Luc was all business with Marlow. “Move the furniture into the middle of the room and cover it with sheets. We must pull together the plaster and the wood strips beneath to anchor the plaster so it doesn’t crack again. We’ll drill holes around the cracks, then clean them of loose plaster. Tell me when you’re ready.”
He went off to work separately. She was adamant she wouldn’t be made to feel weird by one guy about kissing another guy, but also, maybe, she was a little flattered to have two men vying for her attention.
He came back to drill the holes and vacuum the dust. “The old way is to screw the plaster wall all around the crack, leave thescrews in the wall, and plaster over. But here, we will glue the wall back to the wood, pull out the screws after it’s dried, then plaster over. It’s smoother.”
He gave her the caulking gun, but seeing her confusion, placed his hands over hers to demonstrate how to use just enough adhesive. Time slowed down, but her heart rate quickened. He got a bit awkward and pulled away. He brought over a sponge and bucket, and showed her how to wipe down the wall, slip washers over screws and drive them into the adhesive-filled holes, clamping the wall to the wood behind it.
“Now, we wait for this to cure,” he said. “A day or two.”
“What should we do in the meantime?”
“Anything you like. I have things to stay busy.”
She wanted to lessen the tension. Clear things up. After all, the two men weren’t in a competition.
“Guillaume took me to the spa in Vittel,” she ventured, kneeling down by the bucket to wash her hands and dry them with a towel.
“Ah. Did you like it?”
“What’s not to like?” she asked. “Fluffy bath robes, sitting in baths with little plates of fancy appetizers, showers bigger than my Toronto apartment with jets everywhere … and then a dinner that blew my mind. Have you been?”
“No, and even if I had the money, that is not how I’d do it. The source water is not for sale. You do not have to spend a dime to enjoy it—it is there for everyone. Guillaume misunderstands the point.”
It was absolutely a competition between the men. Wow.
“How would you do it?” she asked.
“As a local, of course.” He eyed her dead on. “Do you have time, or do you have to work?” He said “work” like it was a dirty word.
She eyed him.
“Then come,” he said, taking the towel, letting it drop to the ground, and offering to pull her up. She grabbed his hands—calloused and strong—and stood so that they were an inch from each other for just one second. She felt magnetized to him and full of complicated feelings. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sabine, Aubin, and Yves moved past the busy bookseller who rang up purchases and stamped inside covers with “Shakespeare and Company, Kilometer Zero, Paris,” deeper into the store where there were books floor to ceiling, with ladders to reach the top shelves.
“What’s Kilometer Zero?” asked Sabine.
“It is right across the way, in front of Notre Dame,” said Aubin. “It marks the spot from which the distance of all places in France are calculated.”
“This store is, in many ways, the center of English culture in Paris,” said Yves. “It is associated with some of the greatest authors who have written in English. Joyce, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stein … Who else? Anaïs Nin. Henry Miller. James Baldwin …” The man who’d written the quote on the window. Sabine would have to look him up.
“The founder, George Whitman, wanted it to be a landing place for bohemians and wanderers,” said Yves. “He’d led his own wandering life. There’s a story about him being very ill inan isolated part of Mexico and being nursed back to health by a tribe of Mayans. And then he opened this store and let artists who were mostly penniless sleep in the store. During the day, those spots were benches where people could read, but at night, they were beds. George called these artists ‘tumbleweeds.’ In return for this benefit, he asked three things: to read a book a day, help in the shop, and write a one-page autobiography for his archives. There are thousands of autobiographies, apparently.”
Sabine imagined sleeping in a bookstore. There would probably be mice. But also, books.
“I’ve been poor many times in my life,” said Yves. “I would have appreciated a kind soul giving me a place to sleep the night.”
She hadn’t known her father had been poor. She’d always had the impression he was one of those people for whom everything worked out, always.
“Does the store owner still take in artists?” asked Sabine.
“No, he died at ninety-eight. But you can feel him here, can’t you?”
She wished Yves had been one of the guests here, so she could have read the autobiography he’d written for himself. She was so curious about him.
At the back of the main floor, a staffer worked at her small desk amidst the crush of customers. Aubin pointed to three old typewriters mounted on a post beside her.
