Running Back (20 page)

Chapter Twenty

So. The thing about the Eiffel Tower? It was
big.

That shouldn’t have surprised me. When it was first built in 1890, it was the tallest building in the world, and at fifteen hundred feet it still rose above the rest of Paris, the most iconic part of an incredibly iconic skyline.

Yet at first, catching glimpses of the monument between Haussmann’s elegant apartments as our taxi zoomed through the streets, it looked like no more than a toy. Even when we reached the narrow, tree lined streets of the seventh
arrondissement
—the neighborhood that housed the Tower, upscale homes and our touristy hotel—and a leg of the structure peaked through at the cross streets, I thought, oh, that’s not that big.

Then we dropped off our bags, walked over and looked up.

And up.

It was like a monster. A gorgeous metallic beast that cut into the sky, so large that when you stood by one of the legs it blocked out everything else.

We climbed to the first level, and then took the elevator to the top. Paris spread out before us, as different from Kilkarten as New York from the Andes. To the south, the Champs du Mars spread out before us, a patch of green amidst the elegant tan and gray buildings with their turrets and balconies. A dark, shadowy rectangle sprung up in the distance like a blot against the skyline, while just slightly to the left the much more pleasing golden dome of Napoleon’s tomb marked another park. Farther on came the Seine and its bridges. The shadow of the tower stretched across the green water, pointing toward the Arc de Triumph and its many avenues. Closer, the palace and gardens of the Trocadéro curved toward us.

Gazing at it made my heart expand in my chest, until I felt like I might float off, fueled by admiration and happiness and joy and beauty. And then I turned my back on it all and kissed Mike until I thought sheer euphoria would carry me off.

When I drew back, he was grinning so hard his dimple showed. “What was that for?”

I kissed the dimple. “It is a
rule
that you kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower.”

He slid his arms around my back and pulled me closer. “That so?”

“In fact, if you weren’t here, I’d just have to walk up to some stranger and kiss him.”

For lunch, we spread out a blanket halfway between the monument and the military academy on the other side of the park. Like-minded tourists and locals surrounded us. Children raced tricycles while their parents chatted on green benches.

Men jangling Eiffel Tower keychains walked about, targeting camera-wearing tourists and extracting exorbitant amounts of money. A man with dozens of roses moved from couple to couple.

“Don’t do it,” I muttered to Mike as the salesman walked determinedly toward us. “Don’t make eye-contact. Say
non
,
merci
.”

Bouquets were shoved in our faces. “Hello,
monsieur!
A flower for your beautiful lady?”

Mike looked up. “Yeah, sure.”

I stared at him. “What?” He was
not
going to buy an overpriced, touristy flower. No. No way. Ridiculous! Unbelievable!

Mike handed me a red rose.

I buried my nose in it, and then frowned at him as the man walked away. “You know they marked this up like five-hundred percent.”

“Do you like it?”

I inhaled the strong, heady perfume, deep and rich and velvet. “Maybe.”

“Isn’t Ecuador famous for roses? Or is that bananas?”

I laughed. “Both.” We unpacked the picnic we’d brought: a baguette, a wheel of Camembert, slices of ham and tiny, dark grapes. “They have these giant rose farms, and they’re just stunning—full and deep and perfect. They’re some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. And I’m just a walking cliché—roses are my favorite.” I tore off a chunk of bread and unwrapped the cheese. “But they breed them for beauty, not fragrance, and so they have almost no scent. And I always sort of thought a rose without a scent was like a person without a soul.”

He stopped assembling his sandwich and grinned widely. “Look at you. Yeats two-point-oh.”

I laughed. “What can I say. If I don’t find Ivernis, I can always write greeting cards.”

Afterward, we dusted off the crumbs and took pictures of each other in front of the Tower. A girl, not much older than Anna, watched with a beleaguered expression as we took selfies and finally walked over, determination in her step and resignation in her voice. “Want me to take that for you?”

Despite her self-sacrificial tone, she took six pictures in quick succession. When she handed the camera back and strode away, she only made it twenty yards before visibly sighing and walking over to another hopeless couple.

So then we spent the next twenty minutes watching her as her instinct to help overpowered her desire to ignore everyone. “I always daydreamed about being a spy,” I admitted when she finally headed out of view. “Probably stemmed from my nosiness.”

He rolled over onto his stomach. “Not a bad cover, being an archaeologist. Good reason to travel and bug people.”

I grinned and waved my flower in his face. “It’s actually a classic. Archaeologists have been spying since the first world war.”

“What? No way.”

I relaxed back on my elbows, admiring the drifting clouds. “My favorite story is about this Egyptologist who passed messages in hieroglyphs, and just told the occupiers that it was an inscription he needed help translating.” I raised my brows. “See? We are the most badass profession.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’d make an awful spy.”

“You don’t think I’d make an awesome femme fatale?” I fluttered my lashes at him.

I’d completely been kidding, but his gaze went dark and he reached out to brush my hair behind my ear. My heart fluttered. Mike made me feel like I was as stunning and amazing as any woman that graced the silver screen.

Then a crew of loud American boys tripped over their own feet, and we pulled apart as they milled before us and pushed one of their members forward. He cleared his throat and performed the ubiquitous chin nod at Mike. “Hey. Are you Michael O’Connor?”

I’d been with my mother a handful of times when she’d been recognized. She’d always slipped out the scornful half smile, the drops of disdain. If they offered a hand she raised her brows, if they smiled she frowned.

Mike grinned. “Yeah, that’s me. What are you guys doing here?”

They were study abroad students at Sciences Po, and they clamored for Mike’s attention. A couple of them checked me out until Mike blatantly wrapped his arm around me. And then, so easily I barely noticed it was happening, he extricated us from the group, leaving them with shining eyes and puffed up chests.

“You’re
good
at that.”

“Ryan and I used to make bets about how fast we could get out.” He let out a laugh. “You should see Keith. If he gets bored he walks away from people mid-sentence. Abe pretends his mom’s calling.”

“Aw, that’s a cute one.”

“Yeah, that’s why he does it. Subtle publicity work when he’s hemmed in by old ladies. I don’t think he pulls that one on guys.” He quirked a brow. “Speaking of mothers. I have some ideas for how we should spend the rest of the day.”

“Like eating bonbons and checking out the Louvre and the gadgetty, steampunky museum?”

For one hopeful moment, interest distracted him, and then he leveled a deliberate look at me. “Like I looked up your mother.”

I let my head thump down on him. “Nooo.”

He marched on. “Apparently, when she moved to Paris at thirteen, she lived in model housing in, coincidentally, this neighborhood.”

All of a sudden hot anger swamped me. I shoved my hair out of my face. “Who cares? What do you want to do, traipse around her old stomping grounds? What’s that going to do?”

He shrugged, still keeping those light, steady eyes fastened on me. “It’s where she grew up.”

I snorted. “She never grew up.”

“Can you blame her?”

I tilted my head, some of my anger fading at the odd note in his voice.

He stared at the Eiffel Tower. “She spent years working when she should have been having a childhood.”

I also looked at the metal structure. “It got her fame and money.”

“Was it worth it?”

He looked so calm, his chiseled face imperturbable. It struck me how few people he ever let in, how few realized there was anything behind the charm. “I don’t know. Was it?”

He turned back to me and reached out to trace my cheekbone with his finger. “I’m just saying. It was a large part of her life.”

I laced my hand through his. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

* * *

The walk through the narrow streets was beautiful. Even the tourist shops added flare. Bright scarves caught our attention from sidewalk stands. Every block seemed to have a
boulangerie
piping the scent of fresh, crusty baguettes into the air. Small, round pastries and fruit glazed with sugar filled their windows. We almost smacked into a man carrying a giant slab of half-alive meat into the
boucherie
, and almost keeled over from the yellow perfume of the
fromageries
.

I was in heaven.

Little nooks and crannies kept jumping out at us, demanding our attention: a hidden churchyard with a mossy fountain; a marble plaque on a building declaring this the site where two members of
La Résistance
died
.
A florist shop with such beautiful bouquets; a tour crawling by on Segways; a park with an old
Metro
sign done up in beautiful Art Deco style.

The model house was tucked away, down two quiet streets, through a gate and a private garden. The gate pushed open, though it looked like it was supposed to be latched, and we walked past potted plants and into the small lobby of the building.

On one wall, bright flyers waved in the summer breeze as the door fell shut behind us, while straight ahead a man in a suit glanced up from behind a counter. He didn’t quite frown as he took in everything from our sandals to my ponytail, but he spoke with no little disdain. “
Puis-je vous aider?
”

My French, which I’d had to learn for grad school, was decidedly rusty. I cleared my throat and tried anyway. “
Ma mere avait l’habitude de vivre ici.
Pouvons-nous jeter un coup d’œil?
”

He heard my accent and didn’t even bother speaking in French. “The residences are private.”

“Oh.
Desole.
Merci.
”

Mike leaned closer. “What’d you say?”

“Just that my mom used to live here and we wanted to look around.” I shrugged and turned. “Well, that was a fail.”

Mike grabbed my arm. “Hey, no.” He turned back to the man. “Her mom lived here for five years.”

I twisted so I could catch his wrist and tugged him toward the door. “It’s not a big deal. We tried.”

The man behind the counter didn’t deign to chime in.

Mike reached into his pocket, and I yanked harder on him, embarrassment rising. “
Mike
. There’s not even anything to see.”

Behind us, the entrance bell chimed, and another wave of summer air swept in. I tugged again, determined to catch the door and be on our way. Two tall girls in slimming black passed us, chattering rapid-fire in some language I didn’t understand. They looked at Mike and one giggled.

“Come on, Nat. Don’t you want to talk to them?” To the man he said, “There must be some way—”

“
Non.
This is a private house. You can not just barge in.” He let out a puff of air. “It is this entitled attitude—”

Mike squared his shoulders. “Come on, man—”

“Mike, let’s just
go
—”

From another door, a man emerged, this one short and broad. “
Ce qui se passe?
”

The first man responded in rapid fire French far beyond me, but his frantic gestures made it quite clear we were disturbing the peace. “See?” I hissed at Mike. “Now it’s a whole issue.”

“Jesus, Nat, I’ve never seen you so worked up.” He pulled up his most soothing smile. “Uh,
bonjour.
Ma copine et moi
would like to look around. Is that okay?”

Okay, he looked up how to say girlfriend in French. If I wasn’t so tense, I might find that cute.

But seriously, he couldn’t just smile and ask the same question over and over and hope the answer would change.

The second man opened his mouth, his gaze flicking over to include me as he spoke. “It is against policy—”

He stopped, and his jaw dropped almost comically. “
Oh
,
putain.
”

The other man glanced at him quickly, and then stared me down. I stood frozen.

Mike leaned over to murmur in my ear. “I’m going to assume that was something like
sacre-bleu
, which is the only French curse I know.”

Something like. “Hi.” I self-consciously pushed my hair back. He obviously recognized me—recognized my mother in me. “I’m Natalie Sullivan. My mother used to live here.”

“You have her eyes.” He dropped the Hs so the sentence was almost entirely a river of vowels.

I smiled uncomfortably.

“Such a great model, your mother.” He ran his eyes up and down my body. “You also?”

“Me? Model? No. No. I’m an archaeologist.”

Apparently that wasn’t as cool as modeling, because his nose crinkled slightly. He craned his head to see me from different sides, and then nodded. “You are tall enough.”

Well, excellent.

The man nodded, then turned to Mike. His gaze lingered on the red hair. “This is your boyfriend.”

“Yes. This is Mike O’Connor. He plays football—American football—in New York.”

“Ahh...” The man’s expression made his thoughts on American football very clear.

“We didn’t mean to bother you—we just thought we’d stop by—we were in the area—”

“Come. I will do your eyes.”

“No.” I would have backed away if I didn’t have a two-hundred pound weight holding my arm. “That’s okay. I just wanted to see where she lived.”

“Yes, I know. I will show you and tell you about her as I do your eyes.” He walked away, not waiting to see if we’d follow. “I met her when she first arrived. She was underfed, and underdressed, and she cried every night because she was lonely and didn’t speak French. She used to sing in Russian before she fell asleep.” His voice trailed off as he rounded a corner.