Free The Book That Matters Most by Ann Hood Page B

an umbrella, and went quietly down the one hundred steps. Julien had warned her that she must never make noise outside the apartment, in the stairs or hallways of the building. He said a cantankerous old woman lived in one of the apartments, and reported noise to the landlord. Later, Maggie realized there was probably no neighbor; Julien wanted her to remain unnoticed.
    Outside, the rain fell as heavily as it had that first night she’d met Julien. A cold horizontal siege. Despite the expensive coat, the large umbrella, she was soon drenched. Maggie closed the umbrella and dropped it into a trashcan. She was already wet, what did it matter? Besides, the pills had kicked in and she felt like she was skimming the sidewalk, not really walking on it, even though her shoes were quickly wet and water sloshed inside them as she moved.
    She walked down the rue de Rivoli, through crowds coming or going from important places. She walked and she walked, but she felt like she was swimming now. Her hands made small motions, as if they were helping part the water. Deep inside her, there was a constant roller coaster feeling, as if she were poised at the top of a hill, about to go flying down. She crossed streets, walked along the Seine, lost track of time. Lost track of place for a while, too.
    The rain slowed to a steady drizzle. Maggie found herself shiveringin front of the Musée d’Orsay, the high that had propelled her outside now faded, leaving a dull headache in its place. All these months in Paris and she’d never been inside this museum. The former railway station was itself considered a work of art, and inside were three hundred paintings and sculptures, mostly by the Impressionists. Maggie patted her wet hair. Where was her umbrella? She remembered taking it with her when she walked out. But somehow it was gone.
    â€œC’est combien, l’admission?” she asked at the entrance.
    Despite Maggie’s near perfect accent, the woman replied in English, “You’re in luck. It’s the first Sunday of the month. Admission is free.”
    Maggie frowned. “The first Sunday?” she repeated.
    The woman did not hide her disdain. “ Oui, mademoiselle . Today is the first Sunday of January.”
    â€œBut that’s impossible!” Maggie said.
    She stood, struggling to remember the past weeks. The cheese that tasted like butterscotch. The tender way he’d lifted the pipe to her lips. Vaguely, she could remember speaking to her mother on the telephone. She could remember that golden halo around Julien.
    â€œYou going in or what?” a gruff voice said behind Maggie.
    She nodded, frightened. Her head throbbed.
    Even the vast beauty of the museum, with its large windows and row after row of paintings that seemed familiar, even that could not calm the fear rising in her. How could she have forgotten Christmas? Had there been a present from Julien? A special dinner? She could remember the baked pasta, how carefully he’d measured the milk, how thinly he’d cut the garlic. Had that been their Christmas dinner? He called her his coccinelle , his pamplemousse .She chewed her lip hard enough to make it bleed, and sucked back the metallic taste.
    In a gallery of Monets, Maggie paused. They cast a soothing light across the room, and she remembered how much her mother loved Monet. When Maggie was young, her mother had taken her to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston to see a special Monet exhibition. She’d tried to explain the beauty of his work, but Maggie had refused to listen to her, or to be kind. She’d discovered boys by then, and drinking and smoking pot in the backseats of their cars. It was what had consumed her, those boys. Sex and drugs, shoplifting gum and candy bars, drinking warm Pabst Blue Ribbons and gobbling pills stolen from parents’ medicine cabinets. Standing in front of those Monets, though, her mother hadn’t known yet what Maggie was up to.
    And