Thank you for the reviews on this story. I've written chapters ahead, so I suppose that's why I have been updating regularly. I appreciate the reviews, and feed back, and criticisms too. I also think this story has turned into a bit of a love letter to Paris, but trust me, it's got lots of Addams in it too.
Morticia trailed her fingers across the books, making rivulets in the thick dust that covered the titles. She had been delighted to find this bookshop, with its grimy windows and chipping sign, which had so enthralled her on her last trip to Paris. She found a delightful first edition of 'Lady Chatterley' here and a rare copy of the first ever, unrevised edition of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray.' They had a relatively well-looked after copy in their library at home but Gomez had insisted she buy it. It stayed in the drawer beside her bed – hers entirely and completely. One of her little possessions that she so loved, not because of what it had been, but because of what it was borne from.
Her hand trailed along a series of finely bound leather books, landing on an anthology of work from Robert Browning. On impulse she pulled it from the shelf and took it the counter.
"This is a poet you like?"
The man behind the counter smiled at her, his accent the only thing marring his perfect English. Sometimes this angered her about Paris; everyone was so competent with English that she rarely had the opportunity to explore her knowledge of French. Her understanding of the Gaelic tongue was extensive and almost second nature, yet it was often hard to exercise her capabilities practically in the place where she thought it would be most useful. She nodded.
"Oui," she took the wrapped book and handed over the Francs, "I am a fan of 'Porphyria's Lover'."
He laughed kindly, "Dark tastes?"
"Absolutely."
From thereon she made her way through the streets to the Place de l'Hotel de Ville, stopping for a moment to stare out across the square which had once been host to much bloodier and more vicious pursuits. Of course, then it had been known as the Place de La Greve and had been the home of the Convention and the birthplace of the Jacobins. This was where Wednesday's two idols, a strange combination of Marie Antoinette and Robespierre, had met their downfall in different ways. Wednesday, she thought to herself as she sat outside a small café with a tea, had very odd tastes in idols. Perhaps she liked them because her parents were also polar opposites – then again, Marie Antoinette would never have married Robespierre.
She pulled her shawl further around her and pushed her sun glasses up her nose. The tea warmed her, on what was a surprisingly cool day for summer, and she felt suddenly calm for the first time in the last 3 days. All it was missing, she thought ruefully, was a spot of arsenic.
She was so used to calm that it had shattered everything she was to feel so out of control. She had fled him, not because she had fallen out of love with him, but because it hurt her too much to be in love with him at that moment. What a contradiction that was in all its terms. She laughed a little at the irony and understood fully the cliché of American psychology that it was important to put some distance between yourself and the incident. Now that she was 3 days, a continent and 3 quarters of a bottle away from the non-argument she had had with him, she could see things in a much clearer light. Or at least, she could see her next steps.
She knew now, where she needed to be.
It felt much like home, though there was a far more illustrious clientele in Père Lachaise Cemetery. She stopped at the gates, then skirted the perimeter stopping every few monuments to read or admire. There was something vital about death. She liked the unrelenting choices it made people make; yes, it showed people in their worst light but most often in their best. That was, perhaps what she liked about it most. She liked the idea that it was so utterly, entirely final.
She glided towards Abelard and Heloise's grave, then came to a halt at a bench across from the very beautiful mausoleum with its imposing Gothic design.
She sat, pondering the architecture in a way she hadn't done since before the children. She had stopped at times throughout the years, but it was because she was stealing moments she would have to pay back rather than because she had time. Their story was one of great romance – started illicitly, much as her marriage had been. She could relate to them, this tortured couple who had not been as fortunate as her and Gomez.
Her thoughts moved to the Beinekes; that poor, frustrated couple over whom, if she was willing to admit it, she had cast a very judgemental eye from her pedestal under which Gomez knelt. Or at least, that was what she had thought at the time. How the mighty fall, she thought ruefully, as she closed her eyes and revelled in the silence that rested over the graveyard. To that end as well, the irony had not escaped her. The Beinekes were probably holed up in their middle-priced hotel rediscovering why they liked each other in as many ways humanely possible while her and Gomez had come to their first ever juncture. Perhaps it would have been better if they had come to this junction sooner than they had right now because they had grown complacent in their genuine trust of each other. Right now it seemed like a cruel joke to her that the Beinekes had come out of the other end of this far better than them. Of course, that had ultimately been the issue; they had not expected it, the Beinekes were always looking for their next fight. The Addamses did not even know how arguments even started.
Yes, her judgement on others had blinded her to their own discrepancies. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder, and startled at the fact that she had been there alone and then she was not. But she relaxed as the grasp suddenly seemed utterly familiar. Was she angry that he had followed her? She didn't know.
"You do have such a predictable taste for historical sights."
The rasping, gentle Castilian made her heart sing for a moment. It had been an unfamiliar sound for what felt like an eternity. He came round from behind the bench, not once removing his hand from her shoulder.
She suddenly felt nervous in the face of this reunion but she stayed perfectly still, for fear that she would do something too soon.
"I thought you would be hard to track down," he muttered, " I knew you would arrive here eventually or at least...I hoped."
He sat down beside her on the cold stone, leaving a few inches between them.
"I -"
"Don't speak," she whispered, reaching for his hand.
She was asking a lot of him, but after what they had just enforced on each other, she supposed that a few more minutes without talking wouldn't do them any harm.