Dating Game (36 page)

There were other things they saw differently too. He had a more casual work ethic than she, and the people he liked were younger, which made her uncomfortable. She preferred hanging out with people closer to her own age. And the people he brought home from the magazine were in their twenties and made her feel ancient. And one of the important topics they disagreed about was marriage.

Jean-Pierre talked a lot about it. Paris never did. She avoided it discreetly. There were times when she actually thought about it, and wondered if it could ever work with him long term, but there were subtle hints, to her, that it couldn't, that it would be too big a stretch. The people he liked, his boyishness, which translated to juvenile to her at times. And although he wasn't a socialist, he had very definite political ideas that were far more liberal than hers. He thought riches of any kind were offensive. He detested all things bourgeois. He hated old-fashioned ideas, and traditions and obligations that seemed pointless to him. He was very avant-garde and free in his thinking. He believed in high taxes, for the good of the people. And he detested anything elitist with a passion. The parties she and Bix organized always irritated him, because he thought the people were so pretentious. And they were, some of them, but she and Bix loved them, for the most part. And elitism was the essence of their business. Some of his ideas she knew were because he was French. But the essence of it was that he was young. It did make a difference. And the only ancient tradition he believed in was marriage, because he was a romantic, and believed in commitment, which she admired in him. Unlike Chandler Freeman, who was committed to nothing and no one. But Jean-Pierre was the reverse side of that coin, and he often pressed her and asked if she thought she would marry him one day. And threatened that, if she wouldn't, he would move on. She never promised that she would, and she thought about it herself from time to time, but never as often as he did, and she came to different conclusions, on her own. She thought that over time the difference in their age and philosophies would pull them apart, rather than the reverse.

Meg asked her about it before they left Squaw Valley. She had finally taken several runs down the mountain with Jean-Pierre and her brother, while Richard and Paris skied the easier runs in the afternoon. And that night she questioned her mother about Jean-Pierre.

“Are you thinking of marrying him, Mom?” she asked with a look of concern.

“No, I'm not. Why?”

“I just wondered. I went up on the chair with him today, and he said he hoped you would, and maybe next summer we could all take a trip to celebrate. I didn't know if that was his idea or yours.” She looked worried.

“His,” Paris said with a sigh, but it made her sad anyway. She knew that one day reality would have to be faced. She couldn't imagine committing the rest of her life to a man his age. A boy, as she thought of him at times, although he hated it when she said that. But he was. He was carefree and independent, and very young. He was a free spirit, detested schedules and plans, and was always late. It was hard at times to think of him as an adult. He had never had the responsibilities she had, and had no idea what they meant. It was hard to explain away time, or change it, to add it or subtract it at will. It wasn't an easy thing to do, even when the reasons for it were good. Time and history and experience were what they were, and couldn't be discounted or erased. They had to be earned, like patina on bronze. It took a long time to get there, and once it was there, it stayed. She knew it would be years before Jean-Pierre was responsible or even mature, if he ever was.

“He's terrific, and I like him a lot,” Meg said honestly, careful not to hurt her mother's feelings, but she had her own ideas, and Paris didn't disagree with them. They were similar to her own. “But a lot of the time, he reminds me of Wim. A little careless, a little crazy, they just don't see the whole picture, they're too busy having a good time. Not like you. You understand a lot more about people, who they are, what they need, and why they do what they do. He seems like such a kid.” The trouble was, he did to Paris too.

“Thank you,” Paris said with a warm look, she was touched. But she saw the same things in Jean-Pierre that Meg did. He was an irresistible, charming, delicious boy. But nonetheless a boy. Tenderhearted and loving, but irresponsible at times. He had never had to be otherwise, but she had, for many, many years. And she also thought he should have children one day, more than just a son he had been estranged from for all his life. And she wasn't going to have babies with him, although he had mentioned it more than once. He thought they should one day. Paris just couldn't see that, even if she could, which she was no longer sure was possible, not with ease anyway. Even if she started now, she'd be forty-eight when they had a child, which was pushing it, in her mind at least. And if they waited any longer, it wouldn't be possible at all. Not in a year or two, or five, when he'd be ready to settle down. There were so many reasons why marrying him didn't make sense, but loving him did. She just didn't have the answers yet. And in four months his visa would run out. That reality was going to force them both to make decisions they probably didn't want to make. And she was trying not to think of it. “Don't worry about it, Meg,” Paris reassured her.

“I just want you to be happy, Mom, whatever it takes. You deserve it. You've earned it after everything Daddy did.” She still felt terrible about that, and resentful of Rachel as a result. It had all been so unfair to her mom. “If you think you'd be happy with him forever, then do it, and we'll make the best of it. We all like him. I just don't think he's right for you in the long run.” She wanted someone who would take care of her mother, and she doubted Jean-Pierre ever would. It didn't even occur to him, which was part of Paris's appeal to him. She was totally capable of taking care of herself, and him, emotionally, which was all he wanted from her. But even that was a lot. Sometimes Paris felt like he was her third child.

“I don't think he's right for me either,” Paris said sadly. “I wish I did.” It would be so much simpler than going back out into the big bad ugly dating world again. She couldn't bear the thought. And Jean-Pierre was so sweet to her, sweeter than anyone had ever been. Even Peter. But sweet wasn't always enough. And love wasn't always enough. Sometimes life was just plain cruel, and no one was more aware of that than Paris.

And when she and Jean-Pierre snuggled in bed that night, all she could think of was how devastated she would be if she gave him up. She couldn't imagine that anymore either. There were a lot of decisions to make. But not yet.

And when they all went back to the city, they felt like a family, even Jean-Pierre. But as he cavorted in the snow, and then drove home with them in a van Paris had rented for the occasion, he seemed more like the kids than the adults. She knew exactly what Meg meant. He played tricks, he told jokes, and Paris loved all of that herself. He encouraged her playful side, and made her feel young again, but not young enough. He and Wim had constant snowball fights in Squaw Valley, but just like Wim, he never knew when to stop. They would pelt each other till they dropped, no matter what Paris said. And they came in soaking wet, and left their clothes strewn all over the floor. They were like two boys. Even Meg seemed more mature at twenty-four. And at times Paris and Richard would look over their heads, as they said something, or did something childish, and they seemed like parents to a Cub Scout troop. But there was no question, Jean-Pierre was a delicious cub. And she loved him like one of her own. She couldn't imagine giving him up.

The life Paris shared with Jean-Pierre was magical all the way into spring. On January 6, they celebrated Epiphany,
La Fête des Rois
, with a cake with a lucky “baby” in it, to bring luck all year to the one who found it. He bought the cake on his way home from work and explained it to her, and then they ate the cake, and when Paris found the baby, he cheered.

They drove to Carmel and Santa Barbara, went hiking in Yosemite, and visited Meg and Richard in Los Angeles. And on Valentine's Day, Meg called her mother, breathless with the news. But Richard had called Paris to ask her the day before, and she had approved. He had proposed, and they were getting married in September. He had given her an enormous ring. And she couldn't wait to show her mother.

And much to her consternation, Jean-Pierre gave her one too, a far simpler one than Richard had given Meg, but with equal meaning, though his came without a proposal, but the implication was clear. It was a gold band with a tiny diamond heart on it, and he put it on her left hand, which had seemed so naked to her for so long. She had missed her wedding ring so much and so often wished that she could still wear it, but it seemed a travesty now, with Peter married to someone else. Paris had loved all it stood for, and had never taken it off till the end. But Jean-Pierre's ring warmed her hand and her heart again, and made her wonder yet again if she should think seriously about spending the rest of her life with him. There were worse fates. She asked Bix what he thought of it, when they were talking about Meg's wedding one day, the week after she'd gotten engaged.

“You have to follow your heart,” he said sensibly. “What do you want?”

“I don't know. To be safe, I guess.” They were the first words that came to mind. After what had happened with Peter, that meant everything to her. But they both knew that in life everything was possible, and nothing was sure. There were no guarantees. Some risks were greater than others, and they seemed considerable to her with Jean-Pierre. He was undeniably young, though he had just turned thirty-three, which sounded better to her. But she was about to turn forty-eight in May, just over two months away. It sounded so old to her. And everything about him was young, his looks, his mind, his ideas. He was undeniably and irresistibly immature, and even if they had been the same age, their lifestyles and ideas and goals were often worlds apart. His sweetness appealed to her, and they loved each other. But Paris knew better than most that love was not always enough. He might grow up and feel differently one day, and fall in love with someone else. Or maybe not. Peter had. It had shaken her faith in everything, and now Jean-Pierre. It would forever taint whatever she loved or believed in or touched. There was no turning back the clock.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I just don't know if I love him enough.”

“How much is enough?”

“Enough to grow old together, and put up with all the miseries and disappointments that come your way in life.” They both knew that they never failed to come, no matter how much you loved someone. You had to be willing to stick it out. Peter wasn't. Would Jean-Pierre? Who the hell knew? Paris didn't. Nor did Bix. Jean-Pierre probably didn't know himself, but he thought he did. And in March, he proposed. His visa was running out in a month, and he wanted to know what Paris was going to do. She was desperately sorry he had asked. Once he did, there was no turning back. And he was devastated that she did not instantly accept. She gave it a great deal of thought.

He wanted her either to marry him so he could stay in the States and get a green card, or move back to Paris with him, so he could resume his life. But that meant giving up everything she had now. She loved working with Bix, and her life in San Francisco. It meant leaving the States. But Jean-Pierre was more than willing to stay. And he could only stay legally if they got married, so he could work. He felt he couldn't put off his real life any longer. He had given her a six-month gift. But she knew she couldn't hold him back forever. It wasn't fair to him. He had to go back to what he'd been doing before, as a star photographer in a bigger world. Or stay with her forever here, and drum up work on a bigger scale, probably in L.A. But they couldn't live in the twilight zone forever, as he pointed out to her when he told her how much he loved her, and wanted her to be his wife. In some ways, she wanted that too, but she couldn't help but worry about the future, and what would happen when he grew up, because he wasn't a grown-up yet. He was nearly there, but not quite, and his boyishness erupted constantly. It made her feel like his mother. And she hated that. She didn't want to be his mother. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to be his wife. There was no question that she loved him. The question was how much. And in all fairness to him, she felt he deserved someone who was sure.

It took her three weeks to figure it out, and it was already early April when they took a long walk in the Marina, and wound up on the lawn at the Palace of Fine Arts, sitting on the lawn, and watching the ducks. She loved going there with him. She loved going everywhere with him. It took every ounce of courage to say the fateful words to him that he had waited for, for three weeks. She said them in a whisper, and they tore at her heart, and were like a cannonball in his.

“Jean-Pierre, I can't marry you. I love you, but I just can't. The future is too uncertain … and you deserve so much more than I can give you … kids, if nothing else.” And he deserved to be a kid, if he wanted to be. The problem was, she needed an adult, and she wasn't sure he ever would be. Or not for a long time at least.

“Will you live with me in France, unmarried?” he asked in a strangled voice. His heart felt like a rock in his chest, just as hers once had. She knew it only too well, and hated doing it to him. But it was better this way in the long run. Better now than later. Better a terrible pain now than a total disaster later on, for both of them. She silently shook her head, and he walked home alone.

He said almost nothing to her that night, and he slept downstairs. He would not sleep with her again, would not touch her, would not beg her. And in the morning his bags were packed. She did not go to work that day, and they both cried uncontrollably when he left.

“I love you. I will always love you. If you want to come, I will be there. If you want me to come back, I will.” She couldn't have asked for more, and she was throwing it away. She felt insane. But right. At a terrible, terrible price. For both of them.
“Je t'aime”
were his last words.