He had my bra undone and followed up quickly with his mouth over my breasts, his tongue moving gently over my nipples.
“Délicieux,” he said. “You taste like . . . a fresh peach, firm and full of flavor.”
I could feel myself spinning out of control. How, I wondered, did Roxy keep control? Did it only come from experience, or was it in her nature never to lose herself? Was that one of the things she had learned at Mrs. Brittany’s school for escorts? Despite what her life had become and how she had finally wanted to get out from under Mrs. Brittany’s manipulation and supervision of her life, she always raved about the things she had learned at her mansion on Long Island. She never denied that Mrs. Brittany had probably saved her life. It was just the price she had paid for it that finally disturbed her and drove her to do what she was doing now.
Vincent pulled off his jacket and his sweater. He brought his bare chest to mine, whispered my name, and began a slow, sensuous journey with his lips, moving down over my breasts toward my waist and then undoing my pants so he could continue to the small of my stomach, all the while slowly sliding me more and more beneath him.
Was this going to happen?
Did I want it to happen?
How many times had I talked about this with my girlfriends at school? The ones who had already lost their virginity never made that moment seem special to me. In some cases, it was something that they had wanted to get over with so they could move on into that mysterious and supposedly wondrous world of the mature woman, wiser about men and life, independent and supposedly full of self-confidence. Shouldn’t I want that, too?
Incredibly, despite my racing heart and quickened breath, the argument I had first heard between Emile and Didier in the restaurant right after Denise’s birthday cake and candles returned to me. Did a woman remove herself from the image that the man she would come to love wanted of her, or did she prepare herself for him?
Why didn’t my mother and I talk more about this? Why didn’t I ask Roxy more questions?
Vincent raised his head and smiled at me. “You are wonderful,” he said. “A girl like you makes it possible to know the magic of the night.”
Were these tried-and-true lines for him? I wanted to believe them, embrace them, but I also knew Vincent was far from the discerning and very particular boy Denise had claimed he was when it came to women. She wanted to be blind to it, but it didn’t take me long to see it in the way he greeted young women. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with that, I thought. He was a handsome, virile young man. All the boys I had known flashed before my eyes. Weren’t the ones who were like him more attractive and interesting, not to mention exciting? As a parent, what sort of a son would I rather have?
You came up here willingly, Emmie Wilcox, I told myself. What did you really expect when you agreed to have this rendezvous? You didn’t keep it from Denise because you wanted to surprise her later with how much you had learned about Paris, did you?
His fingers gently began to move my pants down, taking my panties along with them. He was at me again, his lips now moving softly over my thighs as he seamlessly moved between my legs, sending the most unexpectedly delicious and exciting feeling surging over my body. It was as if there were dozens of hands now touching me, caressing me. My breasts seemed to lift themselves gently, like mouths longing for a gulp of cool water. The natural tightness and resistance in my legs began to wane. He was moving my pants down to my ankles.
“You’re so sweet, très jolie,” he recited. It was almost like a prayer sung before dinner. How much of it did he really mean? Was it merely a lover’s prescribed ten steps or something? He had my pant leg over my left foot. He was unwrapping me with surgical precision.
You shouldn’t resent this, Emmie, I told myself. Would you rather be with a clumsy, inexperienced man, someone virginal who made it all seem more like blundering into the moment, a moment maybe ruined forever by his crude, inelegant, and animal-like behavior? You can lose your virginity only once, and it will follow you for the rest of your life.
I couldn’t believe I was having this debate with myself in the midst of all this passion. Vincent was gently lifting my legs as he brought his lips back to my thighs. Then he paused to undo his jeans. In that moment, I looked toward the doorway. I knew it was only my imagination, but there she was looking at us with great pain in her face as she shook her head slowly. Roxy.
You’re not ready, she whispered. It’s not your time. Wait.
My body tightened so quickly that it caught his attention.
“Don’t worry. I have what we need. It’s safe. We’re fine. This is good,” he recited. He smiled. “You don’t need any lessons.”
“No!” I cried.
“Quoi?”
“I do need lessons, Vincent.”
He retreated a little, his face looking incredulous. “You are a virgin?”
“I’m sorry you got a different impression,” I said.
I could see the wheels turning in his head. Did he want to make love to an American teenage girl who was a virgin? There was no legal problem, but he didn’t like being fooled about me. Was that right? So he thought I was sophisticated, worldly. Where was it written that in order to be so, a girl had to have lost her virginity?
“I’m not often so surprised,” he said. Was his ego bruised? Actually, he looked more worried than embarrassed. “I’m not making any promises, Emmie. You understand what I mean?”
I looked toward the door, where I had imagined Roxy standing and watching us. I guess I looked so hard that for a moment, he thought someone might really be there. He spun around to look and then looked at me again.
“What?”
“I was hoping it would be something more special for me,” I said.
“It still can be.”
“Not now. Not yet,” I said. I started to dress.
He watched for a moment and then stood up. “Sometimes you Americans can be such prudes.”
I paused and smiled. “You don’t simply put a seed into the ground, Vincent. You prepare the ground first to ensure you will have a good crop.”
His smile widened. “I’m not planting a seed. No babies please.”
“There are other things to grow from making love.”
He shook his head. “You are different. You’re not a prude. You’re . . . too wise for your age,” he said.
“Peut-être. But I didn’t want to be.”
Despite this interruption, I could see he still liked me. Very much.
“Okay. I’ll till the soil,” he promised. “It will be special for you. I promise.”
I started to laugh when his mobile rang. He reached for it, and I finished straightening my clothes. I saw that he was just listening, and what he was hearing had drained his face of blood.
“I’ll be right there,” he said in French.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“She tried to commit suicide,” he said.
Darkness Really Fears the Light
Neither of us said another word. Instead, we hurried out of the apartment. It wasn’t until I was at the hospital with him that I would realize I should have asked more questions before we started out, but Vincent looked so upset I was afraid to speak. He handed me the helmet quickly.
“You don’t have to come. I can drop you off on a corner near your uncle’s home.”
“No. I want to go with you,” I said, and got on. He started up, and we were off.
I hung on to Vincent, because he was driving faster, taking more chances. I took off the helmet quickly when we reached the hospital. Without talking, we hurried into the emergency area. Once we entered the lobby, Vincent spotted his parents. He hurried to them. They didn’t look surprised to see me with him.
“How is she?” he asked.
His mother had been cr
ying. She took a deep breath. His father looked away.
I drew closer to hear what she was telling him in French, concentrating hard on every word.
“We thought she had left,” she began. “I was already upstairs when your father shouted for me. He saw the bathroom door slightly opened, and the light was on. He went to check, and he found her. She needed transfusions. She bled that much,” she added.
“With my good bread knife,” Vincent’s father said, as if that was the most serious thing.
I tugged on Vincent’s jacket sleeve, and he turned to me.
“I don’t understand. Denise went back to the pastry shop?”
He grimaced. But he didn’t have to reply.
Denise came walking into the lobby.
“Mon Dieu!” I exclaimed. For a moment it was as if I was looking at a ghost. She was pale, and she was crying. I looked at Vincent.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to get here. I should have made it clear. It’s my aunt, Denise’s mother.”
One of the doctors came out behind her, and Vincent and his parents rushed to speak to him.
Still stunned, but definitely happy it wasn’t Denise, I hurried to greet her, hugging her and then helping her to a seat. I didn’t know what to say. I certainly didn’t want to say that I just assumed it had been she who had tried to commit suicide. All the way here, I had a terrible fear that she had learned Vincent had a date with me and I had lied to her, not that it alone would be enough to drive someone to suicide. However, she was depressed and sensitive enough for it to be the last straw or something.
“She was tired of the struggle,” she said. “She thought my life would be better without her. She blames herself. She thinks she’s responsible for my sad life, for all that has happened to me. She thinks her whole life is a terrible failure, and all she can do is drag me farther and farther down with her. I told her she was wrong and what she tried to do would only make life more miserable for me.”
Yes, I thought, but you did blame her for so much. It was easier than taking responsibility for yourself now. I was thinking the way my father would, I thought, Roxy and my father, the man she loved to call “the general.” But I had to believe that even he wouldn’t be so hard on Denise at this moment. He would never say what I thought.
“How is she? What did they say?” I asked, looking at Vincent and his parents talking to the doctor.
“It was very close. She almost went into a deep coma.”
“I’m sorry, Denise.”
She nodded, and then she looked at Vincent and his parents and back at me.
“Je ne comprends pas. How did you get here? Why are you here now?”
Of all the times to have to admit to a lie, I thought, but I couldn’t think of any way out of it.
“I was with Vincent,” I said. “He invited me to have pizza with him.”
She looked more devastated about that than about her mother’s attempted suicide. She took her hand out of mine and sat back.
“But you said you had to have dinner with your uncle.”
“Yes, I did say that. I didn’t want to upset you. I’m sorry,” I said.
She didn’t say anything. She rose and went to her aunt and uncle. Her aunt hugged her. Vincent said something to his father and then came to me.
“The doctor says she’ll be all right, but they want her to have psychological counseling. My mother,” he added, looking back at his parents, “is blaming my father for not being understanding enough.” He looked back at me. “Are you all right? I told you that you didn’t have to come.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Denise,” I said. “I told her I was having dinner with my uncle.”
“So?”
Was he that oblivious? “I lied to her.”
“You don’t have to say that. Just tell her I called you and talked you into meeting me. Why should you have to report to her? Don’t worry about it,” he added quickly. “I’ll tell her. I’ll fix it. C’mon. I’ll take you home.”
I looked at Denise again. She was standing with her arms across her breasts and staring at us while her uncle and aunt continued to speak with the doctor. I stood up, thought a moment, and then approached her as we headed out.
“Do you want me to wait with you, Denise? I don’t have to go home. I’ll call my uncle, and later you can come home with me. There’s a spare bedroom, and I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t mind you staying with us.”
“Good idea,” Vincent said.
“No,” she said. “I don’t need you to stay with me. I have my own home.”
“She’s just being nice,” Vincent told her in French.
She smirked. “I don’t need anyone to be nice to me.”
Vincent’s parents began arguing. His mother was tearing into his father. The doctor looked embarrassed and overwhelmed. Vincent shouted to them, and his mother retreated.
“Your mother needs me,” Denise told him, and went to her.
“This is very unpleasant for you, Emmie. You just meet all of us and get thrown into this family tragedy. Come now. You should go home.”
I wanted to say something more to both Denise and Vincent’s mother, but I followed him out instead, put on the helmet, and got on the scooter. He started up and away, not saying anything more than “Mon Dieu, what a night!”
When we reached my uncle’s home, I got off and handed him the helmet. He leaned over to kiss me good night. I didn’t kiss him back.
“Stop blaming yourself for something unimportant,” he ordered. “Besides, why do you have to make excuses to Denise?”
“Your cousin is in love with you, Vincent.”
“What?”
“How can you be so blind to it?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true.”
“She’ll have to grow out of it. I never did anything to give her reason to think I was encouraging such a thing.”
“You didn’t have to. She’s desperate.”
He thought a moment. “Well, what do you suggest?”
“Going slowly,” I said. “Helping her, especially now.”
He shook his head. “Such a sensible young girl. You’ll make me grow up.”
“Is that so terrible?”
He laughed. “I want to see you again and again and again,” he added, smiling more like the Vincent I had first met. “To . . . how did you say . . . till the soil.”
“I’m not in the mood for farming.”
“Not tonight, but tomorrow . . . you know tomorrow?”
“Too well,” I said. “Bonne nuit, Vincent.”
“Bonne nuit. À bientôt,” he called after me. I didn’t look back until I heard him leaving and watched him disappear around a turn.
The skeptical part of me wondered if I would ever hear from him again. Maybe hearing all the truth frightened him.
I headed into the house. Both Maurice and Uncle Alain were sitting in the living room having a late-night cordial. Both looked upset, and for a moment, I thought that they had already heard about Denise’s mother, but then I realized the time. It was nearly twelve forty-five. They were upset at me.
Before either could speak, I began to relate what had happened. Their faces changed quickly, especially Maurice’s, because he knew Denise’s mother.
“She will be okay?”
“Physically,” I said.
“Mon Dieu,” Uncle Alain said. “What a mess for you to be in so soon.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just very tired.”
“D’accord. Go to bed, Emmie. We’ll look into everything in the morning.”
I nodded and went to my room. I felt as if I was walking in my sleep already and b
arely got myself into bed with my eyes open. I thought I would have a hard time falling asleep, but emotional exhaustion was just as tiring as the physical kind. I drifted off quickly and didn’t wake up until I heard someone moving about in the kitchen. I threw on my robe, went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and went out to see Maurice sitting at the kitchenette having coffee and a croissant. Glancing at the clock, I saw I had slept until ten.
“Alain went to work,” he said. “I told him I would call to let him know you were fine.”
“I can’t believe I slept so long.”
He poured me some coffee. He wanted me to give him more details about Denise and her mother. I told him all I knew.
“I suspected much of that,” he said.
“I don’t know if Denise will ever talk to me again.”
“She will. Give her time. I have some things to do before I go to the restaurant. Alain wants you to stay home today and tonight. He feels he needs to spend more time with you. Comprends?”
“Oui. Merci, Maurice.”
“It will be okay. Soon you will be in school, and you will have much to do, will meet many more people your age. Paris is a city. There are many stories to be told,” he added, smiling. He hugged me and went off.
After I ate something and started to dress, the phone rang. I thought, hoped, it was Denise, but she had obviously given Vincent my telephone number.
“Ça va?” he asked.
“I’m fine. How is Denise’s mother?”
“She’s better. Lots of regrets.”
“And Denise?”
“I had a nice talk with her this morning. She doesn’t hate you. You were right. I was oblivious. It will be fine. When can I see you?”
“I have to spend more time with my uncle for a while,” I said.
“This isn’t a brush-off, is it? See? I watch American movies.”
“No. But I want to go slower.”
He laughed. “D’accord. You know what I think it is, Emmie?”
“I’m listening.”
“Like good wine. You have to let it age a little. You sip. You don’t gulp good wine.”