Beginning to turn back, I noticed the red threads. Some were thin, but bursting with energy, while others were heavy and soft with sporadic knots. No strand seemed the same. They wrapped me in their cocoon.
My heart rate slowed. The lights turned green. The cat’s cradle moved forward. I stepped off the curb and into the road.
Each thread willed me forward. My steps became steadier as I focused on them.
On the other side, they untied themselves as the couples dispersed down the street.
I exhaled. I had made it unscathed. I was going to be fine.
Lost in thought, I rounded the corner and gasped when I spotted Luc’s van parked by the bakery. Curiosity spurred my feet forward despite my still-sore hip. I stopped short; I didn’t want to interrupt whatever was happening inside. Pressing myself close to the edge of the window frame, I attempted to blend in with painted cats on the glass.
Luc and Ines stood across from each other. A poppy-red thread glowed and wound its way between them, linking both of their hearts. I didn’t need to know what they were saying—sparkling gold dust blazed in the air with their every touch. Ines reached across the counter, tugging on Luc’s collar, and pulled him tight for an intimate kiss.
I looked away and started to cry. Ines achieved her romance without compromising on the terms of her happiness. I shared in their joy. Just as I knew Ines and Luc belonged together, I was convinced that Aunt Evelyn and Girard also did.
Luc emerged from the bakery light of step, a whistle teasing his lips. He noticed my presence after loading his van.
“You were right,” he said. He sounded like a man freed from a heavy burden. Luc’s thread floated in the air, still connected to Ines inside. “I spoke with my parents. They aren’t pleased, but that is my problem to fix.”
“What made you decide to choose Ines?”
“When I realized my parents had put their needs over mine. They didn’t care about what I wanted. They never asked me.” He leaned against the side panel. “This is my life. I had to make a choice.”
“Then you are happy?” I asked.
He smiled, elation bathing his face. “The happiest I’ve ever been. I love her. Today was the first day I said it aloud, to myself, to my parents, to her, and to the world.”
“If you had waited longer, you would have lost her.”
He gave a rueful nod before hopping into the driver’s seat.
Luc’s happiness banished my concerns. He reminded me that the rewards were far greater than I could hope for. Though his situation differed from Girard’s, the goal remained the same. There could be no greater comfort or reward than reciprocated love.
I waved goodbye and headed inside.
Ines stood by the counter refilling a glass platter of wafer cookies. A not-so-secret smile stretched across her lips. She handed me one. “Tuiles aux amandes.”
The warm, paper-thin, curved golden cookie was decorated with slivers of almonds. The shape reminded me of a can of stackable potato chips from back home. “I saw Luc drop by.”
“He did.” Her smile dripped with smugness and satisfaction. “He declared his love and chose me. And not a moment too soon.”
I laughed before biting into the sweet treat. The combination of almonds and sugar along with the crisp texture made them irresistible, and the smell was intoxicating. If I could bottle the aromas of Ines’s bakery and bring them back home with me, I would.
She began packing the wafers into a box. “How is your aunt doing? Maman wanted me to ask. She’s quite worried about her. Fighting the boycott isn’t going well. All this could be cleared with one word from Monsieur Renaud, but he won’t unless compelled.”
“And that’s what I’m planning to do.” I resisted the urge to beg for another delicious cookie. “I have a meeting with him in an hour.”
“How did you manage that?” Ines asked. “My bartender friend mentioned that Monsieur Renaud was making himself unavailable to local businesses. He hasn’t done that before. For years, he ran a mentorship program for fledgling entrepreneurs. My parents attended. The more I think about it, the more puzzled I get. He is known to be a decent man, yet this boycott is such an indecent act.”
“Do you think he might not know it’s happening? Is this possible?”
“Anything is possible.” Ines handed me the sealed box of tuiles aux amandes in a paper bag and another envelope from Marc.
“I guess I should ask him.”
Forty-Three
My aunt was cleaning a teapot when I walked in. Her wardrobe was, again, dark gray. Gone were the romantic and cheery pastels she had been known for all my life. A severe, high-necked dress was paired with a charcoal shawl. With her upswept hair, she appeared like a character in a gothic novel, the stern heroine standing against an isolated rain-soaked English country house.
“Good morning, Auntie. I brought almond wafer cookies that look like potato chips.” I set the bag on the counter. “How are you?”
“Fine, I’m fine.” Her reply convinced no one. The weariness in her voice implied another night of restless sleep. “What are you up to today?”
“Oh, seeing more of the city. There’s still so much I haven’t explored or eaten. I intend to come home with enough memories to sustain me until I visit you again.”
She nodded her head, but I doubted that she heard me. Her dark eyes gazed into the distance as if she were lost in a waking dream. The haunting melody returned, settling in as a low hum from her lips.
“Call me if you need anything,” I said. “I’ll be back later this afternoon.” Hopefully, with good news.
“Have a good time, dearest,” she replied as I walked out the door.
I walked to the courtyard doors, punched in the code, and climbed the stairs. My aunt’s unhappiness had encroached upon mine, such that I decided to leave Marc’s envelope sealed. He wasn’t going anywhere, and I needed to focus on the task before me.
* * *
* * *
As I made my way toward Le Papillon Bleu, I rehearsed what I needed to say to Monsieur Renaud. While I didn’t fear being flustered, I was concerned with the structure of my argument, that reminding Girard of his past love for my aunt might not be enough. I had no other avenues or angles. If I was unable to convince him of my aunt’s affections, she would be worse off. Her feelings would be exposed to the man who could do the most damage.
Personal history was a tricky, mercurial narrative. Two people might be present at the same event, but their recollection differed based on emotions, biases, and attention to specific details. Family gatherings were often a forum to demonstrate and debate how past events had unfolded. There was never an impartial judge or a shortage of opinions.