Page 13 of Here in My Heart (Here Together #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sylvie hooked her arm through Isa’s as she stepped off the tram. They’d made it to the very end of the tracks, where Sylvie had been promised a treasure trove of antiques.

The Sunday morning sunshine delivered, and she was glad to be back in the city after her séjour at her parents’ place.

She’d made it through the first weeks of the year without losing too many students to alcohol poisoning, spiraling debt, or homesickness.

It was time to prepare for the coming winter months and hunker down until the spring.

“How was your reading week?” Isa asked.

“About a hundred and fifty papers deep and five seminar plans wide. How about you?”

“Same. With extra wine.”

“Of course. I was waited on hand and foot by my doting parents, who seem to have a new lease on life now they’re retired. It’s all home-grown veggies and afternoon strolls.”

“So it should be.” Isa sidestepped a hurried trader. “That’s what I aspire to once I’ve finished topping up my pension pot here.”

Sylvie frowned. “Don’t you think you’re a bit young to be thinking about your pension?”

“I am very serious about retirement planning.” Isa looked like she was trying to keep her face serious. “That is, will I have enough to buy a vineyard in my fifties?”

“I’ll go Dutch with you on the vineyard. Tuscany? Or Provence?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever afford Provence on our teaching salaries, my angel. Let’s set our sights a little lower. Perhaps a small plot in Bulgaria?” Isa’s coarse laughter rang out across the rows of stalls .

“Speak for yourself! I intend to make my millions from touring a one-woman show with my unique commentary on European feminism.”

“I’ll buy a ticket.”

“I’m not sure anyone else will.” Sylvie groaned, stepping over the carpet of a stallholder laying out his secondhand wares. “I need to finish the book before I can go on tour.”

“How’s it going?”

“Let me think. If I was to compare my progress to say, the harvest of a vineyard, the roots are strong, but this season has yet to produce the yield we were expecting.”

Isa chuckled. “The fruit has not yet sprung?”

“Oh, it has sprung. There are words aplenty: too many words, according to my editor. They’ve yet to ripen. To mature into their full-bodied potential.”

“This analogy is making me thirsty.”

Sylvie looked over the tram car park hosting the oversized yard sale. “Does this happen every weekend?”

“Yep.”

“People just come down here and walk around people’s junk.”

“It’s not all junk, sweetie.”

Sylvie raised her eyebrow. Much of it looked like the rejects of a thrift store. It was hardly the Parisian flea market she used to meander on her free weekends.

Isa flicked her gaze beyond the stalls. “Shall we find a bar?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Sylvie rubbed her hands together. “Did you bring your chess set?”

“I don’t travel without it. You never know when you might meet someone who’s up for a quick game.” Isa winked. “Talking of which, that woman behind us can’t keep her eyes off you. You should chat. Maybe invite her to join us.”

Sylvie snuck a look behind her at the figure in question. Tall, attractive, and looking straight at her. She cricked her neck to face forward, hushing Isa’s gleeful excitement. “That’s enough. She’ll know we’re talking about her.”

“Well, don’t talk about her, talk to her.” Isa shoved her toward the next stall, right into the path of the stranger.

Sylvie smiled politely, raising an object to inspect it.

“Nice ashtray,” the woman said, her voice like velvet.

“Isn’t it?” Sylvie gulped.

“You don’t see many of that type anymore. It could be mid-century. Perhaps even pre-war.”

On any other day, Sylvie would’ve enjoyed a conversation about the weight of the marble.

It may have even led to a drink or two at a bar.

But today, she shut down and strolled to the next table.

She had enough going on in her life without spending energy nurturing another connection that would cost her time and emotion.

She glanced at Isa, grateful for her company. As she moved along the stalls, she noticed a postcard of a Francois Truffaut film, its familiar New Wave artistry standing out among a table full of trash. “How much is this?” she asked the stallholder.

He mumbled something and pointed to the sticker on the back. A single euro. She remembered the night she’d shared with Ade a few weeks ago: the peaks and troughs of Ade’s passion and ambivalence for the film. What would Ade make of this little card?

“You brushed her off?” Isa nudged Sylvie.

“The stranger? There was nothing to brush off. We were simply stood together at a table full of questionable antiques.”

Isa pursed her lips. “I’ve told you before, Sylvie: your dream woman is not going to fall at your feet, however beautiful your shoes are.”

“That may be. But she wasn’t the one.” Sylvie shrugged. “And I came to spend time with you, not some stranger.”

Isa huffed. “Shall we go?”

“Let me just buy this card.” Sylvie passed over a euro in exchange for the tatty postcard. A thread of connection was weaving its way between her and Ade. She couldn’t describe it in words, but the anticipation filling her chest when she safely pocketed her postcard was undeniable.

“So you went out with them all to a bar?” Sylvie shook her head, horrified that Ade would hit the town with her students.

“You don’t approve?” Ade asked.

“It’s never wise to mix with the…” Sylvie hesitated. Who was she to dictate who Ade should socialize with? “Students.”

“Hey, I’d prefer a hard and fast rule around it all.

I like a firm boundary. But in this case I’m getting paid to see them through this year, and part of that involves organizing a social once per semester.

It’s kind of a gray area, don’t you think?

” Ade licked the remnants of her sticky pastry from her fingers, sending a flutter of interest through Sylvie’s ribcage.

“You’re somewhat of an anomaly when it comes to student and staff relations, yes.”

Ade didn’t fit in any of the boxes, and that wasn’t helping Sylvie stick to her own ethics when it came to thinking about her.

Colette approached with a hand towel thrown over her shoulder. “Do you need any more coffee over here?”

Sylvie raised her eyebrow in Ade’s direction, allowing her to take the lead.

“I’d like another one. How about you?”

Sylvie relaxed a little further under Ade’s watchful gaze. The afternoon light was falling, and Colette’s low lamps illuminated Ade’s handsome features.

“Sylvie?” Colette said.

“Oh, yes, please.” She giggled, caught out in her daydream. “Thank you, Colette. You look extra busy this afternoon.”

“It’s been steady all week. I’m grateful for the business, to be honest.” She strode to the counter to ring up their drinks.

Sylvie turned to Ade, and the crowded room almost disappeared from view. Ade leaned her chin against the palm of her hand, and the hint of a smile played at her lips.

“What’s funny?” Sylvie asked, a shyness prompting her to cover her cheeks with her palms. However much she indulged her enjoyment of Ade as a spectacle, the prospect of Ade staring back was too much.

“Nothing. I like seeing you in this space, that’s all.” Ade reclined. “You look so comfortable and relaxed.”

“And I usually look like I have a stick up my ass, as you Americans might say?” Sylvie frowned with mock indignation.

“No. You’re a little different on campus is all. Professor Boucher is revered and respected.” Ade scratched her ear. “Sylvie is humble and loved by her neighbors.”

It had been such a long time since anyone had seen past Sylvie’s work wardrobe and persona that she was taken aback by Ade’s insights.

It revealed a deeper understanding than she’d given Ade credit for.

Sylvie drew her cardigan closed in a moment of vulnerability.

Not wishing to shut Ade down completely, she met her eye contact and mirrored her softened gaze across the table.

Colette returned. “Two more coffees. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Sylvie said. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a something for you.” She pulled out the postcard from her bag and passed it to Ade.

“Really?” Ade’s eyes widened, and a faint blush crept up her neck. “ La Nouvelle Vague .” She traced the bright block of color with her finger, outlining the monochrome image of the short-haired woman smoking a cigarette. “She’s beautiful.”

“Is she?” Sylvie touched the tattered card, strangely a little embarrassed by the gift.

“She has stunning eyelashes and lips,” Ade said, pointing at the card.

“I like how you see that.” Sylvie looked into Ade’s eyes. “This genre of film was about playing with the male gaze and how beauty was depicted.”

“Why was it always from a man’s perspective? It’s annoying. ”

“It was just what happened at the time. Men were earning the money to make and consume films, so they made what they wanted to. Thankfully, it fueled a whole world of research into what makes a woman when she’s portrayed through her own eyes or the eyes of another woman.

” Sylvie took a breath. “Women see other women completely differently.”

Ade bit her lip in a way that made Sylvie want to reach out and run her finger along her cheek.

“I just prefer the natural world, where there’s an equilibrium of roles.

” Ade straightened in her seat, as if she was aware of Sylvie’s lingering gaze.

“Everything has its purpose, and one sex isn’t more important than another.

” She stared at the image for a moment longer and stiffened. “Thank you.”

Sylvie drew back. What had happened? Ade seemed closed off, and her cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

“I have to go,” Ade said, pulling a handful of euros from her pocket.

“It’s okay; I’ll get these,” Sylvie said, a little confused by Ade’s sudden exit.

“I really appreciate the postcard,” Ade said.

And then she was gone.

Sylvie sipped at her own drink and replayed the last minute.

Did we just have a moment? It was like they’d connected on a deeper level, only for the wires to cross.

Maybe she’d misread Ade’s signals again.

She was hardly the easiest person to have a conversation with.

Sylvie rubbed her temple. She’d been enjoying a wonderful sense of ease, only to be jolted in her seat by Ade’s mood swing.

Maybe that hadn’t been the connection she thought it was.

Perhaps she could trust neither her reading of Ade, nor her own emotions.

Which was a shame, because the more time they spent together, the more Sylvie wished for more.