Free The Book That Matters Most by Ann Hood Page A

very good sentence in her notebook. A brilliant one. She’d used green ink.
    Julien was climbing back up the ladder, a tray with café au laits and the chocolate croissants she liked so much in his hands.
    â€œI’m writing a wonderful story,” she told him.
    He fed her a croissant, wiped the flakes of pastry from her collarbone.
    â€œLike Hemingway?” he asked her.
    Her heart sped up. He was taking that pipe from the tray; she hadn’t even seen it there, and now he was holding a match to it.
    â€œIn the minimalist style,” she said, feeling her body tremble ever so slightly.
    â€œSit up, coccinelle ,” he said.
    Grapefruit. Ladybug. He called her so many pet names.
    â€œI love you,” she said, lifting her face up, opening her mouth, eager.
    H e bought her clothes too. Even though she told him that her father had put enough money in a bank account for her to live for a year abroad, he insisted. He arrived, huffing from the one hundred steps, with shopping bags from Agnès B. filled with striped shirts and soft V-neck t-shirts, high-waisted black bell-bottoms in a fluid jersey material, Mary Janes with little straps and chunky heels. If he decided to take her out to dinner, he chose her outfit. The snug black dress with the flowered Peter Pan collar or the navy blue and white checked.
    He called her his little artichoke, his plum, his tulip. He brought macarons from Pierre Hermé, and bread from Poilâne, and cheese from Laurent Dubois.
    â€œThis Roquefort,” he said, opening the wax paper on the cheese and releasing a pungent stink, “is a very old cheese, dating from before the Roman conquest of Gaul. It ripens for three months in the Combalou caves below Roquefort-sur-Soulzon.”
    She nibbled the cracker smeared with it that he handed her.
    â€œI’ll take you there sometime,” Julien said. “Would you like that? To go to the Combalou caves with me?”
    She put down the cracker, one tiny corner eaten.
    â€œYes,” she told him. “Take me there. When can we go?”
    He held the cracker to her lips. “Eat,” he said softly. “You’re too thin.”
    She forced herself to eat it, but the taste made her gag.
    â€œAnd the ocean,” she said, after she drank some wine. “Take me to the ocean. To Nice.”
    â€œYes, yes,” he said. “We should go to Nice and you will lie in the sun and turn golden brown.”
    â€œI’ll lie in the sun topless,” she said. She closed her eyes, as if she could feel the warm sun beating down on her.
    Julien opened another package, broke off a piece of hard cheese.
    â€œThis is from Monbéliarde cows. They are known for their sweet milk.”
    He told her to taste it.
    â€œWhat does it remind you of?” he asked her.
    â€œButterscotch,” she said, and he smiled and kissed her, his hands stinking from cheese grabbing her face and holding it hard.
    â€œMy brilliant pomme de terre ,” he whispered.
    S he didn’t know when his visits became less frequent. When the weather turned colder? When the hard rain began to fall almost daily? Maggie lay on the hot pink sofa, waiting, staring out at the gray sky, the rain on the tiled rooftops of the Marais. She realized then that although he could call her any time, she had no number for him. On her phone, it showed up as blocked. One day, she noticed that Christmas lights had been strung up on the buildings opposite. She went out onto the balcony and watched people with large bouquets of flowers and fresh baguettes movingquickly through the rain. She wrapped her arms around her thin body, shivering out there, watching everyone pass by.
    Back inside, she pulled on the black bell-bottoms and a long-sleeved striped top, not even bothering to put on underwear first. She poured a big glass of wine, and drank it down with a handful of pills. Then she grabbed a trench coat, the tags still hanging from it, and