One Kiss in... Paris. Robyn Grady

       Eleven

      Mateo looked over the children playing in the late October sunshine and ran damp palms down his trouser legs. He and Bailey had spent three days at the Chapelle. At the end of each day they returned to his stone cottage to talk and make love into the night. The French countryside this time of year, the children’s laughter mixed with memories … he didn’t want to leave.

      Bailey didn’t want to go either. If she hadn’t seemed so determined to start work again next week, he’d tell her they would stay a few more days. She seemed to fit here among the trees and the quiet.

      He wanted to see more of her when they returned to Australia. But he also wanted to be clear on his position. He was not after marriage. Children of his own. If she accepted that, he’d be more than happy to continue what they shared for however long it lasted.

      Bailey was strolling along the paved path with Madame Garnier. Clairdy walked a step behind, looking a little recovered from her news yesterday about her friend leaving. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Mateo headed toward them. All those years ago, he’d been overjoyed when Ernesto had taken him away from here, like his friend Henri had left before him. The friend he’d so love to know again. It hurt to see that little girl’s malaise but that’s all he could wish for each of these children. That one day soon they would find a family of their own.

      A stiff breeze tugged at his coat. He examined the sky. Rain on the way. He should call Bailey now, say their goodbyes and, if they were going, head off.

      Bailey and Madame strolled over.

      “Are you ready to leave, Monsieur?” Madame asked.

      Mateo folded Bailey’s gloved hand in his. “We’d best go now or the mademoiselle will miss out on seeing Paris.”

      Nichole clapped twice, loudly, and children, coming from everywhere, promptly lined up.

      “Monsieur Celeca must leave now,” Nichole said in French. “Would you all thank him and the mademoiselle for visiting?”

      In unison, the children said in French, “Thank you. We will miss you.”

      But even as Mateo’s chest swelled at the sight of so many adoring little faces and their heartfelt words, his gaze skated up and down the line and soon he frowned. One was missing.

      “Where’s Remy?” he asked.

      “Remy is a little under the weather today.” Madame reached into a pocket. “He asked that I give you this.”

      She fished out a handmade card. When Mateo opened the paper, his heart torqued in his chest then sank to his knees.

       Don’t forget me, Monsieur.

      There was a drawing of a smiling boy holding a football.

      Mateo groaned, then, setting his jaw, started off. “I’ll go see him.”

      But Madame’s firm hand on his arm pulled him up. Her green eyes glistened with sympathy and understanding.

      “I think, Monsieur, it is best that you don’t. I’ll keep an eye on Remy. He’ll be fine, I promise.”

      Mateo held Nichole’s gaze for a long tortured moment as his thoughts flew and a fine sweat broke on his brow. She knew that if he went upstairs to Remy he would want to take him. And he couldn’t. For so many reasons. He had to go and let Remy find a couple who wanted a family. That boy didn’t need an overworked, set-in-his-ways bachelor.

      After the women and Clairdy hugged, he and Bailey headed to the car, and the children began to sing. Emotion biting behind his eyes, Mateo fought the urge to look back. Seeing out the corner of his eye that Bailey’s hands were clenched together, it was all he could do not to. But he was scared that if he did, he would see Remy, standing as he had once stood, at a second-story window, wondering if two friends would ever meet again.

      Mateo barely spoke the whole drive to Paris. Whenever Bailey tried to make conversation, he answered and that was all.

      From the first, she’d been aware of the connection he and Remy shared. Now Mateo felt terrible leaving that little boy behind. More terrible than she felt leaving Clairdy, and that was bad enough. But as Mateo had said, he did what he could. Neither of them was in a position to do any more … even if they desperately wanted to.

      Still, she wished she could have the happy, talkative Mateo back again.

      As the convertible hurled them ever closer to Paris and away from the Chapelle, Bailey told herself not to dwell on the possibility of Mateo being a father to Remy as Ernesto had been a father to him. Watching farmhouses and fields whiz by, she reminded herself that Mateo had a bachelor lifestyle—a busy career—that didn’t correlate with having children. Remy deserved a family who were prepared to give up anything and everything to adopt him. When Mateo flew over next year, Remy might well be gone. And that was best.

      Wasn’t it?

      They checked into the same hotel on the Champs-Elysees and, as if neither of them wanted to dwell on where they had been—how different it felt to be back in the bosom of luxury as opposed to snuggling beneath the patchwork quilt of their stone cottage—they had their bags taken to their suite and immediately set off to sightsee.

      As they strolled arm in arm along the Champs-Elysees, Mateo explained, “The people of Paris refer to this avenue as la plus belle avenue du monde. The most beautiful avenue in the world.”

      Bailey had to agree. Finally soaking up the sights she’d heard so much about felt amazing. The atmosphere was effused with so much history and courage and beauty. Every shop and tree and face seemed to greet her as if they were old rather than new friends.

      She cupped a hand over her brow to shield the autumn sun from her eyes. “It seems to go on forever.”

      “Two kilometers. It ends at the Arc de Triomphe, the monument Bonaparte built to commemorate his victories.”

      They strolled beside the clipped horse-chestnut trees and lamplights, passing cinemas, cafés and so many speciality shops, before stopping for lunch at a café where the dishes marked on a chalkboard menu ranged from sweet-and-sour sea bass and lobster ravioli to more casual fare such as club sandwiches. After taking a seat among the pigeons at one of the many sidewalk tables, Bailey decided on the crab and asparagus salad, while Mateo liked the sound of braised lamb with peaches.

      “Is this a favorite café when you’re in town?” She asked, sipping a glass of white wine.

      “This is my first time eating here.”

      “Then I think today we’ve found the perfect place to simply sit and watch.”

      He raised his glass. “A favorite Parisian pastime. Keeping an eye out for the unique and the beautiful.”

      Bailey had been watching a pair of young lovers, laughing as they meandered down the avenue. Now her focus flicked back to Mateo and the intense look in his dark eyes made her blush. He wasn’t looking at the beautiful view. He was looking at her.

      They enjoyed their meal then headed off to the Louvre on the bank of the Seine. Bailey couldn’t stop from beaming. So much to take in … over thirty-five thousand works of art dating from antiquity to modern times … Da Vinci, Rubens as well as Roman-Greco and Egyptian art collections … she felt deliciously lost as more and more worlds unfolded before her. She adored Michelangelo’s The Slave and openly gaped at the Venus de Milo. But she fell completely in love with Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss.

      Cupid’s wings were raised behind him, his head slanted over