Page 154

“If I wanted to surprise my wife, how would I get to the village?”
Twenty minutes later, I’m walking through a fairy-tale French village at twilight. The houses and shops are smooshed together, the buildings made of brick and stone, the narrow alleys strung with lights and bursting with blooms that pour from containers on the streets, mounted to the walls, dripping from windowsills.
I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t surrounded by glitz and gold. But there’s elegance here, evident in everything from the well-placed signs advertising the various shops and establishments to the quaint iron lanterns lining the roads. There’s history, too, from the placards noting the years various structures were built to the well-maintained but worn cobblestones beneath my feet. It’s like stepping into another world. I pass shops featuring everything from glass-blown sculptures to artisanal crafted pastries.
I pass a small restaurant, then pause and double back. Juliette is sitting at a little table on a small patio. My eyes devour her. She’s wearing a pale green shirt and a white skirt that falls just past her knees. She’s flipping through her camera, a small smile on her face. I wait a moment, making a mental note of details like the strand of hair framing her face, the spark of happiness when she sees something on her camera screen.
I want to stop time. To freeze this moment and have her be this way forever. Happy. Content.
Slowly, I approach. I don’t know what to expect. The way she confided in me that night at the Eiffel Tower, the way she curled into me after we made love, I thought her just as affected—if not more—than I. But with her casual dismissal in the cemetery, I don’t know what I’m more afraid of: her indifference or her affection.
She looks up as I approach. I see surprise in her eyes before a veil drops over her face and she gives me a polite smile.
“Gavriil.”
“May I join you?”
“Of course.”
A waitress appears moments after I sit. I order a glass of merlot and a plate of assorted cheeses, crackers and fruit.
“What are you looking at?”
Juliette freezes, her hands tightening on her camera. I watch the myriad of emotions cross her face: uncertainty, pride, fear.
Then, slowly, she hands me the camera. I don’t tell her how much it means to me that she’s trusted me with whatever has captured her attention.
I toggle through the photos, not bothering to hide my surprise at the quality of the images she’s captured. The most recent ones are of the village, tourists examining the wares in various shops. An elderly shopkeeper grinning at the camera, the missing tooth adding a touch of character to her broad grin as she gestures to a wall of colorful scarves. Photos of the castle I had noticed the day before, the lighting just right to give the battlements an ethereal touch. Then further still, to Paris. The landmarks are beautiful. But it’s the people she’s captured that impress me the most. Raw yet powerful, personal yet professional.
“You’ve been hiding something from me.”
She tenses, tries to mask it by picking up her glass of wine.
“Like what?”
“Your photography.”
Pink colors her cheeks as she murmurs a soft thank you, trying to pass it off as casual. But I’ve come to know her better than that. I know these photos mean something to her. I take a risk.
“Is this part of that new project you’ve been alluding to?”
She stills. Her eyes dart from side to side as if she’s trying to seek an escape.
“Et voilà!”
The waitress appears with my wine and the charcuterie tray, setting it down alongside a bowl of colorful ratatouille and another glass of wine for Juliette.
After she leaves, Juliette’s gaze flicks between me and the camera.
“Yes.”
The one word sounds like it’s been dragged out of her. Given our last serious conversation, I don’t blame her. I all but pushed her as far away from me as possible. Asking her to share something so personal makes me a bastard.
Before I can tell her she doesn’t have to share, her fingers wrap around the stem of her wineglass and she sighs.
“Did you read my article on the Walter human trafficking case?”
I nod. Peter Walter, renowned hotelier, suspected of smuggling priceless artifacts out of Central and South America. But it wasn’t just art he’d been dealing in. He had been using his network of luxury hotels to smuggle in people, primarily women, with the promise of work, only to turn them over to a network of sex traffickers.