Read Chapter 9: Rain on the Canal

By the middle of April, La Petite Traversée had stopped looking like a shop waiting to close.

The change was visible in small things. The front table turned over twice a week instead of once a month. Handwritten recommendation cards multiplied between the shelves. The newsletter had 1,842 subscribers, most of whom Clara had never met. Students came in asking for the "books that make rain acceptable" shelf after someone posted it online. A travel magazine sent a photographer.

The bank account remained alarming, but it had acquired the courtesy to improve.

Clara celebrated by becoming more tired.

On the Friday before Easter, she woke at six, received a delivery at eight forty-five, answered sixty-three emails, hosted a school group, argued with a distributor, rebuilt the online catalogue, sold books for nine hours, and forgot to eat lunch.

At seven, Luc came downstairs and found her standing behind the till with one hand pressed to her forehead.

"You are going outside," he said.

"I'm closing at eight."

"Nassim is here."

Clara looked up. Nassim waved from the doorway.

"Traitor," she said.

"I was bribed with dinner," he replied.

Luc took Clara's coat from the hook and held it out.

"No."

"This is not a democracy."

"You objected to my unilateral management style."

"I have evolved."

Ten minutes later, Clara was on the Métro with him heading east.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere the books cannot see you."

They emerged near Canal Saint-Martin. Evening had settled warm and damp over the water. Groups of people sat along the quays with bottles of wine, paper cartons, guitars, bicycles. The canal reflected green trees and pale façades in broken strips. When the locks opened, water churned under the footbridge.

Luc bought falafel from a takeaway window and two beers from a corner shop.

"This is your intervention?"

"Eat."

They sat with their backs against the stone embankment.

Clara took one bite and realised she was ravenous.

"I hate when you're right."

"You must be exhausted."

"Frequently."

"You are doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Making work large enough that there is no room for anything else."

Clara swallowed.

"You know me for six weeks."

"Long enough to observe that you answer email while brushing your teeth."

"You don't know that."

"You sent me an email at seven twelve with a toothpaste mark photographed on the corner of an invoice."

She laughed.

"Evidence."

"Strong evidence."

They ate in silence for a while.

A barge moved slowly through the canal. Somewhere behind them, someone played three uncertain chords on a guitar and then gave up.

"Daniel used to say I worked too much," Clara said.

Luc glanced at her.

"Then he was right about one thing. A tragic complication."

"I hated it when he said it because he worked just as much. Only his work was apparently ambition and mine was avoidance."

"Was yours avoidance?"

Clara watched the water.

"Sometimes."

There were truths she had not said aloud because they did not fit the clean story of betrayal. Daniel had cheated. Daniel had lied. Daniel had left. Those facts were complete and sufficient.

But before all of that, there had been a relationship that had become efficient. Two careers, two calendars, shared groceries, Sunday laundry, sex scheduled by fatigue. Clara had been unhappy in ways she had considered too ordinary to count.

"I think," she said slowly, "I was very good at building a life I didn't have to feel while I was inside it."

Luc did not answer at once.

"And now?"

She looked at him.

"Now I argue with a Frenchman about rugs."

"Healing is mysterious."

She laughed, but the air between them had changed.

A breeze lifted the hair near Clara's face. Luc reached toward her and stopped.

"What?"

"Ink."

"On me?"

He nodded.

"Where?"

"Here."

His thumb brushed the side of her cheek.

It was a tiny movement.

Clara felt it all the way to her hands.

Luc's fingers remained near her face for half a second. His eyes dropped to her mouth.

The canal, the voices, the traffic on the bridge seemed to recede.

Clara could have moved forward.

So could he.

Instead a bottle shattered behind them.

They both turned.

A group of students cheered inexplicably.

Luc lowered his hand.

"Paris," he said.

"Very romantic."

"Always."

They walked back later than planned.

At République, the Métro platform was crowded. Clara and Luc stood close to avoid being separated when the train arrived. Inside, there was no space to hold anything except each other.

Luc put one hand above Clara on the rail, shielding her from the press of bodies. She looked at the hollow of his throat because looking directly at him felt reckless.

At Odéon, half the carriage emptied.

They could have moved apart.

Neither did.

When they reached Rue des Écoles, Nassim had closed the shop and left the keys with Sabine.

Clara and Luc stood beneath the blue awning.

"Thank you," Clara said.

"For kidnapping you?"

"For the falafel."

"Ah. That was serious."

She smiled.

Luc looked at her in the quiet street.

Then, very deliberately, he bent and kissed her cheek.

Not where the ink had been.

Closer to the corner of her mouth.

"Good night, tyrant," he said.

He disappeared through the side entrance.

Clara stood under the awning for another full minute.

Then she unlocked the shop on the first try.