Page 127 of The Lost Carousel of Provence
They walked several blocks in companionable silence. Cady enjoyed threading through the crowds of locals and tourists as they continued down the busy boulevard; after the sleepiness of Saint-Véran, the overflowing brasseries and incessant traffic were invigorating. Still, she thought, it would be nice to get back to the peace and quiet of the countryside.
She glanced up at Jean-Paul. She had found him attractive when first they met, but now she couldn’t stop looking at him. She was falling, hard, and the fluttering in the pit of her belly threatened to develop into full-blown panic.
“Remember to breathe,”Olivia had responded when Cady had called and told her what was going on. “Stay in the moment, keep your heart open to possibility, and have fun! What’s the worst that could happen? You’ve always got a spot on my couch.... But seriously, a French lover and restoring a lost carousel sound like a lot more fun. Maybe Sebastian and I will come for the Fête du Muguet!”
So Cady tried not to get too far ahead of herself. In this moment, in the here and now, she was strolling down a Parisian boulevard hand in hand with a kindhearted, talented, handsome man. She was on the hunt for three last carousel figures to complete a precious Bayol carousel once lost to history. She had been instrumental in helping an old man reunite with at least some of his family, and she had found a semblance of a home, of connection—however temporary—in the charming village of Saint-Véran.
Cady Anne Drake had accomplished something. It was hard to say what the future would bring, but she was determined to remain open to however it might unfold.
Dusk was falling by the time they reached the plaza in front of the historic Hôtel de Ville. The merry-go-round there, called the Carrousel La Belle Epoque, was lit up like a Christmas tree. The two-storiedmanègewas a classic example of the Parisian carousel: horses and carriages, joined by more-modern sportscars, all painted in garish reds, blues, and yellows; ceilings and running boards dotted with exquisite oil paintings, mirrors, and carvings. Cady had photographed it when she had first arrived in Paris, what seemed a lifetime ago.
It looked different to her now, after she had spent so much time with Bayol’s farmyard animals. Its frothy exuberance formed a strong contrast to the restrained, simple but sweet elegance of the Château Clement carousel.
A small girl with a pageboy haircut and a bright red coat stood nearby with a stooped gray-haired man who leaned on his walker. The girl was crying angry tears, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Cady caught the old man’s eye.
“My granddaughter is afraid to ride the carousel by herself, but I’m afraid I can’t manage it,” said the man.
“Quel dommage.Comment tu t’appelles?”Cady asked the girl, who scowled at her in sullen silence.
“This is Agnes,” the man replied.
Cady smiled. “You know what, Agnes? I haven’t been on a carousel for averylong time. Not since I was about your age. Would you like me to go with you?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Agnes gave a grudging nod.
Jean-Paul bought them two small paper tickets. When the tinny notes wound down and the machine came to rest, Cady took Agnes by the hand and they climbed aboard. After some deliberation, they chose side-by-side horses.
Cady helped Agnes onto one steed and threw her own leg over the other, then gripped the pole, feeling a little thrill of impatience.
A few moments later, the carousel started up with a jerk. The horses galloped up and down, and music filled the air. As they gained speed, the Hôtel de Ville, the cafés that ringed the plaza, the cars and pedestrians crowding the surrounding boulevards, all meshed into a blurry kaleidoscope of light and color.
Each time her horse whirled by, Agnes waved to her grandfather. He smiled and held up his hand in return, every time.
Cady joined in, waving to the girl’s grandfather, to Jean-Paul, to the tourists and the locals and to all of Paris.
In her mind’s eye, at least, they waved back.
