The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (34 page)

 
Fortunately, long hair was the trend in Paris, and with my long locks, I looked as if I belonged, even though I didn’t feel as if I did. My hair was thick, long and blonde, similar to one of my best friend’s hair.

Her name -
Carrie
Bradshaw. Okay, so she wasn’t
really
my best friend per se. However, since it’s the only series I have found in Paris that was televised in English, I didn’t feel so alone. And, as if I was the only American girl lost in a foreign country.  Thank God, her popularity was also a big hit in Paris.

I had spent many lonely nights with her and discovered that we definitely had a lot in common. Fiction meets reality. She was a writer, and so was I. We were both from New York City, and we both had BIG men problems! Only, unlike Carrie, I came to Paris to find a lover while
she
went to Paris with a lover. Of course, that didn’t turn out so well for her. I hoped to have better luck than she did.

-39-

Out of nowhere

When I reached over to retrieve my
Louboutin
bag and boots, I found that I was sitting a step up from the graffiti that some lovebirds from long ago had carved—two connecting hearts. Unfortunately, their names in the center of each heart were no longer legible from being walked on for so long. They had faded away with time, but for some reason the outline of the two hearts remained untouched.

I sat there drunk and alone while continuously tracing my finger around the outline of the two hearts. In the center of one of the hearts was a deep hole as if the wood had been chipped away when the carving was done, or later, as the spot had become worn. I wondered who the lovers were and whether their love lasted forever?
 

A deeper sense of isolation settled in my heart. I wished that I was with someone, anyone, no,
the right one
! Would anyone carve my initials, or my name, inside of a heart and proclaim their love for me? At the rate I was going I doubted it. Who would have thought I would end up this way? Before moving to Paris, back in New York, I had become a recluse during the last year, yet a successful novelist, tiptoeing toward the next decade of my life alone and spending too many hours slouched over my computer. After my breakup, the only comforts that I had found to keep me warm at night were a mug of authentic hot chocolate, my grandmother’s shawl, or an occasional glass of vin rouge to help put me to sleep. They were hardly a substitute for the feeling of a man’s arms wrapped around me.

Now I was alone in the city of love—what a waste. It was my hope Paris would open new doors, hell, I’d settle for a simple window.

A cool and sobering breeze fluttered through my hair. I gazed out the large window and wished away the glass building across the street, imagining that I could see the Eiffel Tower directly from my seat. I wanted to see the dark sky and all the beautiful stars twinkling in the night. But, there were no stars to be seen. The only thing I could see was that
damn
glass building, blocking the best view that Paris had to offer. So much for seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, like the view Dr. Piccart’s ancestors marveled over many years ago. 

I sighed heavily, grasping onto the banister of the stairwell in an attempt to stand and dropped my bag. I was too drunk to bend over to get it, so in the moment I left it there. I sank my bum back down onto the saggy wooden step.
 

I heard the sound of a door creaking on the ground floor level. I sat very still, hidden in the shadows. Out of nowhere Dr. Piccart poked his head into the stairwell, looking up. He wore an old-fashioned quilted satin smoking jacket over a pair of red silk pajamas and had black leather slippers on his feet. His outfit wouldn’t have been complete without the ascot that he donned too. What an image!

“Bonjour, Dr. Piccart.” I did my best greeting him, complete with an overly exaggerated French accent, but it was pretty pathetic by any standards.

“I thought I heard you come in, Brielle.” His eyes questioning
why
I was sitting on the stairs. “Are you okay, mademoiselle?” he asked.

“
Oui
, I am fine, it’s just my feet…they hurt terribly, and I ate too much, drank way too much and smoked one too many cigarettes. I just wanted to rest here on the stairs for a minute. I’m feeling a little sick.” I felt my stomach gurgle at the mention of the word sick.

“I remember those days all too well.” He smiled as he inhaled deeply, pressing his lips together into a straight line. Then, he released a long breath and sighed, perhaps, reflecting for a moment. “Well, dear, you have a good night then...this old guy is going back to bed.” He turned and slowly made his way back to his flat.
 

“
Bein Sur. Merci
, Dr. Piccart,” I called out after him, practicing my
petit
French. 

“Hold onto the banister when you go up, dear.
 Those stairs are as rickety and as ancient as me.” His voice resonated through the corridor. “I wouldn’t want you to fall.” 

“I won’t!
Bonne nuit!”
My voice echoed into the night. The lobby grew silent, so much so that I heard the deadbolt on his front door click into place. I was alone, again. 

The alcohol was taking its toll. I vowed to myself never to drink again. We should have stopped at a glass or two rather than indulging on the two or three bottles that were sent to our table by a few interested men.

A melancholy feeling pressed hard on my heart. I thought of my ex Spencer and the heartache and despair of how things ended so badly between us. I closed my eyes in an attempt to hold back the long overdue tears. I hadn’t shed a single one since the day we said our goodbyes. 

“You look so very sad,” A man’s voice came out of the silence.

I let out a scream at the top of my lungs, quickly recognizing that Dr. Piccart had returned. He was a sneaky cat. 

“Oh, Dr. Piccart you nearly gave me a heart attack.” I inhaled deeply, trying to hide my sudden scare.

“I am sorry dear, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” 

“It’s alright. I’m just glad it was you.” My voice was breathless.

“Just little old me. I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged.

“Oh dear. I hope I didn’t disturb you.” I sighed.

“Not at all. I have a fire stoking in my living room. Would you like to come down and sober up with some coffee? I just set up my projector, and I am about to screen a vintage film that I restored. It might be one of the most complete versions of the original
Lost Horizon,
and I am about to find out if it contains the missing scenes.”

“Oh, that
is
one of my favorite old movies and so nice of you to ask, but can I take a rain check on that. I’m already halfway up the stairs, and I’m feeling a little sick. If I have any problems falling asleep, I’ll write a bit, and the way I am feeling tonight will throw that much more pathos into creating a plot for the novel. I need something good,” I whispered, barely audible. “But, thanks again for the invite.”

“You’re welcome, Brielle. I hope you find some personal happiness here in Paris. Your work is very good, which is why we invited you to the program. I can tell you that you were chosen because you are meant to be here, and to do something even more important than writing a mystery novel in Paris.”

“Aww, thank you for your confidence in me,” I humbly replied. 

“Always,” he said. “Sorry I can’t climb the stairs and visit with you longer.” He patted his thighs. “The phlebitis in my legs keeps me on the ground floor of everything as you know…
Bonne nuit
.”

I said good night as he went into his apartment. I faintly heard the whirl of a film projector followed by the opening music credits of a movie. He’d probably fall asleep before the ending.

-40-

Coveting thy neighbors

I went a bit higher on the stairs, a few more steps up, so Dr. Piccart couldn’t see me if he came out into the hallway again. I drew my knees up against my breasts and held them in tightly with my arms, feeling vulnerable if I wasn’t all tucked up inside of myself. I felt the pressing of tears behind my eyes.

I lowered my head and rested my chin there, focusing on the fashionable tattered rip in the kneecap of my jeans. It reminded me of how Spencer used to slide his fingertips into the torn holes of my jeans to caress my skin. It’s funny how the mind works—it’s the sweet little things someone does that we never forget. Too bad we didn’t share the same dreams!

I closed my eyes and struggled to shake off his memory, to no avail, a cathartic cry escaped my lips. Nine months of pent up emotions touched every corner of me.

Tears stung against my wind burnt cheeks. He was gone, and so was our love—the love that I had been counting on to last forever. But it had not. I wanted to hate him, to love him, and to be with him. I still missed him, so much, but it was time to let go!
Que Sera, Sera!

“Nothing is forever,” I purged out loud. I didn’t care who heard my cries as my voice echoed against the old walls of the brownstone.

Suddenly, I saw a light burning brightly through my closed eyelids. I blinked a few times to clear the blurriness caused by my tears and lifted my head. The light was coming from my neighbor’s window from the building across the way.

The large window in the atrium of my building had morphed into a live-action theater, and my neighbors were the stars of their own little private sex show. I wiped away the salty teardrops that clung to my lips.
 

“Oh, my…my…” I whispered all breathy.

I was surprised at how vividly I could see the smallest details inside their flat, from the artwork and the tacky tassels on accent pillows, to a cigarette burning away in a red hand-blown glass ashtray. At first, I only saw the man removing his jacket, then, tossing it on the back of a chair. 

He picked up a remote control off the table and pointed it toward the stereo system. I could see all the lights fire up on the system. He was tall and rather slender with wavy coal-black hair, much leaner than I preferred, although I could see he packed some nice muscles beneath the white t-shirt he wore. His hips were narrow, which caused an illusion of him having very broad shoulders.

A striking female appeared behind him and encircled her arms around his waist. She gripped onto his torso tightly as her fingers reached down towards his groin. He whisked her around to the front of him, pulling her into his chest. She clasped her arms around his neck, dangling her body weight against his. She flipped her head backwards, an expression of laughter dancing across her face. Her bold ruby-red lipstick contrasted brightly against her pale ivory skin. 

It was so retro, the way her light brown hair cascaded down around her shoulders into smooth, polished finger waves. She wore a hip-hugging black pencil skirt and stockings paired with high-heeled black Mary Jane pumps.

I could see mounds of cleavage protruding above her disheveled white button-up blouse. It was unlikely that she was a French girl with all those humps wiggling in different directions. Most French girls are much thinner in comparison to this dame. 

The couple embraced each other passionately, kissing and stumbling into pieces of furniture as they made their way to the sofa; it was both comical and sensual. The man sat down and clutched her by her hourglass waist. He attempted to pull her into him.

She leaned back, pretending to resist his efforts, teasingly, I could tell. A flirtatious smile beamed across her face as she began to dance erotically, circling her hips from side to side. 

I licked my lips, watching them, feeling shame boiling up inside of me, and yet, also, an impassioned yearning. I couldn’t have ripped my eyes away for anything
.

It’s wrong, I know, to spy on others, but after all, aren't we always voyeurs when we go to the movies? I justified away the guilt by telling myself that I was only doing what a movie audience would do—looking through a lens, in this case, a window, at the private lives of strangers.
 

The dark-haired beauty balanced on one leg and raised the other, slightly bent at the knee and swayed it above his lap. The man ran his hands up her leg and under her skirt then slowly back down to her ankles and removed her high heel. He carefully set the shoe on the floor under the sofa. He repeated this with her other leg.

Next, she seductively positioned her foot in the center of his manhood, calling to attention his sex with her probing toes. He leaned back into the sofa pressing his pelvis toward her. She gracefully shimmied her skirt up to the fullest part of her hips, lifting one leg straight out and placed the ball of her foot on the frame of his shoulder for balance.

She then adjusted her garter and began removing her silk stocking. His eyes grazed over her body with admiration and paused directly between her thighs. After she unfastened and removed the other stocking, she danced, using the stockings like a feather boa. She then held each stocking in separate hands; twisting her wrists into circles, which made the stocking spiral.