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I think when I'm eighty-five, I'll still be able to close my eyes and see the gentle waves of the Seine from the tip of the Square du Vert-Galant. Royce teases me and tells me it's provincial to sit in the middle of the City of Lights and remember my backwater hometown, but there is a certain familiarity about this park that calls to me. Despite the lights twinkling in the water and the distant view of the Eiffel Tower, this place makes me feel closer to Forks, to you, dear Bella. Whenever I need a little peace, I find myself in this tiny square, a little green oasis in the center of an electric city.
*0*0*
When I awoke the next morning, it took a second to register my surroundings. I was on a narrow bed, staring at a bright yellow wall. I sat up suddenly, slightly panicked. Then I heard Alice's trilling soprano voice from the other room. She was singing along to some French tune on the radio, accompanied by the familiar clang of pots and pans.
My eyes were still heavy from my crying jag in the park the previous night, but I felt lighter, freer. Today I would find out what Alice knew about Rose's disappearance, and today I would begin my search.
I stretched and wandered out into the apartment. The pajamas Alice had laid out for me the night before were soft and comfortable. They were also bright pink.
"Good morning, sunshine!" Alice sang when I entered the kitchen. "Sorry I had to duck out on you yesterday, but there were some things at the office I had to take care of. You were sleeping, and you looked like you could use the rest."
"That's okay." I took the mug she offered me and inhaled the rich, somewhat bitter smell of coffee. "I went for a walk when I woke up. I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed one of your coats and your umbrella."
She waved a hand airily and turned back to the stove, where she was busy with a pan of scrambled eggs. "I don't mind at all. If you're going to be wandering through Paris, you need to look less like you just got off the boat. No one will take you seriously if you walk around in the duds you came with. Speaking of which, I took the liberty of bringing you back some new clothes. No need to thank me."
She transferred the eggs to two plates and turned back to the table, smiling cheerily. I sighed and shook my head.
"Clothing is the least of my worries, Alice. I came to find Rose, and I need to get started as soon as possible."
The smile dropped from her face and she nodded once. "Of course you do. I wish I could be of more help, but things at work have been a bit gaga lately. I did some digging when she first disappeared, but I didn't have any luck. That's why I contacted you." She took a big bite of eggs and stood up quickly. "She left a note, you know."
I set down my coffee cup with a clang. "She did? Why didn't you mention it in your letter? What did she say?"
"Whoa, there, honey. One question at a time." She got up and walked to the little table next to the door. From the drawer she pulled a single sheet of paper. "It's short and to the point."
Wordlessly, I reached out for it. A few lines of Rose's familiar script ran across the top of the page.
November 12, 1949
Dear Alice,
Our arrangement is not working out. I've found a different apartment and won't need to stay with you any longer. Thank you for your hospitality. Enclosed you'll find the rest of this month's rent and my key.
Best wishes,
Rosalie Hale
"This doesn't sound like her," I murmured, rereading the brief, cold note. Alice nodded vigorously.
"I know, that's why I worried. I tried to get the police to help, but they said without any evidence of foul play, there was nothing they could do. Officially, she's just a girl who decided to get a new apartment and not tell anyone where she was going." She scowled.
"Didn't you speak to her at all? I'm sure it took her some time to move out."
Alice flushed a little and gave me a sheepish smile. "I was a little busy that week. Met a fella, one thing led to another—"
Now it was my turn to blush. "Does that…" I stuttered. "Does that happen often?"
"I'm a hot-blooded American girl," she laughed. "It happens from time to time. And between you, me, and the wall, I haven't met a fella yet who could say no… but that's beside the point. Rose and I weren't best friends, but she was always sweet as pie. We weren't having any problems, except she'd been a bit distant since she started seeing that man."
She said "man" like it was a dirty word.
"Do you mean Royce?"
"Yes, Royce." Her voice dripped with distain. "She never brought him around, never even let me meet him. Almost as soon as she met him she started spending all her time with him. I think she even stopped going to school after a few weeks. He's bad news."
"No, that can't be," I protested. "She described him in her letters as a perfect gentleman. They were in love."
"Yes, well, I've met his kind of gentlemen before." She shot me a significant look. "And I seriously doubt love was what he was after."
I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair, combing through the tangles left from my restless sleep. I was sure that she was blowing Rose's relationship with Royce out of proportion; Rose would never get involved with someone who would treat her like anything less than a princess.
"Well, that note doesn't give us anything to go on. In her letters she mentioned he took her to the Eiffel Tower and on a cruise of the Seine. I thought I'd check there to see if anyone remembers seeing her recently."
Alice snorted. "Needle in a haystack, my dear."
"What do you suggest, then?" I snapped. "You wrote me, remember? This is what I have to go on."
"I'm sorry." She looked down for a moment, then squared her shoulders and jumped to her feet. "If you're going out into the city today, you really should look the part."
With that, she grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward her bedroom, the only room in the apartment I hadn't seen yet. It was a riot of color; scarves were draped over every available surface and clothing hung haphazardly from a stuffed armchair and a tall, tilted mirror in the corner. She grabbed a scarf, a jacket, and a skirt and pushed them into my arms.
"Now put those on and then I'll work on doing something with your hair."
"Um… don't I need a shirt to wear under the jacket?"
"That's what the scarf is for," she sighed, pulling at my hair. "It's too long, but I should be able to add some curls and pin some of it up."
An hour later, she pronounced me good enough. I was uncomfortable wearing just my underwear underneath the jacket, but Alice insisted that's how it was meant to be worn. She fluffed the scarf around my neck and looked me over critically.
"Not exactly Parisian, but you won't stick out like a sore thumb," she pronounced.
It was enough to make a girl feel downright beautiful.
After making sure I knew how to get to the Eiffel Tower, Alice took off for an assignment. We walked together for a while and she chattered about something called the "New Look." I admit most of it went over my head, but I gathered that I was wearing pieces she had pulled from a closet of samples they kept at French Vogue. I carried the trench coat I had borrowed the night before just in case it started raining again.
Armed with my new clothes and a photograph of Rose and I taken last summer, I waved goodbye to Alice and turned up the wide street running along the Seine. I figured I would wander the shoreline and inquire about Rose at the riverboats that docked there. I could follow the Seine directly to the tower, where I would start the second phase of my questioning. Alice had given me a tiny book of French phrases, but advised me not to bother with anyone who didn't speak English.
"Not on your first day, anyway," she laughed.
I found myself walking the same route I had the night before, this time crossing Pont Neuf and bypassing the park completely. I had gone to the Square du Vert-Galant the night before in a fit of despair, just wanting to be close to Rose in some way. I brought her last letter, which was probably a mistake. Standing there in her private spot, the one she said reminded her so much of home, and reading her words only made me feel that much further from where I belonged. I had given in to my homesickness and let myself fall apart for the second time that day. Luckily, the park was empty. No one was there to witness my moment of weakness.
Rose had never told me what Royce looked like, so all I could really do was ask the dock workers if they had seen Rose herself. While everyone I spoke was impressed by Rose's beauty, none of them remembered seeing her in person.
"A face like that I would remember," one man remarked cheerfully.
"She would have been with a man," I pressed. "They were in love."
"Who isn't?" laughed the man. "Paris is a city full of lovers."
I stalked up and down the docks, waving Rose's picture under every English-speaking face I could find. The place was crowded with tourists; vendors sold scarves, tiny models of various city landmarks, and offered portraits for a few francs a piece. Not one of them recognized Rose.
I took a break at midday, stopping at a small café for a baguette and a cup of coffee. The dockworker was right, there were couples everywhere. They passed by my table two by two, staring deeply into each other's eyes, or in the case of a few men, down their partner's shirts. The table next to mine was occupied by a pair of teenagers who couldn't stop giggling and leaning over their water glasses to sneak in kisses.
A strange, slightly wistful feeling came over me as I sat there. These people had come through a war—a full scale occupation followed by a battle for liberation. Their dreams and futures had been interrupted, if not taken away. Their clothing, gas, bread, and sugar were rationed, even now, but they lived their lives with passion.
I had only lived through the war by proxy, watching news reels of troops landing at Normandy and Okinawa. There were no bombs being dropped in Forks, Washington. A few of the boys I knew had gone to war, but none of them had died in battle. My parents took good care of me, and I even got to go to college, something many girls at my high school were unable to do. I was going to be an English teacher, which was a noble, if not exciting calling. When I graduated I would return to Forks to teach at the local high school, and in all likelihood marry Jacob. Jacob, who was dependable, and kind, and had loved me since we were 15 years old. We would be perfectly content together. He was predictable, but I always thought of it as a positive characteristic; after all, I hated surprises.
My life was solid and my future practically guaranteed, but I was rapidly becoming jealous of people who lived in a constant state of change and uncertainty. I snorted and dropped the last of my money on the table to cover my bill. The sooner I found Rose, the sooner I could return home. I had been in Paris for a day and it was already giving me funny ideas.
I walked to the tower as quickly as possible, determined that my afternoon would be more productive than my morning. After staring at it from a distance throughout the day, I admit I was anxious to see Eiffel's tower up close. It was taller than I expected, and every bit as surrounded by humanity as the docks of the Seine had been. To my great annoyance, they wouldn't let me up without a ticket, so I couldn't speak to the people who worked at the restaurants on the first or second level, or the people who operated the lifts.
It didn't take long to realize that Alice was right; trying to find evidence of Rose in a place like this would be impossible. Hundreds of people filtered in, out, and around the tower in the few hours I was there. Even someone as beautiful as Rosalie Hale would be anonymous here.
I wandered away from the crowds and back into the streets, letting myself get swept up in the press of people heading home from work after a long day. Occasionally I consulted with my map, just to be sure I wasn't hopelessly lost, but it was nice to simply follow my feet for a while. I saw the National Assembly and the Hôtel des Invalides. The descriptions in Rose's letters had not done this city justice, but I couldn't feel it in me to be impressed. All I felt was anger.
Everything my mother had ever said about the blessings of small town life came crashing down on me as I stomped my way past history.
Someone is always looking out for you, never forget that.
This wouldn't have happened in Forks, or even Seattle. My anger grew, and this time it was directed at Alice. She had let herself get so wrapped up in a hot and heavy entanglement with some fella that she didn't even notice when her roommate moved out! Who does that?
Rose didn't have anybody to look out for her. Her parents were killed in a car crash when she was four. She was raised by her Aunt Helen, who lived next door to my folks. Helen died last year. Heart attack. She was only 45. Rose used the money she inherited from her parents to go to college, and she decided to spend her senior year in Paris, studying romantic poetry. At the time, I had supported her whole-heartedly. Now, I couldn't believe I had ever thought it was a good idea.
I made it back to Alice's by nightfall, but she still wasn't home. I was so frustrated by my failed search and the way she had let Rose down that I knew I was liable to say something foolish if I stuck around. It had started to drizzle again, so I decided to head out into the rain for a long walk. Anything to clear my head. I grabbed my winter hat and Alice's bright red umbrella and took to the streets.
For a long while, I just wandered down the main thoroughfares around Alice's neighborhood, watching the people run in and out of buildings, huddled in wool coats and stomping their feet for warmth. After spending my day out among the Parisians, there was a subtle familiarly about them now. I still felt out of place, but not as alien as before.
As the night deepened, I found myself walking once more toward the Square du Vert-Galant. A tiny voice in the back of my head whispered that maybe I would find her there. It was her special spot, after all, the place she went for peace and quiet. I could understand the appeal; it was an ideal spot to be alone.
The night was rainy and grey, although it wasn't as cold as it had been the previous evening. By the time I got to the park, hardly anyone was out. Only a few couples sat hunched together on benches near the entrance to the park, but other than that the square appeared empty. As I passed through the gates to the narrow sidewalk which would take me to the tip of the park overlooking the river, a flurry of movement caught my eye. Adjusting my umbrella, I peeked under it discreetly.
I wasn't alone. Someone had set up an easel under the eaves of a vendor's stall; a man, judging by the wild tufts of hair poking out above the canvas. He was bent over and I couldn't see his face, but some sixth sense told me he was watching me. I swung my umbrella back down self-consciously, hiding myself from view completely.
I kept up my casual pace, but the feeling of being watched followed me. The painter's eyes seemed to burn into my umbrella. When I reached the tip of the square, I made a conscious effort to stand very still, ignoring his presence to the best of my ability. He was an annoyance, nothing more. A witness to ensure that I wouldn't break down tonight as I had last night.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to force thoughts of failure from my head. Rose had a point, there was something about this place that made me feel every bit as isolated as I did on First Beach near Jacob's house. It was separate from the city, it was something other. I let that feeling of isolation soothe me as I took big gulps of misty air. The cold and wet didn't bother me; I had grown up under a near constant cover of rain. Odd as it sounds, rain soothed me in a way bright sunshine never could.
Despite the comforting tattoo of the rain on my umbrella, I couldn't shrug off the electric feeling of the painter's eyes on my back. It pierced through my calm and brought back all the agitation I had felt on my walk from Alice's apartment. Shifting from foot to foot, I tilted the umbrella back further and tipped my face toward the sky. My skin broke out in goose bumps.
What was he staring at? Maybe I was imagining it. Yes, that was it. He had probably glanced up at me as I entered the park and then turned back to his painting. Still, better to be sure. At least once I confirmed that he wasn't looking I could go back to enjoying the rain in peace.
I closed my eyes and turned slowly on the spot. When I opened them, I was staring at a wild-eyed young man with a crop of tousled, rain darkened hair. He gaped openmouthed at me for a moment, and then his lips tugged into a slow smirk. I shivered, and his smile widened.
He was dangerous, plain and simple: almost unbearably handsome, and his smile told me he knew it. His eyes traced my figure in the dark, and I could feel my face flushing in embarrassment. Then he winked, and I felt my irritation come surging back. I wasn't some cheap hussy, won over by a wink and a nod. I wasn't going to bat my eyes and follow him blithely to some Parisian bungalow so he could use me and toss me away.
I squared my shoulders and turned swiftly, striding forcefully from the park. The hairs on my neck stood straight up as I passed him, but I resisted the urge to look back again. By the time I got home I was sopping wet, my umbrella flopped forgotten at my side. I told myself that the rain had helped to clear my head, but I knew it was a lie. My thoughts were just as muddled as before, this time with images of a dark young man with smoky eyes. He wasn't safe, he wasn't predictable, and he certainly wasn't Jacob.