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* * *
Ronan arrived, panting, at the bench. He stood, one hand clenched to his side as if he had a stitch, looking from Harry to Claire with a look of mild confusion.
‘They couldn’t find it. We had to go find another copy. And then I got caught on the phone. I’m so sorry.’
What Claire heard in his voice was a return to normality. A lost book, a phone call – everyday crises that she could get along with.
‘Ronan, this is Harry,’ said Claire. ‘He’s been keeping me company.’
Ronan leaned over to Harry, and they shook hands.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ronan.
‘Good to meet you, too,’ said Harry. ‘Your wife has lit up my day.’
Ronan looked at Claire, who was beaming, even though her face was wet with tears. ‘Yeah, she does that.’
Claire turned to Harry. ‘Why don’t you join us for dinner? Come on, it’ll be fun.’
Harry was tempted. This girl had something special about her, some sort of rip tide that was pulling him in. He glanced at her husband and saw that he was watching his wife with a look in his eyes that could be described only as hunger. Better give the guy his chance to fix things, Harry thought.
‘I’d love to,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got plans.’
She nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks for the dance, Harry.’
‘Anytime, sweetheart.’
Claire wound her scarf around her neck, then packed the big book back into the tote bag. Ronan took it and hung it on his shoulder. His other hand, he held out for Claire. She stood but turned back at the last second.
‘Hey, Harry,’ she said, quietly, with her hand on his arm, ‘what did you wish for?’
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. She could feel his stubble against her skin as he whispered in her ear, so softly she could hardly hear.
‘A happy ending,’ he said.
Love Her Madly
Harry watched Claire and her husband walk away hand in hand. Just before they rounded the corner of the square, Claire looked back over her shoulder. He smiled and waved. She smiled back and disappeared down rue de la Cité.
He rubbed his legs. He’d pushed his luck with the timing of his medication, and the clock had run down. He made a move to stand up, but a pain sliced upwards from the heel of his foot through his shinbone.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he groaned, collapsing back onto the bench. ‘I think I’m stuck here.’
He rooted around in his pockets until he found a packet of painkillers. He didn’t have any water, but he managed to knock a couple back with a bite of a jam tart. Maybe, if he sat still for a few minutes, the drugs would kick in, and then he could grab a taxi.
He must have done some damage, he thought, when he fell backwards from Point Zéro. Served him right for gadding about like Fred Astaire. Dammit, he thought, but it was worth it. It was worth it to laugh out loud, and it was worth it to dance with a beautiful woman in the peachy glow of a Parisian afternoon, and, more than anything, it was worth it to feel that connection with another human. He’d felt her fear and her hurt and her effort to hope, and he’d felt that he was pushing her up the hill, just as much as she was pulling him.
He leaned forward, tentatively letting his weight fall onto his right foot, and again excruciating pain shot up his leg, this time reaching for his hip. What a thing, he thought. It sure is easier to keep trying when you’ve got a hand to hold on to.
He picked up his book and looked again at the quotation written on the inside cover. He pulled out his pen and drew a heart. At the top left corner of the heart, he wrote his own initials,HDC, and at the lower right, connected by a shaky arrow,NL, Nancy’s.
He flicked the pages, but the light was failing now, and he couldn’t read without squinting. He exchanged the book for his phone, read the global news headlines – in Italy, Victory Predicted for Extreme Right; in Russia, Conscription Age Men Flee for Borders; and in England, New Princess of Wales Wears Pearls in Mourning.
He clicked to open email, scrolled past the unopened work messages and read again the last from Nancy. He sighed.
He couldn’t let it lie at that. Quickly, without thinking too much, he typed.
Nancy,
