But I’m grateful for a different reason.
This morning, Étienne received a phone cal . Susan St. Clair is not going to be the protagonist in a James Ashley novel. Her PET/CT scan was clear—
no evidence of cancer. She’l stil be tested every three months, but as of right now, this very moment, his mother is alive in the ful est sense of the word.
We’re out celebrating.
Étienne and I are sprawled before the Grand Bassin, an octagonal pool popular for sailing toy boats. Meredith is playing a league footbal game in an
indoor field across the street, and Josh and Rashmi are watching. We watched, too, for a while. She’s fantastic, but our attention to organized sports only lasts so long. Fifteen minutes into it, and Étienne was whispering in my ear and prodding me with lifted brows.
I didn’t take much convincing. We’l head back in a bit, to catch the end.
It’s strange that this is my first time here, because the garden rests against the Latin Quarter. I’ve been missing out. So far Étienne has shown me a
beekeeping school, an orchard, a puppet theater, a carousel, and a courtyard of gentlemen lost in boules, lawn bowling. He says we’re in the best park in all of Paris, but I think it’s the best park in the world. I wish I could take Seany here.
A tiny sailboat breezes behind us, and I sigh happily. “Étienne?”
We’re lying next to each other, propped up against the ledge of the Bassin. He shifts, and his legs find a comfortable spot against me. Our eyes are
closed. “Hmm?” he asks.
“This is sooo much better than a footbal game.”
“Mm, isn’t it, though?”
“We’re so rotten,” I say.
He slaps me with a lazy arm, and we laugh quietly. Sometime later, I realize he’s cal ing my name.
“Wha?” I must have drifted asleep.
“There’s a sailboat in your hair.”
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘There’s a sailboat in your hair.’”
I try to lift my head, but it snaps back, snagged. He wasn’t kidding. An agitated boy about Seany’s age approaches, speaking in rapid French. Étienne
laughs as I try to pry the toy’s sails from my head.The boat tips over, and my hair dips into the Bassin.The young boy shouts at me.
“Hel o, help?” I throw an exasperated look at Étienne, whose laughter has reduced him into a fit of giggles. He struggles up as the boy reaches for my
hair, tearing at the wet tangles.
“OUCH!”
Étienne snaps at him, and the boy lets go. Étienne’s fingers wrap around my hair and gently work the cloth and string and wood from it. He hands the
boat back to the boy and says something else, this time in a softer voice, hopeful y warning him to keep the boat away from innocent bystanders. The boy
clutches his toy and runs away.
I wring out my hair. “Ugh.”
“That’s very clean water.” He grins.