Juliet spent the next two days in Paris checking in with Avery between therapy sessions that dealt with both her physical and psychological issues. She did her best to cheer up her friend by smuggling in meals from her favorite bistros and visiting the huge department store, Galleries Lafayette, in search of a bottle of Avery’s favorite perfume, along with a pretty nightgown to replace the unflattering hospital smock.
Meanwhile, Juliet struggled to keep the heating system in the attic apartment under control. It was either stifling or plunging into temperatures that were chilly-to-frigid by dawn’s light. On the fifth day of Juliet’s visit, Avery returned to her hospital room, exhausted from rehab, and slept for four hours, straight. After an hour waiting for her to wake up, Juliet slipped out of her room and took the metro to the stop nearest the Quai Voltaire. She soon found her way to Sennelier’s art supply shop.
As she rounded the corner onto the street fronting the Seine near the Pont du Carrousel, a little gasp escaped her lips. Sennelier’s storefront rose before her in all its turquoise and gold painted splendor. The colorful front facade dazzled the eye with tall windows crowded with a rainbow of wares: chalks, packages of pastels, tubes of oils, tins of watercolors, paint brushes, and a number of fanciful canvases showing the range of colors to be purchased within its walls.
To Juliet’s great relief, the fourth-generation proprietor, Sophie Sennelier, assisted her with her purchases of an array of pencils, pastels, a small watercolor set, and a good-sized sketch book—all of which Juliet was able to fit in her tote bag as the two women spoke a combination of French and English.
That afternoon, after bringing lunch to Avery and watching her fall asleep, Juliet took her new art supplies to the green spaces of nearby Bois de Boulogne where she sketched for an hour and then made a side trip to see the iconic Arc de Triomphe. The next day she followed the same routine: she lunched with Avery in her hospital room and then found her way to Parc Monceau, an eighteenth-century gated green space surrounded by opulent mansions studded with belle époque monuments of prominent French writers and musicians. Everywhere she looked, there was one more breathtaking sight after another, and she could only imagine what the magnificent park would look like in the blush of spring. In contrast, the ubiquitous guards brandishing guns everywhere reminded her that the beauty of Paris had probably been altered forever.
Almost as a kind of protest, Juliet braved the crowds in the later afternoon and took the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Gazing down, she was startled to be able to spot Finn’s barge floating serenely in the Seine on the river opposite.
She even ventured into the 10th Arrondissement, wanting—yet fearful—to pay her respects to a particular scene of the November attacks, Le Petit Cambodge. The air was biting when she walked out of the Goncourt metro stop. She was taken aback to see that the restaurant where Avery and Jean-Pierre had been shot was a modest neighborhood eatery literally across the street from the St. Louis Hospital. Avery had described the crush of ambulances crowding the entrance leading to the emergency ward, a jam-up that had prompted her to beg the drivers to take her to the American Hospital, instead.
Now, Juliet could only gaze at the restaurant’s boarded-up windows and cordoned-off sidewalk that was piled high with bouquets of flowers, candles, and all manner of tributes to the diners and staff who had suffered such grievous losses. Parisians, bundled against the cold, approached in small groups to add to the offerings. Juliet stood frozen in place, her own arms filled with a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses that she’d bought at a flower shop en route. A well of emotion clogged her throat as thoughts filled her mind of Avery, pale in her bed, and Jean-Pierre, hooked to a ventilator in the sterile confines of the ICU. Then she considered the dead that were being buried this very day, and the other 368 wounded whose lives had been shattered on November 13th.
Why? Why! her heart cried out.
No answers came as she approached a spot to lay her flowery memorial beside the others. Her eyes blurred with tears, she slowly turned her back on the display and sought out the nearest park. Despite the November chill, sketching outdoors had the effect of calming Juliet’s turbulent thoughts and the simmering fear whenever she walked on public streets or entered a shadowed metro station where terrorists might strike again.
On November 20th, the one-week anniversary of the attacks, Juliet called to speak to Jamie in person in the wake of a series of texts that grew increasingly insistent. On the phone, his voice conveyed his obvious anxiety to know specifics of Avery’s condition.
“She’s doing better each day,” Juliet reported, adding, “and she’s really touched that you’ve been sending flowers and gifts so often. The doctors have told her that eventually she’ll be able to paint again and continue at L’École.”
“That’s such great news!” Jamie exclaimed. “Can she talk on the phone yet?”
“She’s still pretty fragile... and the nurses say I’m the only person they’ll let in for the moment. But seriously, bro, she did want me to tell you how much she appreciates everything you’ve had delivered to her hospital room.”
“What about her parents? Have they come over?”
“I don’t think they know anything.” Juliet paused. “She didn’t even want me to email them about what’s happened.”
“Really? That’s crazy.”
“That’s Avery.” Changing the subject, Juliet asked, “So how’s work?”
“Same old same old,” Jamie replied, his voice taking on an exasperated tone. “You better prepare yourself for a call from Brad any minute now, demanding to know when his design director is gonna return home. Your week is up, he said when I got to work today.”
“Has he asked about how Avery’s doing?” She already anticipated his answer.
“Not once.”
After her call to Jamie, Juliet headed back to the hospital. Twenty feet from Avery’s door she was flagged down by the friendly nurse she’d met on the ward the first day she arrived.
“I have some sad news...” the woman began.
Juliet sucked in a breath and shot a worried glance toward Room 203. “What’s wrong? Is Avery okay?”
“No, no, it’s not her.” The nurse paused and placed her hand lightly on Juliet’s arm, her expression melancholy. “It’s her friend Jean-Pierre. He died about an hour ago.”
“Oh, no!” wailed Juliet softly, her eyes instantly filling with tears.
“As you probably know, he was declared brain dead earlier this week and, this morning, his family gave permission to turn off the ventilator.”
“Oh, dear God...”
The nurse nodded sympathetically, adding, “He slipped away a few hours afterward.”
Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, Juliet murmured, “Does Avery know yet?”
A voice behind her said, “We were waiting for you to return to the hospital before we told her.”
Juliet whirled in place. Finn Deschanel had been sitting unnoticed in a nearby chair, awaiting her arrival. His aunt, Claudine, was also there, although she had remained seated, her face drawn and hollowed-eyed, as if she hadn’t been to sleep for days.
Glancing from one Deschanel to the other, Juliet was immediately consumed with anxiety, wondering aloud how Avery would react to this tragic turn of events.
“And the poor Grenelles,” she added, her voice wavering. “They must be just devastated.”
Nodding, Claudine slowly rose from her chair. “They still haven’t left the ICU waiting room. They wanted to know if they could visit Avery and tell her about their son’s passing themselves.”
* * *
Juliet would never forget the scene of Jean-Pierre’s parents and grandmother entering Avery’s room and encircling her hospital bed shortly after Finn had walked in and taken the lead in breaking the news.
Avery remained silent, her hands convulsively clutching the turned-down sheet. When the Grenelle family came to stand near the head of the bed, Jean-Pierre’s grandmother spoke slowly in French so Avery and Juliet would be sure to understand.
“We know you were a good friend to him as well,” she began, her words etched in sorrow. “We’re proud that he gave his life trying to save yours. It gives some meaning to the terrible way he died.”
Avery shook her head from side to side, her lips twisted, her fists pounding the bedcovers. “But I’m to blame!” she cried. “I invited him to that restaurant because it was cheap as well as good. I insisted we come to this hospital because of the pile-up of ambulances at St. Louis.” By this time, tears bathed her cheeks. “And because of all that, it probably meant he didn’t get the help he needed quickly enough and—”
Finn stepped forward and interrupted in rapid English.
“There was nothing that could have been done,” he insisted in a firm but gentle tone. “It could have happened at any restaurant in Paris. The doctors have told the family that Jean-Pierre received such fatal wounds when he was shot that he was virtually brain dead within seconds of the assault. It wouldn’t have made any difference what hospital he was brought to.” He gently placed a hand on her good shoulder, but his words sounded almost stern. “This is survivor’s guilt talking, Avery,” he said urgently. “If you truly want to help his family, let the Grenelles know you appreciate their coming here. Let them see you’re grateful for the sacrifice Jean-Pierre made to save your life.”
Juliet felt Avery’s tortured glance seeking hers and she nodded encouragingly through her own tears. Avery shifted her gaze to Eloise Grenelle and sought her hand. In French she whispered, “Madam, I will never forget Jean-Pierre and how he saved my life.” Her eyes beseeched Jean-Pierre’s parents. “I will never forget how sweet your son was to me from my first day in class. I will never forget. Never!”
And then Avery covered her face with her hands, shoulders heaving, and began to cry deep, wrenching sobs while the rest of those in the room gathered close, arms around each others’ waists, all with tears streaming from their eyes.
Except for Finn, Juliet noted. He was dry-eyed, but she could see the pain emanating in his expression like a heat shield reentering space.
The first one able to speak coherently was Claudine. After a rapid dialogue in French with her friend Eloise, she said in English to Finn, “I suggest you and Pierre go, now, to make arrangements for the funeral. Juliet and I, if she’s agreeable, will accompany Jean-Pierre’s mother and grandmother back to my apartment to make a meal.”
Avery raised her head and Juliet knew instantly she couldn’t leave her. Before she could voice her concern, Claudine moved closer to the bed.
“If I can get permission, Avery, do you think you feel well enough to spend an evening resting on my couch? My building has an elevator and we can take you by taxi and bring along a wheel chair to transport you back and forth.”
Avery hesitated and then nodded. “I walked the length of a corridor today during PT,” she said, reaching for a tissue to mop her eyes.
“You did?” Juliet said, amazed. Then she sobered, “But look, you’ve had a big shock. If you don’t feel up to it, I’m happy to keep you company here, and—”
“I want to go!” Avery cried. “I want to be with you all.”
Claudine rang for the nurse and insisted a call be made to Avery’s doctor, wrangling permission for his patient to spend a few hours in the bosom of her late friend’s family.
“The doctor thought it would be the best medicine,” whispered the kindly nurse who’d remained in the room. “Especially since Ms. Evans was able to walk on her own today. A week or two more, and she’ll be ready to go home and hopefully make a full recovery in six months’ time.”
Juliet felt her breath catch. Six months... Who’s going to take care of her when I leave?
And leave fairly soon she knew she must, given Jamie’s warning on the phone earlier today that Brad would soon demand she return to San Francisco—or else.
* * *
Juliet had never seen anything quite as glamorous as Claudine Deschanel’s apartment on Rue Jacob. Once past the outsized carved wooden door that faced the street, the entryway made her think she was entering a palace, with its ivory marble statuary, Corinthian columns flush with large, white stone block walls. Limestone flooring led to a brass elevator that looked nothing so much as a giant birdcage that rose at a stately speed to Claudine’s third-floor residence and opened into a black and white square-tiled foyer.
“Welcome, my darlings,” Claudine greeted them in a hushed voice. She flung her arms wide displaying butterfly silk sleeves set into a wildly colored floor-length caftan that Juliet speculated might have been a Rudi Gernreich original. Her fingers and wrists flashed with beautiful jewelry, including an arresting emerald and diamond ring that Juliet couldn’t help but note with silent admiration.
The walls of Claudine’s flat were painted a lush, butter yellow with matching silk drapes that hung from twelve-foot windows. Three crystal chandeliers dangled from a mammoth molded ceiling overhead, the curved surface replete with painted angels and cherubs gamboling across a robin’s egg blue sky.
Claudine, Eloise Grenelle, and Avery had departed the hospital in the first taxi summoned, and by the time Juliet, Jean-Pierre’s mother, and sister Colette arrived, Avery had been installed on a damask-covered Louis XVI couch upholstered in the same sky blue shade as the ceiling. A cream-colored cashmere throw was tucked over the length of the patient’s body and she appeared half asleep.
“Eloise is in the kitchen laying out the charcuterie,” Claudine announced in a low voice, describing the array of sliced meats and sausage, small, sweet pickles and radishes that would tempt them all, once Finn and Pierre returned from finalizing funeral arrangements. She took their coats and then directed briskly, “Juliet, dear, I still could use help arranging the vegetable platter and slicing the baguettes and some cheese.” She glanced at Avery, now deeply asleep.
By the time Finn and Pierre arrived everyone was back in the grand salon sipping cups of strong, black tea laced with lemon and honey, including Avery sitting up in a wheel chair brought from the hospital. Claudine, still clearly in charge, gathered the somber group around her elegant dining room table with its matching, highly polished mahogany chairs.
After the assembled ate their meal in near silence, she raised a glass of champagne like the ones that glittered at each place setting. “In French or English,” she urged, “let us each relate a fond memory we have of darling Jean-Pierre... and raise a toast.”
In grief-laced tones, Eloise spoke of her grandson’s delight as a little boy visiting her on the barge and taking naps in the pilothouse before it was converted into an apartment as a way of supplementing her income after Jean-Pierre’s grandfather died.
J-P’s father also choked up when it was his turn to speak, describing his son’s first attempts at drawing, noting that by six or seven years old, the parents knew for a certainty that he would one day become an accomplished artist.
“It’s hard to believe he showed such talent at that age,” he murmured in English for the benefit of the Americans present, “but what I tell you is true.”
When all eyes turned to Pierre’s wife, she merely shook her head and waved her hand in the air, unable to speak.
Finn paused and then raised his glass of sparkling water.
“Jean-Pierre possessed an almost instinctive empathy for people and the world around him.” A wry smile formed on his lips. “He must have been informed something about who his grandmother’s new tenant was on the barge. He always waved hello, and if he saw me sitting on deck, reading as I did most of last summer, he’d bring by a book he thought I might enjoy. And he never criticized my laboring French.”
For a moment, a ripple of laughter relieved the mournful atmosphere that mantled the dining room.
Avery spoke next, telling once more of Jean-Pierre’s befriending her at art school so “just like with Finn, he could improve his English and me my French, plus he truly had the desire to befriend people.”
Glancing sideways, Juliet noticed tears once again beginning to fill Avery’s eyes.
“He was eight years younger than I am,” Avery related softly in French. “He was kind of like the little brother I always wanted... and now, because I treated him to dinner at that restaurant as a thank-you for all the nice things he’d done for me, he’s—”
Juliet leaned over and gingerly rubbed her friend’s good shoulder. “Avery, what has happened is nobody’s fault but the terrorists!”
Finn rose abruptly from his chair, startling the assembled. “Yes, it’s the terrorists,” he said, his hands fisted at his sides, “but let’s not forget the actions of certain, heartless opportunists, a bunch of blind followers, plus the technology and propaganda that so easily twists minds.”
A silence fell, then, and before anyone could say anything else, Claudine asked quickly if Juliet would come to the kitchen with her to help her fetch the coffee.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, rising from her chair, but not before she felt a flush fanning across her cheeks. All she could conclude was that Finn must truly harbor a deep-seated revulsion for the kind of violent videos her brother’s company had developed and spread throughout the world, including, possibly, some of the world’s terrorists. She had been knee-deep in that world, and he probably despised her for it.
Claudine suddenly barked another order: “Finn, you will please clear the table, and everyone else, finish your champagne.”
Juliet stumbled into Claudine’s white-tiled kitchen with its marbled-topped counters and enormous stove with six burners that once must have been commanded by a chef and an entire domestic staff. Neither she nor Finn spoke while she arranged delicate porcelain demitasse cups and saucers at the same time Finn made several trips in and out of the dining room, carrying the dishes, as commanded by their hostess. Juliet swallowed hard and concentrated on balancing a tray with the cups and a large, silver coffeepot, insisting on taking it without assistance into the dining room.
In the time they’d all left the hospital and gathered for their meal, Claudine had somehow obtained a large apple tart with a glaze that glistened under the light of the mammoth chandelier hanging above the long dining table. With practiced efficiency, she began to cut generous slices of the confection, topped with Chantilly cream. Avery only picked at the magnificent dessert with her fork and Juliet sensed it was time to take her back to the hospital before she keeled over from both physical and emotional exhaustion—feelings Juliet was experiencing herself.
Fifteen minutes later, Finn escorted the two women downstairs. He hailed a taxi, insisting he escort them back to Neuilly-sur-Seine to see Avery and her borrowed wheelchair safely to the hospital.
“But what about your MG?” Juliet protested.
“I’ll come get it later. Let’s get you both into this taxi.”
His earlier remark about technology and those involved in it playing a role in the recent attacks continued to gnaw at Juliet and she wished he would let her handle Avery on her own. Once the patient was settled in the taxi and the chair tucked into the trunk, Juliet turned to Finn. “Look, we’ll be fine. There’s absolutely no need for you to come, too.”
“I’m coming,” he said shortly. “Get in. I’ll ride in front with the driver.”
Avery dozed while Juliet stared silently out the window during the drive back across Paris to the outskirts of the city. By this hour, the streets of Neuilly were deserted as the taxi chugged up the ramp and pulled to a stop in front of the hospital entrance. Finn gently took hold of Avery’s good arm and eased her into the waiting wheelchair.
Juliet said, “I can take it from here.” She nodded in the direction of the taxi, its motor still running. “Better grab the cab before it takes off.”
“I’ll see you home, too,” he said.
She shook her head. “You’ve had an exhausting day. I’ll get Avery upstairs and take the metro back to her apartment. No problem.”
Finn seemed surprised at her suggestion. Without further comment, he walked them both into the hospital lobby, hailed an orderly to help, and then bid them goodnight. Juliet saw out of the corner of her eye that he’d retreated outside and stood by the taxi, watching. As Avery was wheeled toward the elevators with Juliet trailing behind, she sensed Finn’s following stare on her back. It didn’t take long before Avery was settled into bed, extracting from Juliet a promise to see if she could be released soon.
“Tell the nurses and doctors how well I did tonight,” she said, her eyes drooping as soon as her head touched the pillow. “I want to get out of here.”
And within minutes, Juliet could tell that Avery was fast asleep.
* * *
“Hey, Ms. California... want a lift?”
Juliet halted in her tracks just outside the hospital’s revolving door, sending cold night air swirling about her ankles.
“Finn! What are you doing here? I thought—”
“You don’t think I’d let you take the metro this late at night after the kind of day we both had?”
She peered at the taxi still parked at the curb. “The meter’s been running all this time?” she asked, mildly horrified.
“Right, so get in,” he commanded.
With Finn sitting beside her in the back seat, they rode along in silence for several blocks. Finn finally spoke first. “You were upset by what I said at Claudine’s, weren’t you? About the blame for what happened here being partly due to the actions of certain people and the technology they used?”
Juliet stared at Finn across the expanse of the cab’s interior, silenced by the truth of his words. When she made no reply, he said, “I thought about it while you coolly said your goodbyes at Claudine’s, and again, just now, and took Avery upstairs. I realized that you thought I was referring to you and everyone at your brother’s company, didn’t you?”
“Well, weren’t you?” A well of emotion had begun to fill her chest.
“I was referring to defense contractors and their lobbyists. To politicians, who so easily vote to go to war. To myself. To everything I’ve been a part of. Everything our Brave New World is now a part of. And yes,” he admitted, “I was thinking of your brother, Brad.”
Juliet continued to stare at Finn, her mind full of colliding thoughts about the choices she’d made and how earnestly the man sitting next to her was trying to tell the truth about himself. How the horror of the last days had exploded in everyone’s lives.
All of it.
Finn gently reached across the space that separated them and took her hand, his touch instantly causing tears to rim her eyes as they had on and off all day since learning of Jean-Pierre’s death.
“I waited for you because I wanted to see you safely home, Juliet. This whole thing has been horrible for everyone, including you. And I’m so sorry if you misunderstood my words at dinner. I meant myself,” he repeated, “not you”
“Oh, Finn,” she said, her voice sounding strangled even to her own ears. “There’s no way to untangle all this. It’s just... so... sad. It’s so awful and heartbreaking. And I feel... I guess I feel this bereft because there doesn’t seem any way to... to fix any of it.”
“No one person can fix this.” His thumb gently strafed the palm of her hand that he had continued to hold. “All we can try to do is fix ourselves in whatever ways are needed.”
“But I guess I’m just like you and Avery,” she said between gulps for air. “I feel responsible. What about the unintended consequences of everything I’ve done in the last five years? How could I have not predicted the ultimate outcome of millions of people—and especially the kids—playing ugly video war games that Brad and I and the rest of us produced? How could I not have spoken up more strongly in all those meetings I attended that the explicit packaging I’d designed was, itself, an incitement to violence and hatred? I reacted to what you said at Claudine’s because I do feel guilty that the Thayer family made the act of killing humans a lucrative sporting event! There’s an entire generation who are totally de-sensitized to what the real thing is actually like. They don’t wear a uniform or serve their country. They don’t see the carnage. They just play games!”
“You didn’t do this all by yourself,” he said, holding her hand more firmly.
“I know... but it all feels so... broken.”
Juliet fought the great, heaving sobs welling up in her chest. The next thing she knew, Finn had pulled her against his chest and she was conscious of her tears spilling all over the front of his leather jacket.
“Ah, Juliet...”
After a few minutes, her shoulders still heaving, she drew away.
“I-I can’t even blame this meltdown on jet-lag,” she said, staring into her lap.
“Blame it on... everything.” By this time, the taxi had come to a halt in front of Avery’s flat. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
Home? Where was home? She fought another wave of emotion.
Meanwhile, Finn leaned back in his seat, ignoring the running meter.
“Look, Juliet, we have to step back and take in the big picture. At least, that’s what I’m trying to do. What happened to Jean-Pierre and Avery are just two examples of the unintended consequences of a million tiny decisions we all made that nobody wants to think about, or take responsibility for. At least, you and I are considering what we, personally, brought to this chamber of horrors. You may find this hard to believe, but I have real confidence we can both determine from here on out the paths that work for us in this life. At least, that’s my goal.”
“I hope you’re right,” Juliet murmured, looking out the window at the forbidding door that guarded the entrance to Avery’s garret at the top of the building.
Finn noticed her glance and rested his hand on the taxi’s door handle.
“By the way...” He titled his head and squinted at her. “How’re you doing with that damned heating system up there?”
Juliet rolled her eyes and prepared to get out of the taxi. “On a good day? Comme si, comme ça.”
“Well, that’s not very encouraging.”
“At night I think the heat switches off in the entire building.”
“Probably only in the former maids’ rooms and not in the rest of this swanky place,” he wagered. “How cold, exactly, is it, would you say?”
Juliet hesitated. “Forty... forty-five degrees, maybe.”
“Merde!” Continuing in French, he told the taxi driver, whose meter had been running for at least an hour since they’d left Claudine’s, to wait right there. “The young lady has to go upstairs to get her things. Then, we’re going back to Rue Jacob where my car is parked.” To Juliet, he said, “You’re sleeping on the barge, no arguments.” He gave her a stern glance. “Now, go get your suitcase and I’ll wait right here. I’d help you, but I don’t want to lose this cab.”