Carefully balancing her espresso and croissant, Margo headed toward a small café table that caught the morning sun. The throaty voice of Edith Piaf floated through an open window and even though the record was old and scratchy, it made Margo yearn for the Paris of the Thirties. That was long before she was born, of course, but she knew the city had a gayety back then that was lost forever when the war came.
Still, the place was magical—just as she had known it would be.
Settling at her table, Margo glanced around the still-empty courtyard. She hoped nearby seats would be claimed by Parisians, rather than chattering American tourists. French voices always seemed to be filled with music and romance and, even though she hadn’t yet mastered the language, she was content to let the words wash over her, enjoying their beauty—like when she went to the opera back home.
Margo relaxed into the warm, luxuriant sunshine. She closed her eyes and pictured Pierre rounding the corner with his blinding smile and intoxicating kiss. She hoped he would hurry. When they were apart she began to fear he was only a figment of her imagination.
After a moment Margo opened her eyes and glanced around. She was still alone. Unable to wait another second, she picked up the flaky croissant from the plate in front of her. Pierre wouldn’t mind that she hadn’t waited. The exquisite, buttery smell made her mouth water. Nothing in the world—not Italian bread, not English scones, not Greek baklava—could match this delicacy invented by the French.
As she sipped the rich, thick espresso, Margo wondered why she had waited so long to make this trip. The break from her hectic life back home was making her feel like a new person.
Suddenly, her reverie was interrupted. Somewhere in the distance, a bell sounded. It might have been a church bell, perhaps being rung from the spire of a cathedral that was hundreds of years old, or maybe it was the clang of a French ambulance careening down one of the narrow, cobblestone streets that ran along the Seine. It was so faint, Margo couldn’t be sure.
Then she heard it again—louder this tine. Ding dong. Ding dong.
Inside the building behind her, a door slammed. She heard footsteps and excited voices drawing nearer. The grainy squeal of a sliding glass door being pushed open made her jump.
What was it? What was happening? Margo shook her head to clear her confusion.
"Mom, it’s almost ten. We’re gonna be late for soccer. You said you’d take us today. Remember?"
Margaret sighed. "Sure, honey," she said. "I’ll be right there. We’ve got plenty of time."
Picking up her dishes and carrying them back inside the kitchen, Margaret smiled.
© 2005 by Sandra Clough.