Читать книгу Love Locks - Cory Martin - Страница 5

Chapter One

A Time and a Place

In young love, there are rarely specific dates. When you are in that all-consumed state, love has no number. Love is your first kiss in seventh grade outside the gym – sweaty palms, blue jeans, and curled hair. It is the boy who left you heartbroken the summer before senior year just as you made the varsity soccer team, and the wondering what happened to the guy you met on a family vacation to Hawaii.

Love is a marker of moments passing and standing still. It is a time and a place. And that is where this story begins…

Twenty years ago. Paris.

It was late fall, or early winter. The leaves were gone, but the sun still shone, and two Americans rode the streets on bicycles.

Lindsey and Jack met at the Sorbonne. She was an art student; he was a student of life with a major in business.

Lindsey had moved to the City of Lights in September to study art at the university as an exchange student. Jack, though an American, had lived in Europe for most of his life. His father, a hotelier and restaurateur, showed Jack the world through his businesses. While Jack was studying the economy in class, he was learning it firsthand at his father’s latest hotel in Paris.

Though it may have seemed as if they came from two separate worlds, they were more similar than many would believe. They both worked hard—she at painting, he at pleasing his father. Jack had plans to own his own hotel one day. Each had dreams of the future where life was grand, yet they also understood the importance of the moment. As twenty-somethings, they lived young and carefree.

The contents of their bike baskets jiggled along the cobblestone streets. The colors in her paint box shook with every pedal stroke, and the baguette peeking out of his picnic basket bobbed up and down. They spent many days on their bikes, weaving in and out of the hidden parts of Paris.

“Let’s stop here,” Jack said as they approached the Place Du Tertre, a square at the heart of the Montmartre quarter where a penniless Picasso had once lived. Lindsey happily obliged. It was one of her favorite places to paint.

She appreciated small ways Jack supported her, like this—choosing to picnic in a spot she loved. He understood her, despite not being an artist himself.

As they leaned their bikes against a lamppost and locked them up, Jack pointed to a man painting portraits with a cat beside him.

“We should get one done,” Jack said.

“A portrait? Really?” She viewed this kind of painting as a cheesy tourist attraction meant to sucker men into buying things for women. Plus, where would they hang it? His place or hers?

“It’ll be fun.” Jack grabbed her hand and gently guided her toward the man’s easel. “You need something to remember Paris by once you go back to New York.”

“But I’ll have you.” Lindsey didn’t need a generic painting to remember her time with Jack.

“How much?” Jack asked the artist.

The artist looked at them. “Thirty francs, but if you hold my cat, I give you a discount.”

How could she say no to a man and his cat? She looked at Jack and smiled, then turned to the artist. “We’ll do it.”

Jack handed the man the money and pulled his red knit hat off his head. Lindsey fluffed his brown hair to make him presentable, then grabbed the gray-and-white cat and placed it between them as they sat close on a small chair. Jack leaned over and kissed her windblown cheek.

“That kiss. That is, what do you call it? The… the… essence of the two of you. That is what I shall capture.” The artist made rounded strokes as though sketching the shapes of their heads in black charcoal against a pre-painted backdrop of the Eiffel Tower.

Though she knew the painting wouldn’t end up in a museum one day, Lindsey felt her heart lift with happiness. She reached over and squeezed Jack’s hand. This moment she would remember forever, regardless of whether the sketch captured anything at all. It would be a reminder that life could never be fully planned. If she’d arranged every detail of the day, they wouldn’t be getting a painting done right now.

Lindsey had come to Paris to learn how to paint, not with technical skills but with the kind of passion she felt every time she entered the Louvre. She hadn’t come to fall in love or find “the one.” She was young and looking to a future where she might one day have her pieces hanging in a gallery. She’d come to Paris with a mission. Nobody would interrupt her process. She was strictly there to perfect her craft. However, the first time she’d seen Jack’s blue eyes, she’d known she was in trouble.

After the first two weeks with Jack, her vision of the future had changed. And now, she couldn’t imagine life without him.

Her time at the Sorbonne was nearly over, and she and Jack had discussed their future. After he finished school, he would come to New York. She needed to know what it would be like if he was part of her world—not in this fairytale land, as Paris often felt like to her, but New York City. She knew everything about him, and she wanted Jack to see the other part of her world.

A small piece of her feared that, like all great things in life, their relationship would eventually come to an end, but another part looked excitedly toward the future. For now, she was content that they would have this sketch to remind them of their time together in Paris.

“Should I be smiling or should I be brooding?” Jack asked, interrupting Lindsey’s train of thought.

“Smile, of course,” Lindsey said. “I love your smile.”

“This one?” Jack grinned as wide as he could. He looked cartoonish. Lindsey giggled.

The artist interrupted their moment of playfulness. “Um, no, monsieur. My cat is Cheshire cat. You? Please, smile like a young man.”

Lindsey and Jack burst out laughing, then looked at each other and turned to the artist with the biggest grins they could each muster.

The artist shook his head, then continued painting. Ten minutes later, he finished the piece.

“Okay, lovebirds. I am done. You take this and enjoy your day together. And you,” he said as he turned to Jack, “don’t forget—a woman that you can make smile like that is a woman you keep.” Jack’s face suddenly became serious as the artist handed him the finished painting. For just a moment, Lindsey thought she caught a bit of fear in his eyes.

No. She was imagining things, perhaps because of her own fears about whether their connection would last.

Lindsey took the painting from Jack’s hands and studied it. Their faces were nearly caricature-like, and the background with the Eiffel Tower was terrifically touristy, but Lindsey loved it. “It’s beautiful,” she said and thanked him for his work.

“Maybe I see you two again sometime,” the artist said.

“Maybe,” Lindsey whispered as they walked off.

As Jack unlocked the bikes, Lindsey stopped him. “Why’d you get so serious back there?”

“What do you mean? I did?” Jack sounded defensive.

Lindsey paused. Maybe she shouldn’t ask the question on her mind. But she had to know. “Are you sure that guy didn’t freak you out when he mentioned you should keep me?”

“What? That’s crazy. Of course I’m going to keep you,” Jack said. “So are we heading to the bridge now?”

Lindsey nodded. Today was supposed to be a special day for them.

The tradition in Paris was that couples would write their names on a lock, place it on the metal grates of the Pont des Arts—a pedestrian bridge that connected the Instuit de France and the Palais du Louvre—and throw away the key. The bridge was the first metal thruway constructed in the city. Engineers had conceived it to resemble a suspended garden. It had become home to the fate of thousands of couples worldwide.

Lindsey and Jack planned to seal their fate on the very same bridge.

As they rode past Notre Dame Cathedral and the Louvre, she thought about the past three months. During that time, she and Jack had spent every moment—when she wasn’t painting or he wasn’t working with his dad—together. Outside of class, they were inseparable. Today would be their day to declare their devotion to one another.

They rode side by side through the city streets, then out to the river, and stopped halfway across the bridge. They hopped off their bikes and stood at the railing covered in locks. Lindsey placed her hand over the lock in her pocket. She’d bought it two days ago at the local hardware store before she’d even had the courage to ask Jack if he would put a lock on the bridge with her. Yesterday, she’d asked him if he would do it and he’d happily agreed. Putting the lock on the bridge was the only thing Lindsey had planned for the day, and, she supposed, for their future. After all, that’s what the lock symbolized—a love that could not be broken.

Lindsey looked at Jack’s blue eyes and immediately became lost. The cool winter breeze nipped at her ears, and the crisp smell of the water from the Seine whipped by her nose. In the distance, she could see the tip-top of the Eiffel Tower. All around them, couples were fastening their locks to the bridge. Her heart ached. Moments like these made her never want to leave Paris.

“I don’t want to go back to New York,” she said, and then had an idea. “What if I don’t? I can stay here and paint.”

“Hey, we have a plan, right?” He grabbed her hand and pulled her close with a smile. “It’s going to be fine.”

Lindsey knew they would see each other again soon, but still, she wasn’t ready to leave. “It feels like we’re saying goodbye.”

“It’s not goodbye. It’s a few months,” Jack said, but Lindsey knew it wasn’t that simple.

“Did you tell your father you’re quitting?”

Jack’s part of the plan was to quit working for his father, go to New York, and find a job there, but he’d been putting off the first step for weeks. “I will.” He put his arms around Lindsey. “We’ll be back together by Valentine’s Day.”

The thought of being back with Jack on the most romantic day of the year made everything seem okay. “Top of the Empire State Building?” Lindsey asked.

“Not quite the top of the Eiffel Tower, but it’ll do,” Jack answered as he took Lindsey in his arms and kissed her. The only time she had ever been to the top of the Eiffel Tower was with Jack. It was there they had shared their first kiss. She imagined that their first kiss in the States would be at the top of the Empire State Building. That way, each moment their lips met on different soil would always have a special time and a place.

She lingered in their embrace for a moment longer before gently pulling away. Lindsey took the lock from her left pocket and produced a Sharpie marker from the right. She held up the lock proudly, then wrote her name on it.

“We lock it on the bridge, and our love will last forever,” she said as she handed the lock to Jack.

“Forever?” Jack said with a slight inflection as if he were asking a question. Lindsey tried to ignore it as he wrote his name. Jack held up the lock. “With this lock, I thee…”

It slipped in his gloved hands. She reached for it, but as she put her hand out, it went flying. They both scrambled to catch it, but it was no use. They watched as the symbol of their love went sailing through the air and over the railing, falling into the water with a loud splash.

Jack’s mouth fell open. Lindsey gasped.

“You dropped it on purpose!” she exclaimed.

“No, no. That was your fault. You grabbed for it.”

She fought to rise above her bewilderment and hurt. Maybe neither of them was to blame… or maybe they both were. Anyway, what was the point in arguing? It was done. They looked down in silence at the water, where the lock had sunk and disappeared forever.

Three weeks later, Lindsey returned to New York. Jack remained in Paris.

She sometimes thought of the lock rusting at the bottom of the Seine. The water would lap against their names until they were no longer recognizable.

For years, she thought of him, but learned to move on.

They never celebrated Valentine’s Day or shared their first kiss on American soil at the top of the Empire State Building.

In fact, as time passed, Lindsey believed they’d never kiss again. She let the thought of a future with Jack disappear, just as their lock had done that day.

Their love would remain in the past—a time and a place long forgotten.