The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [157]
“I’m so tired of Americans,” Paul said, once they were out of earshot. “Always so glad to find another American. You’d think there weren’t two hundred and fifty million of us. You’d think they’d want to be seeking out some French people, since they’re in France.”
“You’ve been talking to Frederic.”
“Sure. Why not? Frederic is right on the mark when it comes to American arrogance. Where is he, anyway?”
“Away on business. He’ll come tonight.”
It rushed through her again, the image of Frederic walking through the door of the hotel room, dropping his keys on the dresser and patting his pockets to make sure he had his wallet. He wore bright white shirts that caught the last light, with crisp button-down collars, and each evening he came in and tossed his tie over a chair, his low voice shaping her name. Perhaps it was his voice she had loved first. They had so much in common—grown children, divorces, demanding jobs—but because Frederic’s life had happened in another country, half in another language, it felt exotic to Norah, familiar and unknown at once. An old country and a new.
“Has your visit been good?” Paul asked. “Do you like France?”
“I’ve been happy here,” Norah said, and it was true. Frederic felt congestion had ruined Paris, but for Norah the charm was infinite, the boulangeries and the patisseries, the crêpes sold from street stands, the spires of ancient buildings, the bells. The sounds, too, of the language flowing like a stream, a word here and there emerging like a pebble. “How about you? How’s the tour? Are you still in love?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, his face easing a little. He looked straight at her. “Are you going to marry Frederic?”
She ran her finger around the sharp corner of the brochure. This was the question, of course, woven through all her moments: Should she change her life? She loved Frederic, she had never been happier, though she could see through that happiness to a time when his endearing habits might get on her nerves, and hers on his. He liked things just so; he was meticulous about everything from mitered corners to tax forms. In that way, though in no others, he reminded her of David. She was old enough now, experienced enough, to know that nothing was perfect. Nothing stayed the same, herself included. But it was also true that when Frederic walked into a room the air seemed to shift, grow charged, to pulse straight through her. She wanted to see what might happen next.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Bree’s willing to buy the business. Frederic has two more years on his contract, so we don’t have to make any decisions for a while. But I can imagine myself in a life with him. I suppose that’s the first step.”
Paul nodded. “Is that how it was last time? You know, with Dad?”
Norah looked at him, wondering how to answer this.
“Yes and no,” she said at last. “I’m much more pragmatic now. Then, I just wanted to be taken care of. I didn’t know myself very well.”
“Dad liked to take care of things.”
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
Paul gave a short, sharp laugh. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“I know,” Norah said. “Neither can I.”
They sat for a time in silence, air moving lightly around them. Norah turned her brochure, remembering the coolness in the museum, the echo of footsteps. She’d stood for nearly an hour before this painting, studying the swirls of color, the sure and vivid brushstrokes. What was it Van Gogh had touched? Something that shimmered, something elusive. David had moved through the world, focusing his camera on its smallest details, obsessed with light and shadow, trying to fix things in place. Now he was gone and the way he’d seen the world was gone as well.
Paul was standing up, waving across the park, the sadness on his face giving way to a joyous smile, intense, clearly focused, and exclusive. Norah followed his gaze across the dry grass to a young woman with a long delicate face and skin the color of ripe acorns, her dark hair in dreadlocks to her waist. She was slender, wearing a soft print dress; she carried herself with a