And up.
It was like a monster. A gorgeous metallic beast that cut into the sky, so large that when you stood by one of the legs it blocked out everything else.
We climbed to the first level, and then took the elevator to the top. Paris spread out before us, as different from Kilkarten as New York from the Andes. To the south, the Champs du Mars spread out before us, a patch of green amidst the elegant tan and gray buildings with their turrets and balconies. A dark, shadowy rectangle sprung up in the distance like a blot against the skyline, while just slightly to the left the much more pleasing golden dome of Napoleon’s tomb marked another park. Farther on came the Seine and its bridges. The shadow of the tower stretched across the green water, pointing toward the Arc de Triumph and its many avenues. Closer, the palace and gardens of the Trocadéro curved toward us.
Gazing at it made my heart expand in my chest, until I felt like I might float off, fueled by admiration and happiness and joy and beauty. And then I turned my back on it all and kissed Mike until I thought sheer euphoria would carry me off.
When I drew back, he was grinning so hard his dimple showed. “What was that for?”
I kissed the dimple. “It is a rule that you kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower.”
He slid his arms around my back and pulled me closer. “That so?”
“In fact, if you weren’t here, I’d just have to walk up to some stranger and kiss him.”
For lunch, we spread out a blanket halfway between the monument and the military academy on the other side of the park. Like-minded tourists and locals surrounded us. Children raced tricycles while their parents chatted on green benches.
Men jangling Eiffel Tower keychains walked about, targeting camera-wearing tourists and extracting exorbitant amounts of money. A man with dozens of roses moved from couple to couple.
“Don’t do it,” I muttered to Mike as the salesman walked determinedly toward us. “Don’t make eye-contact. Say non, merci.”
Bouquets were shoved in our faces. “Hello, monsieur! A flower for your beautiful lady?”
Mike looked up. “Yeah, sure.”
I stared at him. “What?” He was not going to buy an overpriced, touristy flower. No. No way. Ridiculous! Unbelievable!
Mike handed me a red rose.
I buried my nose in it, and then frowned at him as the man walked away. “You know they marked this up like five-hundred percent.”
“Do you like it?”
I inhaled the strong, heady perfume, deep and rich and velvet. “Maybe.”
“Isn’t Ecuador famous for roses? Or is that bananas?”
I laughed. “Both.” We unpacked the picnic we’d brought: a baguette, a wheel of Camembert, slices of ham and tiny, dark grapes. “They have these giant rose farms, and they’re just stunning—full and deep and perfect. They’re some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. And I’m just a walking cliché—roses are my favorite.” I tore off a chunk of bread and unwrapped the cheese. “But they breed them for beauty, not fragrance, and so they have almost no scent. And I always sort of thought a rose without a scent was like a person without a soul.”
He stopped assembling his sandwich and grinned widely. “Look at you. Yeats two-point-oh.”
I laughed. “What can I say. If I don’t find Ivernis, I can always write greeting cards.”
Afterward, we dusted off the crumbs and took pictures of each other in front of the Tower. A girl, not much older than Anna, watched with a beleaguered expression as we took selfies and finally walked over, determination in her step and resignation in her voice. “Want me to take that for you?”
Despite her self-sacrificial tone, she took six pictures in quick succession. When she handed the camera back and strode away, she only made it twenty yards before visibly sighing and walking over to another hopeless couple.
So then we spent the next twenty minutes watching her as her instinct to help overpowered her desire to ignore everyone. “I always daydreamed about being a spy,” I admitted when she finally headed out of view. “Probably stemmed from my nosiness.”
He rolled over onto his stomach. “Not a bad cover, being an archaeologist. Good reason to travel and bug people.”
I grinned and waved my flower in his face. “It’s actually a classic. Archaeologists have been spying since the first world war.”
“What? No way.”
I relaxed back on my elbows, admiring the drifting clouds. “My favorite story is about this Egyptologist who passed messages in hieroglyphs, and just told the occupiers that it was an inscription he needed help translating.” I raised my brows. “See? We are the most badass profession.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’d make an awful spy.”
“You don’t think I’d make an awesome femme fatale?” I fluttered my lashes at him.
I’d completely been kidding, but his gaze went dark and he reached out to brush my hair behind my ear. My heart fluttered. Mike made me feel like I was as stunning and amazing as any woman that graced the silver screen.
Then a crew of loud American boys tripped over their own feet, and we pulled apart as they milled before us and pushed one of their members forward. He cleared his throat and performed the ubiquitous chin nod at Mike. “Hey. Are you Michael O’Connor?”
I’d been with my mother a handful of times when she’d been recognized. She’d always slipped out the scornful half smile, the drops of disdain. If they offered a hand she raised her brows, if they smiled she frowned.
Mike grinned. “Yeah, that’s me. What are you guys doing here?”
They were study abroad students at Sciences Po, and they clamored for Mike’s attention. A couple of them checked me out until Mike blatantly wrapped his arm around me. And then, so easily I barely noticed it was happening, he extricated us from the group, leaving them with shining eyes and puffed up chests.
“You’re good at that.”
“Ryan and I used to make bets about how fast we could get out.” He let out a laugh. “You should see Keith. If he gets bored he walks away from people mid-sentence. Abe pretends his mom’s calling.”
“Aw, that’s a cute one.”
“Yeah, that’s why he does it. Subtle publicity work when he’s hemmed in by old ladies. I don’t think he pulls that one on guys.” He quirked a brow. “Speaking of mothers. I have some ideas for how we should spend the rest of the day.”
“Like eating bonbons and checking out the Louvre and the gadgetty, steampunky museum?”
For one hopeful moment, interest distracted him, and then he leveled a deliberate look at me. “Like I looked up your mother.”
I let my head thump down on him. “Nooo.”
He marched on. “Apparently, when she moved to Paris at thirteen, she lived in model housing in, coincidentally, this neighborhood.”
All of a sudden hot anger swamped me. I shoved my hair out of my face. “Who cares? What do you want to do, traipse around her old stomping grounds? What’s that going to do?”
He shrugged, still keeping those light, steady eyes fastened on me. “It’s where she grew up.”
I snorted. “She never grew up.”
“Can you blame her?”
I tilted my head, some of my anger fading at the odd note in his voice.
He stared at the Eiffel Tower. “She spent years working when she should have been having a childhood.”
I also looked at the metal structure. “It got her fame and money.”
“Was it worth it?”
He looked so calm, his chiseled face imperturbable. It struck me how few people he ever let in, how few realized there was anything behind the charm. “I don’t know. Was it?”
He turned back to me and reached out to trace my cheekbone with his finger. “I’m just saying. It was a large part of her life.”