‘Do you ever get tired of it?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Take a seat,’ I say, and I motion to the bed and then blush. It’s the only place in the room that’s not covered with books or papers. Since our chat over eggnog the other evening, I’ve softened towards Noah; some of the ice around my heart has melted. While he can still be insufferable at times, I’m coming to learn it’s mostly when he’s passionate about the topic, like the jazz era and classic writers.
‘Did you ever want to write?’ I ask. Noah seems to enjoy learning about the minutiae of writers’ lives, like Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Orwell. Not only does he understand the volume of their work, but he also knows all about how they lived, and who they loved.
He shakes his head. ‘Never. I don’t have that talent, I’m afraid. I enjoy reading too much to worry about the mechanics of such a thing.’ I raise a brow at this admission. ‘OK.’ He dips his head. ‘You’ve caught me out there. I might like dissecting and discussing literature, which probably comes across pompous at times, but I know for a fact I don’t possess the skills to write.’
‘You, pompous?’
‘It’s been mentioned once or twice.’
‘Oui.’ I smother a grin. There’s been a slight shift between us, but can I trust Noah when it comes to this room and its secrets? Trust him in my life?
‘I’d like to help you in here. You might be surprised to know in my past life I was a literary scholar and critic.’
I search his face in case he’s joking. His expression is earnest, and I suppose it fits: his literary bar, his swagger, the whole Noah persona.
‘Why does that not surprise me, especially the critic part? So youdoknow about the mechanics of such things?’
‘A little.’ He’s kept this close to his chest.
‘Quellesurprise.’ Noah is more of an enigma than I first thought. No wonder his bar is an ode to Hemingway if he studied literature. ‘Why did you leave that world behind and open a bar?’
He glances out the window. From here, the gates of Jardin du Luxembourg are visible, the copse of trees swaying in the windy weather.
‘My ex-wife and I worked together at a college in the States. When I found out about her and her golfing buddy… I lost the heart for my work. Lost my heart for everything, as a matter of fact. I couldn’t sit in my office every day, across from hers, and pretend nothing had happened. Work with her as normal, as if she hadn’t detonated a grenade in our marriage.’
We lapse into silence with just the beat of heartbreak between us. What can you say in this instance that actually helps? ‘And so you came to France?’
When he turns back to me, the sadness in his eyes has dissipated. I suppose that hurt, that betrayal, never goes fully away, but it seems at least Noah has control of it. ‘I’d always wanted to live in Paris. How could I not, having studied The Lost Generation? But my wife wouldn’t entertain the idea. Wouldn’t even consider holidaying here. Aside from our work, I see now that we didn’t have much in common. When things ended, andthey ended badly, I packed a bag and left. I applied for a long-term visa, and the French Consular Authority granted it based on my extensive studies in literature and the fact I planned to incorporate it into a business. The Hemingway effect. They love him here.’
We exchange a grin. ‘How long ago did you move here?’
‘Six years ago. The first thing I did was pick up French language lessons. I’d studied a bit in high school but was very rusty.’
‘And then you found the bar?’
‘Oui, a damp, little rundown bar that I knew on sight would be the perfect spot to make my own.’
‘Are you still in contact with your ex-wife?’ I don’t know why I ask but I wonder if Noah forgave her, or if he holds that hate in his heart still. I suppose I want to know if this feeling of betrayal, of humiliation, ever fully eases.
‘Not directly. We communicated through lawyers and settled our divorce in record time because she wanted to get remarried, and I wanted to buy the bar. It gave me no pleasure when I heard her second marriage also ended recently. I wish her well, but I don’t think she’ll ever find what she’s looking for.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The next best thing.’
‘Ah. And what about you? Would you marry again? Do you want to have a family?’
‘Oui, I’d like that very much, but I don’t know if that will happen for me. I’m forty this year, and while that’s not old in the scheme of things, it does seem rather difficult to imagine a wife and family when you’re single. What about you? Do you see marriage and children in the equation?’
I consider it. ‘I’ve been too heartsore to imagine anything except hurt and possible bankruptcy. I’m thirty-eight and I wonder too if that ship has sailed since there’s no man on thehorizon.’ I do want to find my happy ever after, but how do I allow myself to trust again? What if I make the same mistake? ‘Right now, my sole focus is this place and my writing. If I don’t make this work, I’ll lose everything I’ve got left.’ Before I can overthink it, I say, ‘I wonder if we put our heads together we can figure out who she was?’ Could this writer be the key to making the hotel successful? Solving a one-hundred-year-old mystery in the process? Or do I keep it all quiet? Keep her secrets safe from the world?
‘I’d love to be involved. I hate to say it, but I know a thing or two about 1920s literature, so perhaps I can be of some assistance.’
‘Well, I will gladly accept that assistance, but I’d like to keep the room and its contents on the quiet for now.’
