The Ballad (The Bridge Series) Read online

En été

  July 2012

  “Adam, I don’t have phone service. Can you try the house on your phone?” I roll toward Adam as the taxi driver makes a sharp right onto the Champs Elysées, pressing his horn angrily and waving his hands dramatically.

  “Babe, we just landed. Let’s wait . . . we’ll have better cell service at the hotel.” He puts his arm around me so I won’t slam into the side of the dingy Peugeot with the tetanus-infected handle.

  We’ve never spent an entire weekend away from the kids, let alone travel to another continent for four days! Mom and Dad are staying with Will and Sophie and there’s no doubt, they will be fed pizza and ice cream and ignore any sort of bedtime I’ve managed to enforce, but that’s what grandparents are for I guess.

  I haven’t been to Paris since I was in high school and during that pot-fueled French Club trip, I promised myself that one day, I would experience this city with the man I love. I don’t like romantic clichés and I’m not interested in taking a historical tour or even seeing the Louvre . . . I want to wake up naked in the arms of my husband with a huge plate of buttery croissants at my disposal.

  “Mmm, I forgot about the crêpes! Do you see those little carts? They make thin crêpes with strawberry jam and hazelnut spread. Look, there’s the Arc de Triomphe . . . you can climb the stairs to the top for a really great view, I think . . . I was high during my last trip so every memory I have was a great view.” Adam laughs at my enthusiasm and points to our stately hotel, the only hotel on the Champs Elysées.

  “Bien. Ceci est votre hôtel, Paris Marriott Champs Elysées.” The taxi driver mumbles as he pulls into the small drop-off area, cursing under his breath.

  “Adam, look at it! Look at the little sidewalk café . . . I love it!” We grab our bags from the trunk because the taxi driver absolutely refuses to leave the cab in fear of interacting with Americans. Luckily, the bellhop meets us at the taxi to take our bags and the doorman yells dirty French slang at the driver as he speeds onto the busy street.

  “Bienvenue à Paris, Monsieur et Madame. Olivier will show you to your room.” The concierge hands Adam the room card and we follow Olivier through the airy lobby to the grand elevator.

  “Adam, he’s the French version of Key West Ollie.” I smile into Adam’s chest because I’m very aware that the French do not appreciate our bold humor. Adam kisses my forehead and laughs with me.

  Our room is classic French salon-style with a few modern accents for us lazy, North Americans that enjoy big televisions and blow dryers. The mini-bar has been constructed from an old-fashioned luggage trunk and the luxurious linens are colored with gold and peach brocade. The furniture is light and airy and a potted, white orchid rests elegantly on the side table. The bathroom is small, but adequate for a Parisian hotel and I love all the little French soaps and accessories. But the main reason we picked this hotel out of all the romantic vacation options, is simply because of the famous tower peeking through the balcony window.

  “Adam, look!” I grab his hand and pull him toward the balcony. We bask in the beauty of our classy and mature getaway pointing excitedly to all the things below us. Adam is so expressive and animated when I tell him all the historical facts I know about this city and all my crazy French Club adventures and then I realize, experiencing Paris with the man I love is nothing in comparison to sharing my life with the man I love.

  “Let’s take a picture!” Adam says enthusiastically.

  He spins me around so that our backs touch the iron scrollwork of the balcony. Adam holds his phone out in front of us to snap a few photos, some silly and some very private. He picks one with the Eiffel Tower photo- bombing our silly faces and sends it to Mom . . . she immediately texts back.

  Mom: Beautiful! The kids will be fine. Enjoy your trip.

  “Wake up sleepy head . . . Paris awaits.” Adam kisses my nose while running his hand sensually up my thigh.

  “What time is it?” I rub my eyes until they open and I’m pleasantly surprised by my handsome husband propped on his side smiling at me.

  “It’s early afternoon Paris time. C’mon, get dressed, I want to take you somewhere.”

  Adam rolls out of bed and tosses my iPhone on the pillow next to me. He’s naked and the afternoon sunlight blazes through the window emphasizing his . . . assets. We’ve been together nine years and Adam has watched me deliver two children, but I still can’t help but feel self-conscious about my physical appearance. He walks into the bathroom and starts the shower, humming a Lumineers song. I check my phone to find two texts from Natalie reminding me to get her a souvenir and a long text from Mom about their trip to Governor’s Island. I text them both back and then join Adam in the shower.

  “Well, hello!” Adam closes the shower door and pulls me close to him.

  “Holy shit, this water’s hot!” I reach toward the faucet and move the ‘C’ lever down and the ‘F’ lever up to create a water temperature that doesn’t resemble a lobster boil.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t sure about the letters but I assumed ‘C’ was for cold.” He washes his arms with a tiny sliver of frou-frou soap and the imagery of his masculine body with that lavender morsel is hilarious.

  “Babe, the ‘C’ equals hot and the ‘F’ equals cold. Thank goodness you’re cute.” I run the warm water through my hair as he takes the small bar of soap to make tiny, sudsy circles on my chest.

  “And thank goodness you’re sexy or your cynicism would be intolerable.” Adam deadpans.

  “I’m not sexy. You honestly think I’m as attractive as the day you met me?” I ask shyly.

  “Of course not . . . but if it’s really dark or I’m really drunk, you’re fucking hot!”

  Adam’s laughter echoes through the steam-filled bathroom and I can’t help but laugh with him. Not because he’s funny and not because I doubt his attraction to me, but because I fully understand our relationship.

  “Where are you taking me?” I squirt some lavender shampoo into his dark locks as the water shoots in his eyes and drips down his gorgeous chest.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not far,” he says.

  I turn around so that we are front to back and Adam pours the shampoo into my hair gently massaging it into a rich lather. I can feel him against me but the shower is so cramped that nothing sexual is even possible.

  “Natalie wants me to buy her a Louis Vuitton day planner . . . did you know this hotel was the office building of Vuitton during the twenties? Anyway, I kinda owe her for the Prada bag she gave me.” I turn back around to rinse my hair and Adam is smiling in amusement.

  “Why can’t you go to the store in SoHo? I’d rather not declare anything on our return flight.”

  “Trust me, she will know . . .”

  We walk through the hotel atrium, past the grandiose lobby, out the gilded front entrance and onto the famous Champs Elysées. Adam places his hand on my already sweaty back as he guides me to the right. We walk a few feet then stop at Marriott Square, the summer terrace for hotel guests to watch the world go by.

  “I told you it wasn’t far. C’mon, let’s get that table near the street.” He points to the table as the host leads us through the maze of wicker bistro tables and red umbrellas.

  “Wow, what a gorgeous view,” I say while scooting my chair closer to Adam. We can see everything at street level and although it’s very similar to outdoor seating during Manhattan summers, the vibe is just so much more – French.

  “Look at this menu! You can order a trio of croissants if you like, Chloe.” Adam knows me so well.

  “Yes, perfect, but I will need something else to balance all the butter and starch.” Adam points to something on the menu and I tell him he definitely does not want to order the ox tail so he decides on a steak with haricots verts and a red wine. I order the trio of layered, flaky goodness, a fruit tray and a glass of rosé wine. We both hate wine, but when in Paris, wine is delicious.

  “We should take the kids to Disney World next year, maybe during spri
ng vacation.” Adam is always so relaxed and calm that I wonder how he puts up with my craziness.

  “That’s a great idea! Will loves Star Wars . . . the Brewsters got back from Disney last week and they had a fabulous time. We could even have my parents come with us and all dress in matching t-shirts.” I say as Adam feeds me a piece of the juiciest steak . . . it must be the butter.

  “Matching t-shirts? That’s funny . . . in hot pink or neon green so everyone can see us.” He smiles teasingly.

  “What about when we’re in the pool? Should we get matching hats as well?” I sip my pink wine and watch some gorgeous, skinny French women walk by with shopping bags. Adam notices them, too.

  “No hats, Chloe . . . here, taste these green beans.” He places a forkful of beans in my mouth and while they are deliciously fresh, they don’t really go with my chocolate pastry, sweet wine and self-pity.

  “Have you heard of the seven year itch?” I ask.

  “The movie?”

  “No, the theory that couples get tired of each other at the seven year mark. There’s been a lot of research on the subject . . . do you think our marriage is more about compromise than excitement?” We’re having a lovely time in the most beautiful city in the world, but something inside me is prompting me to ask this question.

  “Absolutely not. Why can’t a marriage be about both? You do understand that we have two little people that count on us to be rational and dependable?” Adam smiles sweetly, but I can sense he’s a little uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I understand that as parents it’s our job to be unexciting, but as your wife and lover, do I still surprise you?”

  “Of course. It’s just that we’ve grown into a whole . . . we’re not just tiny episodes of good and bad.” He sips his red wine and continues. “You surprise me every day . . . maybe our conversation is a little recycled and the sex isn’t as impulsive as it used to be, but you continually impress me. Our relationship is definitely more realistic than most, but in a good way.” Adam puts his arm around me and rests his head on top of mine.

  The summer sun is setting behind the Arc de Triomphe and I think about all the breath-taking sunsets we’ve experienced together . . . those spontaneous walks on the Brooklyn promenade, with the sun hiding behind the New Jersey horizon will always be my favorites.

  “Adam, did you honestly think you would escape the question game?” I take one last bite of strawberry and kiss his cheek.

  “Ha ha, fine! What’s your one question?” Damn, he’s only giving me one question.

  “Is there something you would change about me or even something about our marriage that you’ve never had the courage to discuss openly?” I love the way that Adam is always prepared for even the hardest questions.

  “First of all, I would like to clarify that we’ve been a couple longer than seven years so your math is pathetic and your theory proven invalid. Secondly, I would never change anything about you, but if you were to give your husband a daily blowjob it could propel your status into wifely perfection.” He definitely knows how to make me smile.

  “But since this is the game of truth, I will indulge you. Do not get mad, promise?”

  “Promise – unless you want me to alter my body physically, that would be horrible and I might cry.” Adam lowers his head to rest his forehead on mine.

  “Chloe, I hate pork loin. Sometimes you make it and I will eat to be a good example for the kids, but each bite I take is in utter disgust. There have been a few occasions when you told me you were going to make it for dinner, and I would tell you I had to stay at the office and work late, but then I would go to Five Guys for a burger. You’re a great cook and I respect that you try to accommodate everyone’s tastes and prepare healthy food for our family, but I absolutely despise pork loin. Are we done?”

  “Adam, that’s mean. Yes, we’re done with the game . . . for now!” I wink.

  “Then let’s go . . . I found a Karaoke lounge by Montmartre and I really want to watch my gorgeous wife perform in Paris.” He stands up and places a folded stack of Euros on the table then takes my hand and leads me through the emptied Marriott Square. Pinky-to-pinky, we walk the glorious sidewalk of the Champs Elysées.

  Ah, Paris . . . I totally forgot we were here.

  Coffee Bar

  February 2012

  It’s freezing. And dark. And I hear noises. I pry open my tired eyes to look at the alarm clock. Five-fucking-thirty. Adam’s shadow is looming over the bed dressed in charcoal wool pants and a pale blue dress shirt. His leather duffel bag rests on the foot of the bed and he’s trying to squeeze in his running shoes. I sit up like a zombie and can only imagine how fabulous I look in my thermal pajamas and ratty hair.

  “I didn’t want to wake you. Go back to sleep,” Adam says. He zips the hanging bag and comes to kiss me on the forehead, saving himself from my morning breath.

  “I miss you,” I plea as I lie back down and close my eyes. Just for a minute.

  My alarm buzzes at six-forty-five and I jump up to do my “good morning yodel” down the stairs to the kids. It’s one of those cold, wet winter mornings and I decide against a shower and slip into my winter mommy wardrobe of black leggings, gray turtleneck sweater and a loose braid. I race down the stairs and yell at the kids again, each wake-up call becoming more frantic and harsh. I tackle another flight of stairs and fly into the kitchen to prepare a morning buffet of frozen waffles and chocolate milk. My phone chirps in the charger, but first, I need to find the goddamn syrup.

  Adam: Good morning, babe. The flight & hotel info are on the kitchen desk. There’s a present for you in the drawer.

  Chloe: Not a good morning. Atlanta blows, btw! A Kit Kat?? Awesome!! xoxo

  I tuck my phone into the cup of my bra because my leggings have no pockets and then happily nibble on the chocolate wafer at seven in the morning, because I can. Adam will be gone for a week according to his itinerary and it saddens me. I knew that week-long trips would be necessary for his consulting job, but I never said I liked it . . .

  After Columbia Law, Adam worked with the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office and within six months a prestigious firm snagged him. He quickly became a feared trial lawyer because of his innate ability to read every juror and defendant’s thought process. During trials, Adam would never break his stolid persona and his eloquent speech and confident stature would hypnotize the courtroom. He admitted to me that sometimes it was too easy, that people are so predictable, and that there’s always a formula. Adam was soon rewarded with a partnership and his role was to escort junior attorneys to their jury selections and bring in new clients. No one, not even his secretary called him Mr. Ford. It was always Adam this, Adam that, like a one name rock star. As a consultant, he travels around the country selecting juries for high-profile cases. Sometimes I feel sorry for the unassuming women that sit as jury hopefuls, sexual fantasies swirling in their minds, only to have Adam acknowledge them with a “yes” or “no.”

  The waffles pop out of the toaster as I scream one last time, “Will, Sophie? Get down here in 3-2-1 . . .” Will bounces into the kitchen with an energy I envy to scarf down his breakfast. I have to rescue Sophie from the stairs because her legs were “too ti-ed” to make it to the kitchen. Even though this time in the morning is rushed and chaotic, I love being able to spend special moments with my kids. Twenty minutes and two glasses of spilled milk later, we’re out the door to travel the four blocks to the primary school. I’ve decided to wear my knee high rain boots because last week’s snow has melted to form a Cobble Hill Slushie. Occasionally, on a nice fall day, this commute would take us half an hour, but on a cold, windy day like today, we jog to school in four minutes flat.

  Fucking snow. Fucking wind. My body is so dry and itching because of this shitty weather. I kiss Will on the head and give Sophie a tight squeeze as they gallop into their adjoining schools, Will in Kindergarten and Sophie in the Nursery program. I wave at all the hipster Brooklyn moms secretly hoping one of them
will take a nose plant in a nice pile of sludge. Not really. Okay, maybe.

  I have four hours to kill until my lesson with Ms. Ruby, so I head two more blocks to my favorite little coffee shop. It’s appropriately called “Coffee Bar” because the owners, Mike and Mike, thought it would be ingenious to have a coffee shop by day and a trendy bar by night. I agree with Mike and Mike wholeheartedly . . . combining alcohol, coffee and music is the ultimate trifecta! Plus, my friend Dan is a decent barista during the day and the lead singer of a kick-ass band that performs here on weekends. I settle into my favorite leather chair and Dan brings me a small coffee, taken with a lot of non-organic milk and a little refined sugar.

  “So Chloe, how’s life?” Dan is around twenty-five and there is no doubt he has had a tiny crush on me for years. It’s completely harmless and a little ego-boosting considering how I usually look when I come in here. Dan is adorable and talented and not-Adam.

  “Well Dan, life is pretty good. Is the band playing this weekend?” His blue eyes sparkle as he sits on the armrest of my chair.

  “Funny you should ask . . . Marta has the flu and we could use a sexy siren to sing some backup.” I know where he’s going with this and I’m flattered. I could use a little artistic romp and I love his band.

  “Poor Marta. If only I knew someone that could sing, has her own guitar and is available on Saturday night . . .” I smile and try to make my green eyes twinkle. Dan claps his hands with a loud pop then puts his finger on my nose.

  “You! Are the shit, Chloe. I will give you the details tomorrow.” Dan returns to the bar to make fancy non-fat organic lattes, occasionally giving me a little wink. Adam’s right, sometimes people are too easy.

  Ms. Ruby is a three-hundred-pound African American woman that is adamant about getting the Easter solo in her gospel choir. Her tone is exquisite, but she lacks diction and breath-control. She arrives at her lesson ten minutes early wearing a purple jumpsuit and purple rain boots . . . Ms. Ruby must hate the fucking snow, too! We set up in my front parlor, or as I like to call it . . . my funktastical no-kids-allowed music room. My vintage Les Paul guitar and crappy old banjo rest against the wall, flanking a blue velvet loveseat with an embroidered pillow of Graceland. I sit at my 1910 Baldwin upright piano and start with some scales in the alto register. Ms. Ruby tosses her bag on the floor with the cutest chuckle and we get right to it. We work on breathing exercises, expanding her head voice for the higher notes and enunciating her consonants. Then we end our lesson at the dining table with some honey tea and good-old-fashioned church gossip. Around three o’clock, twenty minutes after her lesson has formally ended, the kids come stomping through the front door with the neighbors, wet shoes everywhere. That fucking brown sludge, again!