Rachael closed the door to her room at the Maison Lutetia, hobbled to the bed, and peeled off her shoes. Her feet looked as though they’d been crushed in a vice. Both heels were blistered, the balls red and tender. But it was a relief to be back in the room and alone. The cushy carpet and heavy curtains muted every sound, even the rustle of her skirt as she dropped the damp red dress on the ground. She walked stiffly to the bathroom and ran three inches of water into the tub, swirling in a tiny bottle of bath salts. Then, in her underwear, she sat on the edge and soaked her feet.
The scene in the boat with Matthew replayed itself over and over. He still loved her. He didn’t love Bonnie. He was making a mistake.
But what did that mean?
She didn’t know.
He didn’t even know.
Rachael could imagine what her mother would say. That it wasn’t her place to intervene between two people, however unhappy they might appear to be. And to take care, because Matthew hadn’t seen her in years, which meant he could only be in love with an idea of her. The last time he’d truly known her, he’d broken it off.
Rachael argued back. She couldn’t bear the idea of his remaining trapped in his life in Sydney. The anguish on his face when he’d talked about it, as if all the fears he’d confided in her years ago—of being stuck on the big-city career treadmill—had come true. And the solution was so obviously simple. He had to leave Sydney and come home.
Then time truly would have turned back, and she—they—would have everything they were meant to.
When the guests returned from the Chalet des Îles before midnight, Rachael had a momentary surge of hope when a furtive tapping sounded on the door.
She found Beverley on the other side.
“You never came back to dinner,” Bev said. “Are you ill? Was it the fish? Bernie said the fish tasted funny.”
“I’m fine,” Rachael said.
“Because I’m happy to organize the doctor. Or if you need to talk to anyone, I’m always at the ready.”
“Thanks, Bev. I’m just going to get some sleep.”
Rachael closed the door only to hear another knock a minute later. This time Sammy stood on the threshold, shoes in hand, brow wrinkled in concern.
“What happened to you? I looked everywhere. I was so worried!”
“I couldn’t watch any more,” Rachael said, guilt swimming up at the anguish on Sammy’s face. “I had to get away.”
“So you just left the party? What, did you swim across the lake?”
“I took a rowboat.”
Sammy clapped a hand over her mouth, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Rachael.” She shook her head. “I almost had security start a full search.”
Rachael paled. “You didn’t.”
“No. Against my better judgment. There were so many security guys around I thought nothing bad could have happened. I figured you didn’t want to be found. Then I couldn’t see Matthew for a while and . . .” She heaved a sigh.
“And what?” Rachael asked, holding her breath.
“Let’s not worry about it. It’s late.”
“Wait, you wanted to talk to me about something?”
“Later,” Sammy said, turning for her room.
* * *
The next morning, Rachael woke early in a state of nervous energy. She waited in her room, obsessively spot-cleaning and packing the dresses she’d already worn, and staring at the black Audrey Hepburn–inspired dress she’d kept for the wedding ceremony, wondering what to do with it. She wasn’t usually superstitious, but would it be tempting fate to pack it too?
Her mother would have laughed at such nonsense. Rachael ironed the dress again, carefully replaced the plastic hanging bag, and hung it in the wardrobe.
Finally, desperate to talk to someone and not wanting it to be Sammy, she picked up the room phone.
“Sorry if I woke you,” she said as Tess answered, sounding groggy.
“It’s three in the afternoon,” her sister replied. “I was sneaking a nap while the baby’s asleep. Why are you so breathless?”
“I’ve got a problem,” Rachael began, and then paused because what could she say? She couldn’t mention Matthew. “I met this guy.”
“Hallelujah. I bet he’s some dark, handsome Italian.”
“Well, sort of . . . as it turns out.”
Tess snorted. “And you wanted to come home early. What’s the problem? His eyes too dreamy?”
“I’m just not . . . sure about it. I mean, this is only one week. What happens next?”
“What do you want to happen?”
Rachael threw up her hand. “I don’t know!”
Her whole life for the last ten years had been reactive, driven by what her mother needed, what the farm needed, in that order. Now everyone kept asking her what she wanted like it was the easiest thing.
Tess sighed. “Look, if a man’s interested, he’ll let you know. At least, he will if he’s got any backbone. So if you don’t like him, don’t string him along. Be honest. You should know if you like him or not.”
When Rachael put down the phone, all she could think was, what if the man can’t let you know? Tess hadn’t been any help at all.
At eight forty-five, she could wait no longer. She emerged from her room in jeans and a checked shirt and padded downstairs. The lobby was empty; she assumed the guests must be sleeping off last night’s excesses. Everything was as it had been yesterday: the rich red and wood-paneled walls, the potted palms, the gold-framed portraits, the same scent of lemon and rosemary and polishing wax. It was surreal when the world had moved so much inside Rachael’s head.
When she heard a man’s voice, Rachael snuck across the empty lobby and peeked into the salon. There, she found Bernie and Beverley sitting across from each other on the plush leather sofas, two glasses of orange juice between them. Bernie was gesturing expansively, his juice nearly finished, and while Bev had her arms folded and hadn’t touched her glass, she was nodding as he spoke. Rachael crept away before she was seen, wondering what they could be talking about.
Only a few tables were occupied in the dining room, none with Matthew. She should check the gym.
She was just heading for the stairs when a red-jacketed attendant opened the front door and a man came striding through. Rachael’s chest burst. Matthew!
No, wait, it wasn’t. It was Antonio.
The antique hall clock showed five minutes to nine. Panic rushed through Rachael like icy water. She’d forgotten all about agreeing to meet him.
“Good morning,” he said with a broad smile. “Ready for the Louvre?”
“Um, I’m not sure I can go,” she said quickly.
“Oh?” Clear disappointment in his voice. When she couldn’t form an excuse, he said, “Pity. I was going to tempt you with an opportunity you won’t want to miss.”
“What do you mean?”
“A chance to fulfill your journalistic aspirations. Are you interested?”
Rachael just stood there stupidly. What could she say? I’m waiting here in the hope that my former lover will turn up and tell me his wedding’s off and he wants to run away with me. She kicked herself. She could have just said she wasn’t feeling well.
Antonio was offering his arm. Rachael saw no choice but to take it. The only thing she could think to do before she left was to ask the hotel desk to tell Sammy—or anyone else who was looking for her—that she would be at the Louvre.
* * *
They left the metro at Monnaie de Paris, Antonio explaining that this way they could walk across the river. Rachael said nothing. They emerged under a broiling sky the color and texture of her thoughts, and walked across the Pont Neuf in silence. Antonio didn’t try to take her hand. The wet pavements and leaden sky made the city’s buildings seem more luminous, and the shaggy coat of lovers’ locks at the midbridge more ominous. Jewel-like raindrops hung on every symbolic declaration of undying love. Rachael averted her eyes.
Finally, after they’d walked the last block along the Seine, crossed the street to the Louvre, and reached the inner courtyard, Antonio faced her.
“Something’s up,” he said. “I missed you last night after the dinner.”
His face was so concerned, Rachael took pity on him.
“It wasn’t you. I just went home early.”
“But you have something on your mind.”
The Louvre’s glass pyramid was a perfect mirror for the soft gray and white sky. The palatial building that wrapped around it was heavy stone. The two structures were completely different in time and architecture and yet a perfect marriage of opposites: weight and lightness, old and new. Rachael wanted to be free from the tumble of thoughts inside her head so she could appreciate it. She despaired that Matthew had simultaneously provided the opportunity to see such things and taken her ability to enjoy them.
“Yes,” she said to Antonio. “I have a problem I’m thinking about.”
“Ah. Is it deciding whether to move to Paris, or London, or New York? Because I can understand how that would be difficult. Personally I vote for New York, but only if Paris is out.”
Rachael laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. They’re all good bases for a journalist.” He paused. “Can I tell you about this opportunity now?”
Rachael stiffened, abruptly fearful. She didn’t know if she could handle anything else at the moment. “What is it?”
“A job. But don’t look so worried,” he said, as if he could sense her tension. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, you wanted to see the Louvre.”
After they’d cleared security and stepped inside, Rachael did, temporarily, forget Matthew and the wedding and every disappointment she had ever endured. The famous pyramid soared over her head, breaking the daylight into compartments and creating a space that seemed vast for something underground. A stairway spiraled down into the sunken foyer, as though the museum was paying homage to an ancient tomb. The air was thick with discovery, and despite the milling crowd, there wasn’t even a queue for tickets.
When Antonio pulled Rachael forward, she squeezed his hand with genuine excitement.
“Are you desperate to see something in particular?” he asked. “Or can I show you the most interesting piece here?”
“Is it the Mona Lisa?” Rachael scanned the gallery entrances, wondering where to go first.
“I’m very glad to hear you have an appetite for Italian artists,” Antonio said, with a slow smile that made Rachael laugh. “And Leonardo was a genius, but no, nothing so clichéd.”
“Okay, what then?”
“This way.” He led her into a wing, through a series of wide hallways and up a long flight of palatial stone stairs, then another, and another. Each time they reached a landing, Rachael glimpsed galleries to each side holding marble statues, glass cases of vases, tapestries and ornate furniture, but Antonio kept climbing. Finally, on the second floor, they turned into a narrow gallery crammed with paintings. Antonio stopped before a gold frame.
“There,” he said simply.
The painting was of a doorway, with checkered tiles outside and terra-cotta ones inside. At first, the picture seemed to show nothing—there was no person or animal in view. A broom was propped outside the door, and a length of cloth hung from a peg alongside it. The door was ajar, showing the room beyond, but the room was empty.
Rachael glanced at Antonio. He was rapt in the picture. She must be missing something. She looked again.
First she noticed the keys: an old skeleton-type key stuck out from the painted door’s lock, and others hung below from the iron ring. One of the old sheds on the farm had a key like that, and after rain the doorframe would shift and the lock would jam. She imagined the feel of the smooth metal shank in her hand, the weight as she lifted the door to relieve the pressure, the thunk as the key finally turned. At home, that key was left permanently in the lock. But why were the keys in the door in the painting?
Next, she saw a pair of yellow slippers, discarded right on the threshold of the doorway. Her mother would have ranted about them being a trip hazard. Rachael had been messy as a child and she remembered the remonstrations. That had all changed the first time her mother had tripped after her diagnosis. Now, Rachael tucked all her shoes away and kept the floors clear.
Other details sprang out. A book and a lit candlestick on a table inside the room. A painting on the interior wall showing two figures. A chair, but no other visible furniture. She searched, flummoxed, unable to fix the purpose of the room. Was it a bedroom? A dining room? Where was the woman who had left behind her shoes and candle and keys? Had a pot on the stove boiled over? Had a visitor arrived unexpectedly? Or a message that someone was ill? Was it joy or sadness or anger or fear that had drawn her away? What did the world hold past the edges of the painting?
“I think you see,” Antonio said softly. “For me, this single frame tells so many different stories. I can look at it again and again and find something different.”
Rachael nodded. She was struck suddenly by the idea that if Matthew decided he wanted to run away, their hotel room might look like this to Bonnie. What might he forget in the rush that she would puzzle over?
The idea stuck, going around and around. “What do you think happened?” she asked, desperate to break the loop.
“Today, I think an old woman lives there, with no one to help her, and she’s opened the door, then gone back outside to bring in her bag, because she couldn’t carry it and turn the key at the same time.”
“What about the book? And the candle?”
He shrugged. “She’s old, she doesn’t sleep well. She’s used to reading at night, so the book and candle are always there.”
Rachael made a contemplative sound. The idea was somehow so sad. She thought of Yvette, and her mother, especially in the last two years.
Antonio touched her shoulder. “What do you see?”
“I think she found someone waiting for her, and now they’re both just out of view, catching up.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Someone waiting behind the locked door?”
Rachael shrugged. “Sure. Maybe they came in the window.”
“A secret lover, perhaps?”
Rachael had the urge to lean toward him. She glanced up to find him watching her, a smile in his eyes.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Hmm. I like that idea.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long while, until, finally, Antonio’s fingers brushed the back of Rachael’s neck, giving her chills. “Did you want to see the Mona Lisa?” he asked.
Rachael did, so they strolled together down a grand staircase, then through room after room with glorious painted and carved ceilings. Their hands drifted together again and again, almost, but not quite, healing Rachael’s anxiety.
They crossed a sunken gallery where the headless Winged Victory of Samothrace stood above a ring of camera flashes, and across a creaking parquet floor emblazoned with stars. Then into another long, long gallery where the ceiling was a plain grid of transparent blocks. Here the crowd swept them along with the force of a flooded river into a side room halfway down. And there, behind a barrier and a glass case, was the Mona Lisa.
Antonio left Rachael to press forward alone until, finally, she reached the front. A minute later, she found him at the side of the room.
“Well?” he asked.
She shrugged. “To be honest, she’s rather small and dark. I’m not sure what the fuss is about, but I still had to see it.”
“True. Paris wouldn’t be complete otherwise.”
She glanced back at the small painting, the object of so much intrigue. “I keep thinking I want to look again, and I’m not sure if that’s because she’s famous or because of the painting itself.”
He nodded. “That’s because you’re still looking for the best parts. Now, can I tell you about this job?”
Rachael raised her eyebrows.
“I know a magazine editor who wants an intern for six months. It’s a good publication and she’s a good editor. I think it would be a great experience for you.”
“An intern at a magazine?” Rachael blinked. “Why on earth would she want me? I haven’t written anything in years.”
“You’re interested in the world. What else does a journalist need? And this editor’s looking for someone with good sense, not someone just out of school. She would take a recommendation from me.”
“But don’t I need to, you know, have experience?”
“Internships are about learning as you go. You don’t like the idea?”
Rachael shook her head. “But I don’t speak French, much less write it.”
“The magazine is in London.”
London. Rachael thought of the farm and laughed. “That’s insane!”
“There’d be difficulties, sure. The pay is terrible. But Rachael, listen, this editor is very good. The magazine is highly esteemed. If you do well, other doors will open for you. The magazine may want to hire you. And if not, you could use the experience to apply to anywhere in London, New York, even Sydney.”
Rachael slowly shook her head. This was just more fantasy. She couldn’t leave the farm. And what about Matthew?
There it was: the sneaky thought that kept returning, that told her to wait to see what Matthew would do. Whether he was really going to come home with her.
“I’m happy to send her your details,” Antonio said, squeezing Rachael’s hand. He drew a card out of his pocket. “Let me know? Talk to her, at least.”
Rachael tried to smile, to be grateful for this amazing opportunity he’d put in front of her. She turned his card in her hand: simple white with black text—his name and number and addresses. She swallowed, not blind to the possibilities he presented. Here, in the magnificent Louvre, a handsome man was offering her what she’d once dreamed about, and was looking at her as though he wanted to put thoughts of any other man out of her head forever.
And yet. Matthew.
She slid the card into her pocket.
Antonio’s features flickered. “You don’t seem interested.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Impatience crept into his voice. “Are you still thinking about design school?”
She hadn’t been, but his attitude rubbed sparks off her. “What if I was?”
“Design school is a remote possibility,” he said with a shrug. “You don’t know if you’d be accepted, or what may or may not come afterward. This is in front of you right now. Don’t miss it through indecision.”
“Indecision?” she hissed, keeping her voice low in the crowded gallery. “This isn’t a small thing. Maybe I couldn’t do it. Did you think about that?”
“Of course. All big leaps are scary.”
Rachael’s hands had clenched into fists. She forced herself, finger by finger, to relax. Antonio’s expression was neutral, his eyes understanding.
“The worst part is deciding,” he said. “Once you do that . . .”
Rachael sank onto a bench, knowing he wasn’t going to give her the argument she’d wanted. “It’s not just that,” she admitted. “There are personal factors.”
“Your farm?”
“No, something else. I’m not sure what to do.”
“Ah.” His eyebrows lifted. “Tell me about it?”
“I don’t know if I can,” she said, miserable that he was so considerate while she held on to her unspeakable secret.
“Let’s go and see Michelangelo’s Slaves. Less crowded.”
Ten minutes later, they were sitting on the stairs before two nude marble statues, unfinished and yet exquisitely polished, that exuded a sexual energy Rachael found uncomfortable.
“They were commissioned for a pope’s tomb,” Antonio said when she remarked on it. He scratched his head. “This one’s meant to be dying, but he looks more like he just forgot to get dressed, or is searching for his keys.”
Rachael couldn’t laugh.
“This must be a bad dilemma if that’s not funny,” he said. “Come on, spit it out.”
Rachael bit her lip. Tess had said to be honest with him, and she’d already spent the whole day mulling it over. She needed to come clean and tell the truth . . . at least, a close version of it, scraped bare of any specifics. She plunged in.
“Recently, I saw an old boyfriend and he said he’s still in love with me.”
Antonio grunted. “Understandable. But unexpected?”
“Yes. I thought he’d forgotten all about me. And now he doesn’t know what to do either. You see,” she went on, gathering speed now she’d started, “I hadn’t seen him in a long time, years actually, since my mum got really sick. It was a bit of a shock.”
Antonio was quiet a moment. “Why doesn’t he know what to do?”
Rachael daren’t mention a fiancée; that was too obvious. “It’s complicated. He lives in a different city and has a very busy job. He’s been married before,” she added, to try to throw off any suspicion.
“And what do you want to happen?”
Rachael shook her head. She traced the edge of the marble step with her finger. How many feet had crossed this point? How many of those people had felt indecisive about their love like she did?
“I think you must have been deeply in love with this man,” Antonio said carefully, “to feel like this after so long.”
“It didn’t work out the first time because my mum was sick, and I couldn’t move to where he lived. But now . . .”
“Now you think you might have a second chance,” he finished. His dark eyes were hooded as he stared past the statues and into the next long hall.
“Well, yes. Only I keep thinking it must be a dream.”
His eyes were on her now. “Why’s that?”
“Because things like that don’t happen in the real world.”
“The world is a very big place,” he said, his voice flat. He didn’t meet her gaze. “Lots of things happen all the time. But I will say one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“A man should know what he wants. If he’s telling you he doesn’t know what to do, I’d be worried there’s something else going on. Maybe he already has a girlfriend, or a wife. Otherwise, what would stop him? I wouldn’t like to see you get hurt, Rachael. He’s had his chance with you once.”
The edge in Antonio’s voice dragged Rachael’s eyes to his face. She could see the hurt hiding behind his words.
He saw her searching his expression and abruptly stood, offering a hand to pull her up. When she was standing, he let go.
“That’s why you aren’t sure about the internship,” he added. “You have to talk to him, Rachael. If it’s real love, you’ll find a way to support each other’s dreams. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Rachael had nothing to say to that, and Antonio was clearly upset. He didn’t move to take her hand again as they left the Louvre, or attempt to kiss her. Should she apologize? But for what? For being honest? Or for allowing him to kiss her while she was thinking about Matthew?
* * *
They were soon back at the hotel, any further sightseeing plans scuttled. She watched Antonio leave, his dark curls catching a sunbeam breaking through the rain clouds. He didn’t look back. She thought about the offer he’d made. But that had been before her disclosure, and he hadn’t mentioned the editor again. Had she made a horrible mistake?
She almost raced after him and all the possibilities he represented, but the weight of Matthew and her lost years held her rooted.
Desperation burned her chest like a hot brand. She could think of only one thing to do.