It was the real estate listing for her Victorian back home.
She was leaving San Francisco and moving to Paris.
Nine
I scanned the sheet for the opening date. Aunt Evelyn listed her home in San Francisco yesterday. The way the market worked, it wouldn’t be surprising if she was already fielding offers. It might explain why she’d been glued to her phone the past twenty-four hours.
Curiosity was a classic Yu trait. Auntie Faye had built a business around it. Aunt Evelyn, though, had mastered secrecy. Her decision did not require my approval, but why keep it a secret? She had yet one more secret and now, by not confronting her, I did too.
I picked up the scarf, returned the sheet to its place on the pile, and headed back.
“Ah, the Faubourg. Great choice,” she said, tying the scarf around my neck. “It will look better on you than it did on me. These spring breezes can be quite cool. Best to have your neck covered. Promise me you’ll start at the fountain and make your way out from there. There is no better place in the city to begin your adventure.”
The simple act of readying for a day out reminded me so much of Ma that a wave of homesickness constricted my heart. We hadn’t been apart for too long, yet I already missed her. She had sent numerous messages through the electronic umbilical cord tying the two of us together, but it wasn’t the same.
“Try and enjoy the city before I make you miserable with my teachings,” Aunt Evelyn said.
I laughed and focused on my first day out. “Where is this garden you were talking about and how do I get there?”
* * *
* * *
Growing up in California, I had become conditioned to drive everywhere, but Paris traffic was intimidating. The city’s rhythm rocked like an offbeat song. Until I could acclimatize, I exercised the same level of caution young children make when learning to cross a street for the first time. One of the thrills of traveling was discovering the soul of a city, which could only be accomplished on foot, slowing down to know how it danced to its own pace: walking by the buildings and art; tasting its foods through its stalls, shops, and restaurants; and meeting its locals.
Luxembourg Gardens was located in the sixth arrondissement, a twenty-minute walk away, near the district where we had dinner. At my first dinner in Paris, I had glimpsed the palace in the distance and fallen in love, but now, during the day, the castle appeared more magical and splendid with its fairy-tale charm. A pleasant breeze teased my unbound hair and ruffled the petals of the flowers and blades of grass nearby. Blooming rainbow flower beds accented the sea of emerald lawns. English and French gardens stretched out around me, close to twenty-three hectares, according to the website. Runners and families with strollers walked by, along with fellow tourists.
Aunt Evelyn had mentioned a landmark, the Medici Fountain, as the perfect first subject to capture on paper before I made my way through the gardens and its numerous statues. I threaded north through the throng of tourists mixed with trendy locals. The perfect weather ensured a healthy turnout for this idyllic attraction.
I took in the fountain, framed by a canopy of trees, and my heart swelled as I approached the large rectangular reflecting pool and its collection of ducks leading to the monument. The landmark was unapologetically Italian. Named after Maria de’ Medici, the mother of Louis XIII, it reminded me of the Trevi Fountain in Roman Holiday, but on a much smaller scale.
I chose a metal chair with a great vantage point of the three main figures, a giant spying on two lovers below. Which myth did they belong to? I hadn’t had a chance to look up the history of the fountain yet.
A strong gust swept through the area, stirring the branches from the trees into an animated clatter. Stray leaves cascaded in an unexpected rainfall as the people below clung to their belongings. I reached for my purse and held it against my chest. The wind whipped my hair and stripped the scarf off my neck, sending it flying like an errant ribbon into the sky.
I slung my bag onto my shoulder and took off in pursuit.
The pink scarf seemed to change into a bird with fluttering silk wings as I tracked it. I couldn’t lose my aunt’s possession on my first day. It would be a sign of disrespect, which would cloud my lessons. The background blurred as I focused on the silk bird flying away from me.
I collided with a beautiful man who smelled of espresso, vanilla bean, and toasted sugar.
“Je m’excuse,” he said in a deep voice. Tall, Asian, with dark hair and sparkling brown eyes.
“My scarf!” I blurted.
He followed my gaze and took off running. I was wearing heels. The grass might as well have been quicksand. The traitorous gust died as if its purpose was spent. The stranger caught the scarf when it dropped a few steps in front of him.
Scarf. Fountain. Beautiful man. Aunt Evelyn. She might as well have orchestrated the elements of nature to do her bidding. My favorite romance novelist, Ingrid Ing, could not have crafted a more glorious beginning.
He returned, scarf in hand.
“Thank you.” I accepted my scarf and tucked it into my purse just in case it had any other ideas of taking to the skies.
“American?” he asked, switching to English.
He had dimples. I died a little inside.
“Yes, from Palo Alto. You?”
“Canadian from Montreal.”
We stood together, staring into each other’s eyes with a familiarity we hadn’t earned. It was the type of study an artist would do, the appreciation of beauty in all of its forms and nuances.
“Marc Santos.” He held out his hand.
I reached out and grasped it. The heat of his skin tingled against mine. “Vanessa Yu.”
“Are you planning to go back to the fountain?”
I nodded. “Yes, it’s my first day out and I wanted to break in my sketchbook.”
Marc pulled his canvas messenger bag open to reveal numerous sketchpads and notebooks along with art supplies. Beauty, indeed. My aunt and her clairvoyance seemed to have outdone themselves. If Aunt Evelyn and Madam Fong ever decided to join forces, nothing could stop them.
“You’re an artist?” I asked.
“No,” he replied with a boyish grin. “Not quite.”
“I’m an amateur artist and an accountant back home.”
“We have the amateur artist part in common,” he replied. “As for my career, how about you guess? You have unlimited chances.”
I bit my lower lip. Unlimited chances meant he wanted to spend more time with me.
“Deal.”
We made our way back to the fountain. I took my task seriously and began peppering him with questions. “Is your job something you can tell your grandmother about and she’d approve?”