Christmas in Bruges (2 page)

“It was—is—dumb. I said the movie was misogynistic, and you told me to get a sense of humour.” She started to laugh. “I was taking some feminist film class and felt I had to stand up to the patriarchy or something silly like that.”

He laughed too. “We really were young and stupid. But we weren't the first and won't be the last.”

“What would've happened if we hadn't been so stupid?” She was still just drunk enough to ask. “Would we have lived happily ever after?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? It's like that movie
Sliding Doors
, with Gwyneth Paltrow, where the character's life follows radically different paths depending on whether or not she takes a certain train. Maybe if we'd stayed together, I'd have gone to Toronto instead of Afghanistan. By now we'd have six kids, and instead of becoming a doctor, I'd be playing hockey for the Toronto Maple Trees—”

“
Leafs
. Toronto Maple
Leafs
,” she said with a laugh. “Or maybe you would've become a famous surgeon who saved the life of a hockey player while I became a famous actress, and we'd spend every Christmas in Bruges.”

“Easy to see which one of us is the optimist. But I really am sorry, and I really did love you. I'm sorry it took so long to tell you.”

“I'm sorry too,” she said. Maybe this night wouldn't end like the Dan Fogelberg song after all.

They'd somehow gone in a circle and were back standing in front of the bistro. “If I wasn't so tired, I'd buy you another drink,” James said, “but how about I walk you back to your hotel?”

Paula agreed, not because she was afraid of walking alone, but because she was hoping he might ask to come in, and a few minutes later, they were standing in the glow emanating from the hotel lobby window. Across the street, the bare trees shone with a ghostly light.

He said goodnight, and she started to panic. “Will you come in with me?” She tried to sound confident, but the words came out as a whisper.

Did she see a shadow of doubt or regret cross his face?

He took what seemed like forever to answer. “No, I shouldn't. We've only just met.”

“Not true,” she protested.

“It's been nine years. A lot can happen to someone in nine years. Things that change a person, and not always for the best.”

“James—”

“I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” he said hurriedly. “Not too early. I don't sleep very well, and the jet lag won't help. How about noon at the bistro?”

She nodded. She would see him again, at least, but there was a feeling of doom about the invitation, as if he'd only suggested it under pressure.

“I'll be there.”

“Good,” he said. “I'm at the Hotel Ter Brughe. Now give me your phone.” She handed it to him, and he added his name and cell number to her contacts. “Just in case I sleep in.”

The gesture comforted her. He wasn't trying to get away.

She was about to say goodnight when he kissed her. It happened before she had time to react and kiss him back. He smiled and turned, and she watched him walk over the stone bridge and disappear back into the fairyland.

She stood a while longer, as if expecting the snow to turn to rain like in the song, but it didn't. When the snow had obliterated the last of his footsteps, she went inside.

It was cold in her room. She turned up the heat and, leaving her coat on, went to the window. She sat on the low, wide sill and pulled open the drapes. The streetlights had turned the canal to gold, and a lonely swan drifted so close to her window that, had it been open, she could have reached out and touched the swan's feathers.

It had been a wonderful evening, and as in the song, they'd laughed until tears flowed. They'd laughed too at their foolishness all those years ago. But she didn't think they'd be picking up where they'd left off. Something was holding him back.
A lot can happen to someone in nine years. Things that change a person, and not always for the best.

Yes, she could look back on those times and laugh now, but what about in another nine years, when she looked back at Christmas in Bruges? A beautiful reunion with a man she'd once loved—no, still loved. The whole idea made her want to cry.

If she were smart, would she leave Bruges tomorrow? Or at least not meet him at the bistro? She could leave a note there for him:
Wonderful to see you again. Unfortunately, I had to leave—my mother is very ill. Hope to run into you again someday.

No, she couldn't do that. She knew she was asking for her heart to be broken, but she couldn't help herself. If she left now, she'd always wonder what would have happened if she'd stayed. And besides, it was already too late. It had been too late from the moment she looked up and saw him standing in the door of the bistro.

Wasn't the idea of one true love a romantic myth? Maybe. But in her case, it was true. No one else could be James. No one else could do for her what he could do with a smile: that inner explosion of light that just about stopped her heart.

That problem with Jimarco had been that he wasn't James. She'd tried to replace James, and Jimarco had never measured up. It wasn't his fault—she'd asked him to be someone he wasn't. She hoped he would find someone who would love him the way she couldn't.

Her room was warmer now, and she closed the drapes and removed her coat. She turned on the television to distract her thoughts, settling on
A Christmas Carol
, with Alastair Sim. But it didn't distract her at all, and when she finally fell asleep, it was James and not the spirits of Christmas who troubled her dreams.

***

James was at the bistro at noon like he'd said he'd be, jumping up from his chair when Paula walked in, helping her out of her coat. All her sense of doom melted in the warmth of his smile. Whatever ghosts had haunted him the night before had left in the morning light.

They ate toasties with melted cheese and ham, washed down with glasses of frothy Belgian beer, and afterward, James insisted they go on a tour of the local chocolatiers. “It's Christmas Eve, and we need chocolate.”

The snow in the streets, dirtied by passing cars, was no longer pristine, but the grey clouds held the promise of a fresh coating.

“I like your red scarf,” Paula said by way of conversation. “Did your mom make it? I never asked you last night how your parents were doing.”

“They're fine,” he said. “My mom was furious with me for letting you get away. I thought she was never going to speak to me again. And yes, she made my scarf.”

“I liked your mom. Do you remember that yellow sweater she knitted for you?”

“How could I forget? I looked like a giant banana in it.”

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, “we laughed so hard. But you were so afraid of hurting your mom's feelings, you wore it every time we went over for dinner. I'll never forget the night she asked you if it was the only sweater you owned.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “I was so worried she was going to knit me another one. But I love this red scarf.”

“Me too,” she said as they entered their first chocolate shop.

“Just one,” he said, staring at the array beneath the glass counter. “Bruges has lot of chocolate shops, and we have to try them all.”

She chose one with a lemon cream centre, and he chose one with coffee and hazelnut. Declaring them to be the best chocolates ever, they went to the next shop, where they declared
those
to be the best. By the fourth shop, they agreed they'd set themselves an impossible task and from then on only window-shopped.

The market square was full of tourists and last-minute shoppers. A huge Christmas tree sparkled, and a Salvation Army brass band played “Little Drummer Boy” while skaters glided around the ice rink. “Doesn't get any more Christmassy than this,” Paula observed.

At a booth, she bought them each a hot spiced wine, which they drank while wandering around the square, coming to a stop at the entrance to the belfry as the carillon began to play.

“It's amazing, isn't it?” she said, admiring the bell tower. “Seven hundred years old and still standing. Nothing at home is that old.”

“Once upon a time, you would've accused me of being Eurocentric for saying something like that.”

“You know what I mean! But probably yes, a Eurocentric, patriarchal, imperialistic . . .” She burst out laughing. “Come on. Let's wear off some of those chocolates.”

“I don't know—it's a long way up.”

“Three hundred and sixty-six steps, to be precise,” she said. “We have to—it's in the movie!”

“Yeah, and so was shooting people.”

“You're not afraid of heights, are you?” Paula asked. “I don't remember that. You took me to the Empire State Building—it was my very first time.”

That got a smile out of him, and she groaned. “Okay, a lot of things I did with you were firsts. And this will be another.”

“All right, if you insist,” he said, joining the ticket line. “But after this, we do what
I
want.”

“Agreed. And now I know how we'd sound if we'd never broken up: just how we sound now—like an old married couple negotiating with each other.”

As they neared the top, Paula's heart was pounding, while James's didn't appear affected at all.

“I'm going to have to start working out,” she said breathlessly. “I thought I was fit. I can't believe Brendan Gleeson ran up these stairs in the movie. He's a big guy.”

“Maybe they airlifted him to the top. Or maybe, like me, he was training for the Boston Marathon.”

“You are? That would explain why you aren't breathing hard. But really, you're running the Boston Marathon? After the bombings last year?”

“Because of them. I mean, isn't that why we went over there, to keep things like that from happening again?”

“Yes,” she said, looking out over the city through the openings in the stone. She'd heard so many reasons for the war, and it was all muddy in her head, but for those who'd gone there, a clear reason for all their sacrifice was probably very important.

“It looks like a toy land or a model train set,” she said cheerfully, trying to dispel the gloom that seemed to have fallen over James. “Joy to the World” drifted up on the cold wind. “Look at the skaters on the rink. They look so funny—like bugs gliding around. And the Christmas tree looks so tiny.”

But James didn't seem to be listening. Instead, he was running his hand along the wire mesh that covered the openings.

“I read on TripAdvisor,” she said, “that after the movie came out, they had to put this mesh up to keep people from jumping.”

“Really,” he said absently. He looked up to where the mesh met the top of the stone openings, then around the observation deck. “If you were really determined, you could still find a way.”

“I hope not,” she said, growing alarmed at his mood. “They seem to have done a good job. It's really sad—”

“It would only take wire cutters,” he said.

Just then, three teenaged boys emerged onto the deck. “Awesome!” one of them said. “Everything looks like Lego down there!”

“It does. Hey, there's Mom and Dad on the park bench! Mom! Dad!”

“They can't hear you, stupid.”

“Do you think the bells will ring when we're up here? That would be cool!”

Not a morbid thought among them
, Paula thought. She turned from the view to see James waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

She smiled, hoping for another dazzling one in return, but all he said was, “Let's go down now. It's cold up here.”

“Are you okay?” she asked when they emerged onto the square.

“Of course,” he said, and if his smile wasn't dazzling, it was at least brave. “But now, we're going to have a cup of hot cocoa with lots of brandy, and then take a very lazy carriage ride, followed by a boat ride. I saw that one is doing Christmas Eve tours of the lights.”

“Perfect!” she said.

After they finished their hot cocoa, James waved down a carriage.

“You're lucky,” the driver said in accented English. “Last run of the day.”

James hopped in first, holding out his hand to Paula. He arranged the wool tartan blanket around her, and her heart jumped when he reached under the blanket and took her mittened hand in his. Whatever concerns had made him anxious on the tower seemed to have evaporated.

The horse trotted out of the square and into a narrow street, edging past a car coming in the other direction. Everywhere were chocolate shops. “It's good we stopped at four,” James remarked.

“Yes, as good as they were, I feel a little ill at the prospect of eating more, at least today. I wonder if Belgians eat chocolates much? Maybe they're sick to death of them.”

The driver pointed out a dock. “If you haven't done a canal tour, this one belongs to my friend. He's decided to run on Christmas Day—first tour at noon. After that movie
In Bruges
, everyone comes here at Christmas. He says he'll be rich. Have you seen the movie?”

They were just about to say yes when
bang!
An explosion shattered the air.

The horse whinnied, rising onto its back legs, jolting the carriage.

Bang! Bang!

“Get down! Get down!” James screamed. He pushed Paula back onto the carriage cushions, throwing himself on top of her.

Bang!

Oh my God
, she thought,
gunshots!
The horse bolted now, the carriage jerking forward.

James pushed her off the seat, her arm twisting painfully behind her back as the two of them crashed to the carriage floor. Her head struck the step, and she cried out.

“Whoa! Whoa!” the driver shouted. Paula heard the skid of car tires and the crash of the horse's hooves on the snowy cobblestones. James's face was pressed against her own, his breathing panicked as he frantically sought to protect her body with his.