shit like the name of my favorite barista at the Java Joint on Third and the code for the men’s room at the Cantina. I was in awe.

And while I nodded and hummed along, I took a few notes of my own. One, there was nothing swampy about the Marais now. It was peaceful and pretty with high-end shops and cute cafés.

Two, the professor walked with a confident air of someone comfortable in his surroundings. He never once fussed with his glasses, and he hadn’t double or triple-checked for the cell he usually kept in his right-hand pocket.

He was quieter in the Picasso Museum. We wandered through the converted maison with sweeping staircases and ornate ironwork, studying paintings and sculptures, sharing wide-eyed glances.

“What the fuck did he do to her face?” I whispered.

Alistair scrunched his nose and squinted like an owl. “Nothing particularly nice.”

I barked a laugh that echoed off the high stone ceilings and cast an apologetic smile at a fellow tourist .

I leaned against Alistair, linking our pinkies for a beat. “What do you know about Picasso?”

“Nothing much.”

I gasped. “Really? And here I was expecting a report on the great master, Professor.”

“Sorry, but I don’t know modern art.” He tilted his head left and right, then shrugged. “The colors are nice, though.”

“Yes, they’re happy hues. What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Of course you do,” I scoffed. “Everyone does.”

“What’s yours?”

“I love bubbly blues, bright pinks, and pernicious purples.”

“Pernicious?” he repeated, eyes alight with amusement.

“Yeah.” I narrowed my gaze as Alistair’s indulgent grin morphed into a belly laugh that boomed off the walls. “What’s so funny?”

“Pernicious means highly destructive, subtly harmful and possibly deadly. You can have pernicious ideas, effects, and thoughts, but a pernicious purple”—he chuckled merrily—“that’s a new one.”

I swatted his arm in mock censure as we strolled past a painting of a woman with two faces staring into a mirror. “How about precipitous purple?”

“That means dangerous.”

“How about…”

“Powerful, passionate, perfect, profound, picturesque, perky…I could go on,” he singsonged.

“Show-off.”

We snickered like idiots and continued through rooms filled with whimsical sculptures and priceless paintings. We made up a game along the way to say the first thing that popped into mind in front of each piece of art.

Alistair took the literal approach. The painting of sunbathers reminded him of summers at Lake Windermere; the woman holding a child looked vaguely like his sister and her son. I went rogue. A blob on canvas was a dead ringer for my abuela’s Chihuahua, Trixie, who my fabulous cat, Liza, loved to terrorize. An early self portrait of Picasso vaguely resembled my landlord’s gym bunny boy toy, Dash.

“A gym bunny boy toy named Dash?”

“ Mmhmm . He’s sexy and he knows it. But he’s put together in a Botox, trainer on speed dial, and epic coke habit sort of way. Not so healthy. I steer clear of that nonsense. Or anything that renders me likely to dance on tabletops while incapacitated. I’m thirty-five, honey. On my last go-go boy escapade, I tripped on the gossamer sheath I was wearing over my crop top and Daisy Duke shorts and fell on my ass in the middle of a Donna Summer classic. Mortified isn’t a strong enough word,” I added with a sassy head bob.

Alistair laughed, and I suddenly wanted to share another ten of my most embarrassing moments. I liked the way his eyes crinkled and lit up. I liked the way he stood closer than necessary, always touching me…the brush of his shoulder or pinky finger. I wished every room in this museum were longer.

We ordered tea and sat on the terrace outside of the rooftop café, nibbling pastries and commenting on clouds shaped like toy balloons in the blue sky, the fat tabby sleeping on the sill of a nearby mansard roof, and the delicious autumn chill in the air.

Okay, that was me. Still yapping.

“I love fall. It’s my favorite season by far. We don’t get these amazing oranges and reds everywhere in LA. Not that I’m complaining. Our weather is better and?—”

“Do you miss home?” he interrupted.

“No, not at all. I miss Liza, though. I’ve been checking in with Max and his cousin for updates. Apparently, she hasn’t been pining for me. The nerve. ”

Alistair smiled. “Your world is very different from mine. More colorful. I have a hard time picturing gossamer sheaths and muscular men called Dash. I suppose you order lattes with a list of special instructions at a coffee shop where you might bump into a movie star or a rock god on a random Wednesday.”

“Well…yes. I’ve had the occasional star sighting, and that’s fun. I play up the whole ‘OMG, can you believe who I saw’ routine at the salon, but between you and me, they’re just people with issues of their own. Maybe I’m not as easy to impress as I used to be. So you brushed elbows with Selena Gomez at The Grove, so what? I’m having cha-mom-olee tea on a rooftop in Paris with a guy who knows how to read hyperglyphics.” I held up my hand like a pastor at Sunday morning mass. “I win, honey. I win.”

His eyes crinkled and his cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “I believe you mean chamomile tea and hieroglyphics.”

I winked. “I do indeed.”

The professor shook his head in faux exasperation. “You’re bonkers, you know that?”

“Only a pinch.” I rested my elbow on the table and smiled. “You never told me your favorite color.”

“Soft greens…and blues. The colors of the trees and sky in London after a rainstorm.”

“Isn’t London mostly gray?”

“We have our share of rain, but we have lovely days too. I live in Marylebone near The Regent’s Park. It’s a pretty spot. In springtime, there are trees with pink petals and lawns dotted with tiny white flowers. It’s like candy floss and marshmallows…the sort of thing illustrators draw in children’s books. I have a flat in Oxford as well, a block away from the river. Weeping willows drag their tendrils through the murky Cherwell, and on a clear day the water looks green and you can see the clouds’ reflection from the sky above. It’s like walking into a painting. ”

“But not a Picasso.”

“Certainly not.” Alistair snorted. “I may be biased, but the English countryside is quite beautiful.”

“I know. I haven’t spent enough time in the UK to give big opinions, but I’ve been to Cornwall to visit Raine and Graham, and my view from the train window on our way here was a feast for the eyes. California is beautiful too. Just different.”

“Do you go to the beach at home?”

I waved my arms. “Oh, no. I don’t like sunscreen, sand, and I look like a stick figure in beachwear. I’m too skinny, and there’s no hiding my lack of muscles in a suit.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. “You’re very good-looking, Win. Don’t tell me you don’t know that.”

“Thanks, but I know what I’m dealing with. If I have the notion to worship the sun, I invite my friends over for a margarita brunch and we sit under umbrellas by the pool in my apartment complex. I wear a caftan, a huge hat, and movie-star sunglasses. No one cares what I look like there…except pervy old Mr. Macklin. But he’s ninety and his currency is old Hollywood. He has the best stories about Rock Hudson and Marlon Brando. He might be bullshitting, but he sounds convincing, and isn’t that half the battle?”

Alistair sipped his tea. “You’ve used that expression before. What do you mean by currency?”

“The thing you bring to the table. Your cash, your cred, your talent. Mine is entertainment.”

“How so?”

“With my family, I’m the fun guncle, the adoring son and grandson they love but can’t relate to. At the salon, I ask questions, tell tales, and play therapist…with humor. My closest friends know the real me. I don’t have to behave around them. They don’t judge me harshly or expect me to be on my game all th e time. My currency can be a bag of chips and a seat on my chaise with them.” I stirred my tea. “What about you?”

“My currency is…knowledge. Boring answer, isn’t it? No wonder my family set me up with a country widower.”

“Oh, stop,” I chided. “And don’t downplay your achievements. You’re a researcher, a professor, an explorer, a scientist. You do important shit.”

His lips quirked. “Very important shit.”

“Indeed,” I replied in an exaggerated British accent.

“Thank you. That’s a nice compliment.” Alistair paused for a moment, adding, “I think you misspoke. Your currency is joy. That’s a rarer quality than you’d think.”

My cheeks were warm, and I didn’t know where to look all of a sudden. He made me feel exposed, vulnerable. And yet…somehow…safe. “I—thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Also…you’re not a stick figure, and you’re not too skinny. You’re just as you’re supposed to be.”

Before I could sputter an awkward acknowledgment, Alistair tapped the table and launched into tour-guide mode. Did I know that the nearby Place des Vosges was the oldest planned square in Paris and that Victor Hugo lived there for sixteen years? Did I know that the H?tel de Ville was the city hall and that it was the headquarters of the French Revolution?

No, I hadn’t known any of that and until this very second, that had been okay by me. But my God, the professor sounded like a poet, using words like an artist with a paintbrush on smooth canvas, his deep voice conjuring images of historic figures who’d walked these streets hundreds of years ago.

My tea went cold as the sun crested the sky, lengthening shadows. And when a gust of cool wind whistled across the terrace, we left the museum and crossed the Seine.

We stopped at a couple of book vendors along the riverside and gift shops on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. I took endless photos of buildings and flower stalls and selfies with Alistair. In front of the Pantheon, the Sorbonne, the bridge with the locks, and more in the park.

And all the while, we talked…and talked, covering major topics like French desserts, popular songs, and the headaches of traveling. Nothing important in the slightest.

I walked on air, my hand tucked into Alistair’s coat sleeve, my heart happy and for once, blessedly content.

It was the best day ever.