It was now officially five years since Angela had arrived in this little town on the river; five years since she had first set eyes on the majestic fountain with its carefully hand-carved stone and sparkling pool of penny-dreams.
“Maman, maman – j’avoir un autre franc?” a little boy called as he ran excitedly to the fountain.
How many times had she sat here before, watching this same scene as children bolted from their parents’ sides to toss in their coins and make their wishes? When she first arrived she could barely make sense of the conversations whirling around her; her French mere rusty remnants of four high school years with Madame Voyant – the woman who’s voice seemed to sing through the trees,
“Mesdames et messierus, vous devez vous rappeler – la vie est ce que vous decidez d’en faire.”
Every once in a while Angela would spin to catch a glimpse of the woman she was so sure was there urging her on.
She thought back to the first time she had sat at this fountain, and how it was she had come to be here. After eight lonely nights of mourning the loss of her first true love, seven days of staring at crumpled up, soggy tissues and toilet paper tossed on the bedroom floor, and countless sunny afternoons wasted watching sappy chick flicks, she had known that she couldn’t continue on, holed up in that little apartment, wallowing amidst mounds of dirty laundry and stacks of pathetic movies. 10 Things I hate About You…How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days…He’s Just Not that Into You… all mirroring her sense of betrayal and self-pity – She had let Emily beg a little so that she could have the satisfaction of winning the argument, but it was never really a question of whether or not Angela would make the trip.
Emily had been her “bestie” since preschool and when she begged Angela to come for a visit (partly to cure her own loneliness, but mostly to help break her friend out of a major funk), it only took Angela a few minutes of visualizing herself crying to her oldest and dearest pal over a few glasses of French wine, while sitting at some cozy little bistro with red velvet chairs, and the tickets were as good as bought.
“Ange – you’ve been working 24/7 for over a year. And when you weren’t working, you were with him. You NEED some girlfriend time!”
“It’s not that I don’t want to go Em. But trips like this take time – and planning. How am I supposed to just take off for weeks on end and leave everything here behind? What about Scott and Zelda? What about my plants?”
“Seriously? Your plants? Don’t they have some kind of system for that these days? Or ask that old lady down the hall – she always liked you. She’d probably even feed the cats for you too.”
“And my job? They’re supposed to cover all of my shifts for two weeks?!”
“Three. Really, it’s best if you make it three, because it takes at least one week to get over the jet lag. And anyway, you know Tony has the hots for you anyway. You could go back in three years and he’d hand that job back to you on a silver platter.”
“Right. And is there anything I can say to convince you that this doesn’t make sense?”
“Nope. Not really.
“Right. Ok – you win. I’ll start looking into tickets this weekend.”
“Don’t worry – I found the perfect flights for you while we were talking. I’ll text you the details so you can book it. I gotta’ go. It’s three am and I have an early class in the morning. See you in a few days?”
“Umhmm. See you in a few days. I hope this doesn’t blow up in my face.”
“Love ya’. A tout a l’heure.”
“A tout a l’heure.”
She had come seeking company for her misery, and possibly a little fun distraction as she explored the French countryside. The plan was to stay for three weeks — long enough to start wearing mascara again without worrying about it streaking her cheeks in a watery mess, but not so long that she would have to risk losing her cute little studio just blocks from Central Park.
Since leaving grad school she had managed to put away a very small savings from the few essays she had sold and her weekend waitressing gig – certainly nothing to support an extended jaunt through the European countryside while paying her steep Upper East Side rent. She loved writing, and believed that the big payoff was coming, but at this point, a pretty smile, short skirt, and a little ass-kissing to the snobby post-Broadway Show crowd was what had been paying the bills. Maybe she could squeeze in a travel essay or two for Journey Woman or RoadJunky, but she knew that real life had a way of calling you back, so she made arrangements for friends to cover three weeks of mail pickup, cat feedings, and plant waterings, and bought a round-trip ticket that would have her in that cozy bistro chair by the weekend; back home, rested and renewed three Sundays after that.
—
In the end, Emily had been the one to wave her teary good-byes from the train window as she pulled away from the station, making her way to Charles de Gualle Airport, and the long flight back home.
“A bientôt – me manques déjà.”
“Bon voyage. Appels moi quand tu arriver.”
For Angela, the three weeks of planned vacation had turned into an eight-month opportunity to make a little cash, writing and waitressing (thankfully able to build on the little bit of French she had arrived with) while Emily finished out her courses at the CLA. Eventually the program ended, and time came for Emily to return to the States and start the job that had been waiting for her – only Angela decided to stay.
Now, five years later, she was still here, having moved only a short distance from that first apartment she had crashed in with Emily. The place, located on Quai de Strasbourg, was cute and neat with a few thoughtfully filled bookshelves, and a work desk by the sunny window overlooking Le Doubs, the river that lovingly encircled the heart of town. Better yet, it was a short walk to her beloved fountain, and the square where the handsome vendor sold her favorite late afternoon snack – fresh warm waffles sprinkled with a dusting of cinnamon and a dash of romance. Her parents and her sister had managed a few visits over the years, and Emily even squeezed in two summer vacations, but the reunions were always on the same side of the Atlantic.
For whatever reason, Angela could never bring herself to go back. She had gotten over the lost love, and even managed a couple of somewhat-serious flings; she now wrote quite regularly for a few big-name travel publications, and had proven herself not only as a writer, but more importantly as an independent soul. But for whatever reason, she equated her success and independence with her life here in this little town, unknown to most of the world. She reflected on all of this, psychoanalyzing herself as she often did, and remembered the phone call from just a few hours earlier.
“He’s dead” Emily had told her, in that breathy voice of hers that she liked to reserve for dramatic situations. The friends still spoke religiously by phone at least once a month, and texted selfies and fun updates usually several times each week, so phoned conversations often started mid-sentence as if they were picking up right where they had left off just a few moments earlier. But this one had her baffled. “Who’s dead? What are you talking about?” This news definitely wasn’t part of one of their recent chats. “Jack” Emily explained – the lost love that in many ways had changed Angela’s life forever.
“Dead? What are you talking about?”
“You remember David don’t you – the guy he roomed with right out of college?”
“Of course. Honestly, I used to give Jack a tough time about him, but he really was a pretty decent guy.”
“Well, I guess he and Jack reconnected after you two broke up. Jack was looking for a buddy to pal around with –“
“You mean bar hop with?”
“Anyway, they started hanging out again, but David was already pretty much settled with that girl Janie he dated in school. He used to invite Jack to things like Yankee and Ranger games, but I think even then he saw Jack kind of going in a different direction.”
“What does that mean? What kind of direction was he going in?”
“I guess it was a broker thing – he and his Wall Street buddies apparently knew how to party, and liked to show everyone that they were hot stuff. Anyway… I guess in the end Jack just couldn’t keep up. David thought you should know.”
—-
Despite the fact that Emily often felt she knew Angela better than she knew herself, it never occurred to her that this news would tear her best friend apart the way it did. Angela couldn’t have guessed that herself. In many ways, his leaving her was the gift that put Angela on the path to a successful writing career and life in the one place where she ever really felt at home. So why was she crying? How could she mourn the loss of something that had already been gone for so long? These were the thoughts that she would carry over the bridge, back to the neat little apartment overlooking the river. She would cry for this man once more, filling her bed with soggy wet tissues, and her pillowcase with smudged mascara. And in the morning, she would send a beautifully written, sincere letter of condolence to his family, make a cup of coffee, and slowly make her way back to the fountain. This time she would wish for peace for her first love’s final rest, and for her strength to finally, and fully move on.