A Sky Without Zeppelins (35/?)

[amberfocus]

                                                        original banner art by theotherwillow

                                                                   Chapter Thirty-Five

The place he takes her to next is not far and is a delightful square called the Place du Tertre. It’s hard to see how big it is in the bustle of artists busy hocking their wares and the crowded tables at the various cafés. “It’s a bit of a tourist trap, really,” Jonathon tells her with a shrug, “but I thought we could have a sketch portrait done of the two of us. I’d like to have something at my flat when you’re not there.”

 

Rose smiles at him, that smile that sometimes makes his heart skip a beat. “Yeah, all right,” she says softly. She hesitates a minute. “Do you think…?” He smiles encouragingly when she trails off. “Do you think we could have two made? I mean, if it’s not too expensive? I’d…I’d like to have something of you around, too.”

“Of course,” he says. He can feel his face ache at the size of the grin that splits it at her shy question. He leads them over to a row of sketch artists and they look at the drawings until they find some that they like the style of. Jonathon quickly negotiates a deal with the man and he poses them on a pair of stools and sets to work with confident, even strokes. He works in pastels, bringing them to life on the heavy paper against his easel.

When he finishes the first sketch he rearranges them into a different pose and Rose unplaits her hair and shakes it loose at Jonathon’s request. They sit through another drawing before the artist carefully rolls up the finished products and slips them into a cardboard tube to keep them protected. He hands it over and Rose and Jonathon say good-bye with happy smiles and head over to one of the cafés to get something to drink and a light lunch.

Rose orders the traditional Croque Monsieur, a toasted sandwich with thick buttered bread, Dijon mustard, gruyere cheese, and ham. Jonathon orders a variation on the same sandwich, his coming with the addition of thinly sliced apples, mayonnaise and a well aged cantal cheese in place of the gruyere. They split their plates, both having half of each sandwich. Rose sips a large hot chocolate with cinnamon, nutmeg and whipped cream while Jonathon favors a triple shot mocha and its accompanying caffeine burst.



They sit at one of the many outdoor tables covered by a large, garishly red umbrella, the others near them decorated with various other bright colors and eat their meal while watching the people going by, making up stories of what brought them to Paris, why they’re wandering around Montmartre, if they’re happy and why or why not. It is a game, Rose explains, that she used to play with her friends Keisha and Shareen back when she was a young teenager and they’d go down to the chippie and stare out the windows at all the passersby. She is delighted to have found someone who enjoys the game as well.

Eventually they tire of watching the other tourists and finish their beverages and food. Rose replaits her hair and throws the resultant braid back over her shoulder. “Now where?” Rose asks as they rise.

“Willette Square,” Jonathon says. “Well, they renamed it something else, but everyone still calls it that.”

“What did they rename it?” Rose asks curiously.

Jonathon thinks for a minute trying to recall. “Square Louise Michel, after a famous school teacher.” They toss out their drink cups in a nearby rubbish bin and then Jonathon holds his hand out to her, waggling his fingers enticingly. Rose grins at him as she grabs it and laces their fingers tightly together.

“Why? What’s there?” she wants to know.

“You’ll see,” he says with another mysterious smile. All traces of his momentary discomfort in the basilica have left him now and he charges on ahead first pulling his lover along with him in a cheerful rush. It doesn’t take long to reach their destination. Like everywhere else in Montmartre, the basilica towers overhead gleaming white in the sun.

“Oh,” says Rose when they arrive, “this is just lovely.”

It is a well-manicured park with many different trees and plantings. They wander about, stopping to admire a gigantic fountain by Paul Gasq before Jonathon tugs her on to what he wants her to see. They stop for a moment and just stare at the bright colors and listen to the music, to the sound of children laughing gleefully.



Rose turns and gives Jonathon a grin. “Can we?” she asks gesturing ahead of them. Jonathon feels his face split.

“Of course, we can.” He heads over to the man selling tickets from the little booth and hands over some money and they go to wait in the small line on the other side of the carousel. When they finally board for their turn, Rose is gleeful.

“I haven’t been on one of these since I was twelve years old,” she tells him. Jonathon isn’t sure how long it’s been since he rode on one. Just another small mystery buried in his partially amnesiac mind.

He watches the rise and fall of Rose on the horse next to him, his body’s reaction reminding him rather aggressively of how she looks when she’s above him during lovemaking. He tamps down hard on the arousal as he watches his lover, watches her braid flying out behind her and her face alive with joy and flushed in the simple delight of their activity. He wonders if there will ever be a time when he can look at Rose like this and not want to take her to bed.

When they dismount and leave the carousel they wander around the park until they find a nicely secluded bench surrounded by opulent plantings of flowering bushes. Jonathon puts his arm around her shoulder and she leans her head against him, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. Rose lets out a little contented sigh. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for bringing me here, for bringing me to Paris.”

“You’re very welcome,” he tells her squeezing her in a one-armed hug. She turns into him and raises her lips to his, brushing them lightly together. He dips his head down to meet her, deepening the kiss and swallowing a little gasp of surprise from Rose. Her hand drifts up to bury itself in his hair and they both lose themselves in the sensation for several minutes until a pointed cough breaks them apart.

A matronly woman is standing there surrounded by four small children and glaring at them for kissing in public. Jonathon quickly whips his hand out from under the back of Rose’s shirt, not even remembering how it got there and the two of them rise up and hurry off giggling. Well, hurry as much as he can with a half hard erection in his pants.

“Did you see the look on her face?” Rose huffs as she catches her breath. “She was scandalized. You’d think she’d never seen a pair of lovers snogging in public before.”

“Bit more than snogging, I think,” he tells her.

“True,” Rose laughs. “Your hands were roaming a bit.”

“Not the only ones,” he says indicating his hair before he runs his hands through it to straighten it a bit. Rose reaches up and messes it up again.

“Rose.”

“I like it like this,” she tells him. He has relaxed under her fingers, his face going slightly slack as she caresses his scalp.

“Don’t know that you should be doing that in public, either, Rose,” he says. He pulls her up against him so she can feel the effect of her actions.

“Maybe…maybe we should go back to the hotel?” she offers.

“I wanted to show you one more thing before we head back.”

She nods and he turns them in the direction he wants to go next. They walk briskly for a while and finally arrive at the Square Jehan-Rictus. “It’s just over here,” he says leading her towards a wall with blue tiles, carved white writing, and flashes of red scattered about it.



“What is it?” Rose asks, her eyes trailing over the words. She recognizes many different languages but none that are familiar to her.

“This,” he says with a smile, “is the I Love You Wall.”

Rose gives him a startled look. “The I Love You Wall?”

“Yep,” he says popping the P. “The words I love you are written one thousand times on this wall in over 300 languages and dialects.”

“What are the red splashes?” Rose asks.

“Supposedly it’s a heart if you fit all the pieces together like a jigsaw,” he tells her. “I wanted us to come here together. I wanted…I wanted you to know that when I say I love you, it’s like this.” He waves his hand expansively in front of the wall. “I mean it one thousand fold.”

Rose’s hand tightens in his and he hears her breath catch in her throat. He turns to look at her and she’s got tears glistening in her eyes. She swallows hard and doesn’t look at him, her eyes still focused on the wall. “No one,” she says softly and stops a moment to get herself under control. She takes a deep breath. “No one has ever made me feel like you do,” she tells him. “This…I love you like this, too.”

She wipes at her eyes, careful not to smear her makeup and she turns to him, giving him a sweet smile. They kiss again, this time briefly, and step closer to the wall.

A man approaches them and asks if they’d like to have their photograph taken in front of the wall. They agree and the man lines them up and snaps the picture. He has a small booth to one side and it takes six minutes for two copies of the digital image to print out. With a happy, “Merci,” they take their photographs and head back to where they had parked the scooter. It is nearing six p.m. and they decide to take the scooter back to the rental place as Jonathon has reservations at a fancy restaurant for their dinner.

Jonathon secures the photographs and the tube with the sketches into the small compartment to the back of the seat and they ride through the streets again the short distance back. They walk back to the hotel hand in hand and Jonathon tells her to dress for dinner when they arrive at their penthouse.

She pulls one of the two dresses she brought with her out of the closet and heads to the bathroom to change. “Hey, don’t I get to watch?” Jonathon calls after her. He can hear the pout come into his voice at being denied the view of Rose changing clothes.

“Not if we want to make it to dinner on time,” comes her laughing response, the bathroom door firmly closing behind her. He takes a step to follow her and hears the lock snick shut and has to grin at her foresight. She’s getting to know him very well, indeed.

With a sigh he turns to the closet and removes his black suit with the fine silver pinstripes and strips off his clothes. He dresses quickly, rearranges his hair a bit. He makes a quick call to ensure that their driver is running on time then sits on the bed waiting for Rose. It doesn’t take too long. She is a woman who can put herself together quickly and well.

When she emerges he lets his breath out in a rush. “Oh, Rose,” he says. He can’t even think to find words beyond that, just stares at her in awe. The dress she wears is a rich, golden brown, hugging her curves in well-fitted satin fabric that his fingers ache to touch. It is virtually sleeveless, having only inch wide straps that go around her upper arms about four inches down from her shoulders, displaying her cleavage to good advantage.

It shines and glimmers and as his eyes ease down her body he notes the slit that goes from her lower thigh to her ankle. He can see part of one shoe sticking out, a dainty, black sandal with just a bit of interweaving leather over the base of her toes. She is taller than normal so it must have some kind of heel as well. She has a small matching purse that she throws onto the bed and then she slowly spins around and he admires the way it drapes across her bum. She turns about again to face him.

His eyes trace back up her body and he meets her wide smile, full lips now covered in a red lip stain that gives her that bruised, well-kissed look that normally takes about fifteen minutes of hard snogging to achieve. She’s changed her hair again, twisting her braid into a chignon at the nape of her neck and pulling a few tendrils of her fringe and the sides of her hair out of the configuration to frame her face prettily. He realizes his mouth is hanging open and he snaps it shut. His gulp as he pulls himself together is audible and Rose’s grin gets even larger.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

She closes the distance between them and hugs him then quickly steps away before he can take advantage of her body so close to his. “Thank you. You look absolutely gorgeous,” she breathes back her eyes as frank in their appraisal of his own form as his had been.

Jonathon’s mobile rings and he pulls it out of his pocket and glances down at it, reading the text message. “Our driver’s here.” He takes her hand. “Shall we?”

Rose smiles, leans over and retrieves her purse from the bed, and nods.



The restaurant is exclusive, unnamed, and itself a work of art. It is on the top floor of a building five miles from their hotel. Every wall is made mostly of glass and the view down upon the city is spectacular. Rose is in awe and has to stop herself from saying anything about the expense. The menu she is handed has no prices on it and for once she is grateful. She does not want to keep looking at Jonathon’s gift of this holiday as if she does not want it. Habits of a lifetime are hard to break but she is determined not to ruin this night, and without prices is not tempted to search for the simplest or cheapest items available.

The meal here is served in courses and it takes a while to figure out what they are going to order. Rose’s French is more than passable and Jonathon’s is fluent so between them the menu is easy enough to suss. Their first course is the same, salade de tomate et concombre with a sharp Roquefort dressing that leaves Rose’s eyes watering and her taste buds tingling from the delicious tang.

Next to grace their table are haricot verts for Rose and choucroute for Jonathon. The long green beans are prepared al dente and Rose’s nose wrinkles at the sharpness of the vinaigrette they are dressed with. She takes a sample of the cabbage concoction on Jonathon’s plate, tastes the sweetness of honey in the mix of flavors.

The main courses arrive next, the cotes d’agneau grilleés she has requested and the confit de canard for Jonathon. She offers him one of her lamb chops and he returns the favor, offering her a succulent portion of his duck. The foods are deliciously flavored and Rose thinks it is the best meal she has ever tasted. “You’re spoiling me for anything else,” she tells him softly reaching across the table and squeezing his hand.

He returns the squeeze and looks at her intently. “You deserve to be spoiled, Rose.” His R’s are rolling again and as usual, the resurgence of his accent does things to her insides that incite arousal. She wonders how he can do that just by speaking, just by saying her name that way, but he does. She hopes his plans for the rest of the evening are virtually non-existent because she just wants to go back to the hotel room and make love.

When desert comes, crème brûlée for Jonathon and chocolate mousse for her, they split the desserts between them as they did with their sandwiches at lunch. She is fully content, stuffed to the gills, and more than ready to return to their hotel. Jonathon settles the bill and takes her hand, helping her to her feet. “Where to now?” she asks him.

“There’s a dance floor in the other half of the restaurant,” he says. “Thought we could do a bit of that before going back to the room.”

Rose nods her assent and they drift across to the other side, the soft strains of music that had just been audible in the dining area much clearer. It is a cross between big band and slow jazz and made for the simple type of dancing that lovers who wish to do no more than hold each other, sway and offer caresses enjoy. It feels a bit like being in a dream state as she rests in his arms, their bodies barely covering the floor, as his hands stroke her back and hers find her way beneath his suit jacket.

His body is warm and she feels incredibly pliant and feminine as she presses against him. The smoky alto tones of the chanteuse add to the romance as she sings a French song that Rose’s mind absently translates to a story about two lost lovers finding their way to each other underneath the Parisian stars. The lights are dim, twinkle lights adorning little trees scattered about the edges of the honey-colored wooden dance floor.

She isn’t sure how long they dance, it could be minutes or it could be hours as she simply rides on the sensation of being held and stroked and loved, as her hands move against the thin fabric of his dress shirt and the warmth of his back. Her eyes have long since closed and she is unsure if the rest of the world even still exists in the soft focus of her haven in Jonathon’s arms.

Eventually Jonathon murmurs her name in her ear and she comes back to herself, pulls away from him slightly and opens her eyes. “Yes?”

“Ready to go back to the hotel?” he asks.

“Yes.” They make their way over to the bathrooms and Jonathon calls their driver while Rose goes in to check her hair and makeup and use the facilities. She is flushed, her eyes sparkling. An elderly woman smiles at her and says something quickly in French. Rose asks her to repeat herself and the woman does, this time in English.

“I said you look like a woman in love.”

Rose smiles. “I am.”

“It is good, no? To be young and in love and in Paris?”

“It is very good,” she says.

“My husband and I, we came here as young lovers forty years ago,” the woman says. She tucks a loose strand of her silver hair back up into her French twist. Rose watches her, thinking how beautiful she looks, how she hopes that one day she will age with the kind of grace and beauty this woman possesses. “It is just as much fun now as it ever was then.”

Rose grins. The woman’s answering smile is familiar and she searches her face, searches the brown eyes full of mischief and delight, but can’t quite place who she reminds her of. “I hope my love and I will come back in forty years,” she says.

The woman smiles again. “Oh, I’m sure you will return many times,” she says. She closes her purse and heads to the door. “Enjoy the rest of your time here,” she says and then she winks. “Especially on the balcony. And happy birthday, Rose.”

Rose stares after the old woman in shock, the door closing behind her. She hurries out of the bathroom looking left and right but sees no sign of the woman anywhere. “What’s wrong?” Jonathon asks.

“Did you see an old woman come out of the bathroom? She was dressed in a dark red gown, had silver hair?” she asks.

“I wasn’t paying attention. Why?”

“I don’t know. She wished me happy birthday. She knew my name, but I didn’t tell her it.”

“Well, maybe she was at a nearby table during dinner. She could have overheard us talking about this being a birthday holiday for you,” he says logically.

“Yes,” Rose says not sure she really believes it’s true but then what else could it be? “I suppose that must be it.”

Jonathon’s phone vibrates and he pulls it out. “Driver’s here,” he says. He offers his arm to Rose and they head to the lift just as an older couple steps in and the doors begin to close.

“Hold the lift,” Jonathon calls but the old man just waves at him and shakes his head offering a goofy grin.

“Well, that was just rude,” he says.

“The woman with him; that was her.” There is something in the man’s face that is familiar as well, something in his lean body, something that doesn’t exactly unsettle Rose but leaves her feeling that something is going on she can’t quite understand. Jonathon presses the button and the second lift opens a moment later. Rose forgets about the odd couple once they are safely ensconced in the back of the limousine and snuggling into each other for the ride back to the hotel.

Ch. 36:  http://amberfocus.livejournal.com/206800.html