Page 37 of Across Time

"And speaks better French," he returns. "But yes, I see your point. I saw it long before you made it. Unlike you, I’ve always thought the ability to travel back in time would be an amazing gift to possess.”

We turn back toward the Seine, and once we find ourselves in the center of everything again, I push to eat at Les Deux Magots and he ignores me, insisting it’s not appropriate, and instead takes me to a small restaurant nearby, the kind with silver and white linen and waiters in tuxedos. Even Mark’s parents don’t dine like this, at least not that I’ve seen.

"This doesn't seem like the dining establishment of poor farmers,” I say once we are seated.

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "You're forgetting I don't have to pretend to be a poor farmer when I’m here."

He orders what sounds to me like a stunning amount of food, but it comes out in small courses, each served with tiny glasses of wine. And as the meal winds on, Henri grows warmer, less guarded. We talk about art and architecture and school. He asks what I would do if I were forced to remain in 1938 and I laugh.

“You mean the way I’m being forced right now?”

“Even worse,” he says, raising a brow. “I mean permanently. If something happened—if you stayed for so long you couldn’t go home again—what would you do?”

I take a sip of my wine, considering the question. “I think I could do here what I hope to do at home anyway—find struggling artists and help promote their work.”

He grins. “You mean discover someone who’s famous in your day before they are discovered by someone else and profit from their work?”

I make a face at him. “Of course not. That would be cheating, first of all. Secondly, it’s not about the money, obviously. I could have plenty of that if I needed it. It’s just about helping people who deserve to be helped, though I’d have plenty of staff to make my life easier while I did it.”

He gazes at me over the rim of his glass. “That sounds almost altruistic, little thief.”

“Despite what you think,” I retort, “I’m not evil.”

He takes a sip of his wine and shakes his head. “I’m not the one of the two of us who believed that anyway.”

Our meal continues in this way—some teasing, some arguing, a great deal of laughter—until the bell rings four o’clock and my jaw drops. "We've been here for two hours?"

He laughs. "Perhaps my company is not as terrible as you previously believed. But we should go to your shops before they close so you can get your, um, things," he says.

I grin. "You mean the bra? For my breasts?" I'm not sure why I love baiting him as much as I do.

He closes his eyes as if praying for patience. "My God, you never stop. But yes, that. And get yourself some dresses too," he adds. "Since you’ll be staying a while."

For the first time, he doesn’t sound like he’s sorry that’s the case.

* * *

The ride home is quiet, but it’s a companionable silence. I think about the tentative plans Mark and I made for our meeting in Paris—he’d mentioned Saint-Germain-des-Pres specifically. And I’m sure if we do wind up there, it will be great. Just not the same kind of great.

"Thank you," I say, as we pull up to the house. I think back over our day—lunch, Notre Dame, the gardens—and can’t pick out a favorite moment. Even bra shopping was fun, particularly the moment when I caught Henri—standing just outside the lingerie department—trying to see what I was buying. "Today was...magical. I never in a million years thought I'd get to see Paris in the 1930s and eat in the same restaurant Picasso dined in the night before."

He considers me for a moment. "You do realize that it was possible because of your gift? That a million other adventures beyond this one are still possible. Even if your ability is not strong enough to go much further back, surely there are things you still want to see?"

"Why are you constantly on me about this?" I sigh. "Why can't you just respect my decision and let it go?"

"Because you seem to willfully ignore all the good it can do. All the good it's done. Your gift made today possible—how can you wish that away?”

I feel emotions spinning inside my chest: confusion and anger and sadness. He isn’t wrong, but he also isn’t right, and I can’t explain that to him.

"Because," I reply, climbing from the car, "there's no amount of good that can make up for the harm it's already done."

15

So,” Marie says to me over dinner, wincing, “Madame Beauvoir has given you a job.”

My head jerks up. "Me?"

Henri glares at his sister. “This had better be a joke. She is not taking a job, I can tell you that much right now.”