silly pranks, bull sessions, and times when the beer flowed and pot perfumed the air with its sweet smoke. Jacques cooked extravagant omelets and served generous portions of crusty bread, croissants, pâté, cheese, and pastries. (He taught me to make authentic French dressing and mayonnaise.) I switched from Salems to Gauloises. Terry developed a taste for Courvoisier, and he and Jacques sampled the Cuban cigars Terry had purchased in Reykjavík.
Jacques spoke little English and my high school French was abysmal. I had mastered a few phrases like, “Ou puis-je charger des chèques de voyage? Terry memorized, “Avez-vous une bouteille de whisky?” He complained about warm beer and the lack of ice cubes in drinks. At a local café, Jacques roared when I wanted a Coke but ordered un coq (rooster). Diane toggled between French and English, speaking each with a faint Texas drawl.
The four of us squeezed into the Renault, and Jacques whisked through Paris traffic with the skill only a native can possess. We visited famous landmarks: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and newly opened Pompidou Center built on the site of the Old Paris marketplace, Les Halles.
“It looks like a giant erector set,” Diane commented. “I hate it and so do most Parisians.”
Like countless lovers before us, Terry and I held hands as we strolled along the Seine.
“Not like the Kanawha back home,” I mused. “Much more romantic.” He purchased a pen-and-ink drawing of Notre Dame, which now hangs in the front hallway of my home. We purchased souvenirs for Matt, a six-inch replica of the Eiffel Tower, a tiny French flag, and a snow globe of Notre Dame. At Versailles, I snapped a picture of Terry standing in front of a palace window in soft light, looking down at a tourist guide. It’s one of my favorites. At the Sunday flea market, Jacques bargained with an African vendor for a cloisonné bracelet. I wear it still.
When Jacques wasn’t cooking, he’d whisk us to his favorite restaurants.
“Tonight, you are in for a treat. We made a reservation at Androuet’s, which specializes in cheese.”
Maneuvering around tables jammed together, busy waiters hoisted huge trays of cheese: mild, sharp, pungent, spicy, moldy, and creamy. Cheeses sculpted into cones, spheres, triangles, and pyramids. Jacques painstakingly selected an assortment and ordered a bottle of wine. At one point, Terry quipped, “Est-ce que la Velveeta?” Hours later, we emerged, bellies full, arteries clogged, and heads spinning from too many bottles of red wine.
The night before our departure, Jacques and Diane helped us plot our course through the Loire Valley toward the Mediterranean. Then we lifted the mattress from the floor and propped it against the wall. Jacques placed a recording of Georges Brassens on the turntable and we danced late into the night in that miniscule space.
Early the next morning, we lugged suitcases, bread, cheese, and homemade wine downstairs and packed everything into the Renault. Just before we left, I snapped a picture of Terry and Jacques standing arm-in-arm, sporting black berets in front of an iron gate. That black-and-white photo sits on the windowsill in my study today. Jacques and Diane waved goodbye.
“Bonne chance. Au revoir.”
Coming down from the exultant high of Paris, I sank into the passenger seat and closed my eyes. Terry leaned over and said, “Well, kid, now we can say that we’ll always have Paris.”
Yes. Just like Elsa and Rick (but without their troubles), Terry and I fell in love in Paris. Our romantic scenes could have been scripted for a French film. Many of them seemed lifted straight from the movies. Terry and I strolling along the Seine, holding hands, stopping to hug and kiss; sipping wine at an outdoor café in sun-sparkled light; snapping photos of one another in the gardens of Versailles; purchasing souvenirs at the flea market. Yes, indeed, whatever misfortunes occurred in the future (and who could imagine any misfortune occurring to such a couple as ourselves), we would always have Paris. Who wouldn’t be grateful for such memories?
As we made our way through the Loire Valley, I noted famous cathedrals and opulent châteaux, including Chartre, Chenonceau, and Chambord in my journal.
After several days of such ornate lavishness, Terry gave out.
“No offense, Frannie, but this Texas boy is about châteaued out.” The fact is that we were more interested in savoring the sensual delights of one another than in learning which Medici, Duke, Baron, or Pope had resided in which castle, château, or cathedral during which period of the early, middle, or late Renaissance. “What do you say we head back to the hotel and fool around?”
“I say that’s a terrific idea.”
At Néris-les-Bains we joined elegant elders, fresh from the mineral baths, as they promenaded in a central square. “Terry, look at that couple. So fragile. Like fine porcelain. Do you think that years from now we’ll stroll arm-in-arm like that?”
“At their age we’d be lucky to hobble on this terra firma.”
“Together?”
“Maybe so, Frannie, maybe so.”
Outside Aubenas, we picnicked on wine and cheese at a cemetery.
“Soulful spot; no pun intended,” Terry said.
We wandered among tombstones, trying to decipher names and dates that had been eroded by time.
“So how do you plan to dispose of your remains when, God forbid, the time comes?” I asked.
“Well, I know one thing; I don’t plan to become fodder for the worms. I want to be cremated. My Southern Baptist mom won’t cozy to the idea. Hopefully, she’ll never know. No matter. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”
“So what are your thoughts on an afterlife? Heaven? Purgatory? Karma? Sister Margaret Mary used to scare me to death about purgatory. And limbo. I could never understand that one.”
“Eternal life. That’s one of those many metaphysical mysteries. Like when the Dallas Cowboys have a lousy season.”
“Do you believe in soul mates?”
His amber eyes told me the answer as he brushed his hand against my check. A rush of pure pleasure shot through my body.
“What do you think?” he answered.
We arrived at Aix-en-Provence at lunchtime. “Golden,” I wrote in my journal. Light filtered through tree branches that lined Cours Mirabeau, reputed to be the most striking boulevard in Europe. At a crowded outdoor café, we savored omelets and crusty bread. Terry ordered a bottle of white wine. Between courses we held hands across the table.
When the waiter started to pour, I cupped my hand over the glass.
“Non?”
“Thanks. It’s too early in the day for me,” I said too loudly, as if by shouting I could make the waiter understand English.
“Terry, this place is beautiful. It’s my favorite so far.”
“Frannie, you’ve said that in about every town we’ve visited. I hear tell that those towns along the Med—eye—terrean aren’t too shoddy. Yachts, villas, the rich and famous; your cup of tea.”
When the waiter placed the bill on the table, Terry fumbled with
