Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
Sébastien stretched out the jackets we had carried just in case the temperature dropped, and we lay down on top of them, gazing down at Monet’s pink house and the gardens. The sun was warm. We didn’t talk much. Sébastien tucked my head against his chest and tickled me from time to time with a blade of grass or played with my hair, spreading it across his chest lock by lock. I fell asleep wrapped in a smell of vanilla, crushed grass, and springtime, with fingers running through my hair.
We woke from the chill. The sun was angling in the west, and “Shoot!” I sat up abruptly. Sébastien stirred and blinked up at me sleepily. “The last bus! It leaves at six!”
Sébastien took my wrist and checked my watch. “It left at six,” he corrected. “We missed it. Laura, what is this giant plastic watch you’re wearing? You need something small and elegant for your wrist.”
It was a man’s watch, one of those designed to resist multiple Gs and tell the time all around the world. I loved it. The ability to tell time all around the world was vital to my self-image, even if that feature didn’t work right. “You don’t think it makes me look tough and like I can handle anything?”
He made a slight, strangled sound and smoothed his lips out.
“The contrast of the chunky masculine on my delicate, feminine wrist doesn’t hold visceral appeal?”
He said nothing. His lips trembled a bit at the corners.
Damn it. He probably went out with me for the comic relief provided by my sense of fashion. “Let’s just stay focused,” I growled. “We’ve got to find a way to get back to Paris.”
We hunted through tiny Giverny for a way back to Vernon, the nearest town with a train station, and finally ended up walking the three miles to it. It wasn’t a bad walk, even if I could have used a nice pair of American tennis shoes instead of my flimsy, sexy sandals about then. We did it hand in hand. When we got back, we still had three hours to wait for the only remaining train that day, so we walked along the river. There we fell asleep again, Sébastien keeping an arm firm around me because I was getting cold. We woke surrounded by gnats with big drops of rain plopping down on us. As the drops turned into a downpour, we ran across the bridge to the train station. Soaked, we sought refuge in a café across from the station.