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Page 31.
 She nodded, staring down into her tightly welded hands. “I am too.” She said quickly, “Look, I want to say thanks. It was swell, yesterday, the Beach Boys.”
“It was fun,” he agreed.
She laughed directly. “Guilt sort of adds spice.”
He finished tying his shoes and folded his hands between his knees. “I wasn’t looking for the guilt part. I supposed I deserve it.”
She leaned over, folding her arms so her elbows rested on her thighs. “It was a long time coming. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.”
He said, “How can you laugh and cry at the same time?”
She fumbled for a tissue. “Talent. I’m kind of silly.”
He laid his hand on her leg. “Do I cause that?”
She shook her head, dabbing her eyes. “We make our own circus.”
He rose, feeling sweat break out at the back of his collar. “Look, Emma. Can we sort of…just treasure what happened? Can we sort of…say it was swell?”
She grinned. “I realize now that I really want you to love and leave. Go on, Lothario. Split, will you?” she nudged him. “Abandon ship.”
He stared at the telephone by the couch—a mistake, he suspected dimly then, and would later realize.
She put her hands on his shoulder and kissed him briefly but warmly behind the ear, a friendship gesture.
“Go, Léopold Montblé, split. Write something in remembrance of me. A lovely silly and ultimately pointless poem in which you charge around in your little cabriolet with flags flying and Beach Boys playing…”
He turned away. “Should Léopold Montblé write that you were in distress? Did you hang your hair from the window? Did he slip in the ivy and sprain his ankle? Was there a pointlessness clause contractual and in writing? And what, pray, was the essence of this dragon you say you heard flying around your tournelle, dear lady?”
“Let’s say the lady was undecided about the rescue.”
He tried to take her in his arms. She wriggled away. She smiled broadly. “Time ran out and the lady was still clueless. The call for help was premature. Léopold Montblé rode off vowing to help—whenever, if ever, requested.”
Marc made a wry face, feeling pained. He remembered, “Léopold Montblé had a pressing commitment which caused him to ride away without helping the lady. It was a prior commitment not to become committed.”
At the door she framed his cheeks between her hands and said, “Léopold Montblé helped the lady very, very much by his mild manner and…oh, go will you? You’ll be late for your lawn mowing.”
He bounded down the stairs, into the green blossoming of true spring, unburdened, freed from the sudden tangle.
Putting the top down, he rode off hurriedly into the sunshine and stray dew droplets. The last tea leaves were gathered around street drains, waiting to be swept from their gravel and asphalt beaches down into the pipes and the Seine and ultimately the distant North Atlantic Ocean.
A week passed, and spring rolled into an unusually hot summer that year. He debated if he should call again. He didn’t want to hurt her in any way, and this seemed dangerous. He didn’t want to get into sauce either. But then he couldn’t stand the abstinence from that warmth of her soul together with his, and called her.
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