Birthday, 13 February 1989
"Alain asked me to tell you that you might want to dress up," Carrie says, coming into Meg's room while Meg is looking through her closet, trying to decide what to wear for whatever it is that Alain has planned for her birthday. "So, not that sweater."
"What do you mean, 'Alain asked you to'?" Meg asks, hanging the sweater back in the closet.
"Oh, and I'm supposed to give you this," Carrue says, handing her an envelope.
The note inside says, "Meg, You said I was allowed to conspire with your friends. Joyeux anniversaire. À bientôt. Alain"
Meg rolls her eyes. "Green dress, then?" she asks Carrie.
"Wear the tiara," Carrie suggests, with a wave towards the plastic crown on Meg's dresser, and leaves Meg to change.
Alain arrives, as ever, exactly at six.
Carrying grocery bags.
And Olivia and Carrie, laughing, take their bags and their coats, and promise they won't be back before ten.
"So, we're staying in?" Meg asks, when her roommates are gone, with a nod towards the bags.
"Yes. Happy birthday."
"So, exactly what we're doing tomorrow?"
"No, tomorrow we are cooking. Tonight, I am cooking."
"I stand corrected," Meg says. "So almost exactly what we're doing tomorrow?"
Alain laughs and then kisses her. "It's a good plan, ma belle. We both thought of it."
It is a good plan. Because given that she has two roommates and he lives with his parents, four hours of privacy is just about the best birthday present she can have.
But . . .
"You could have told me that we were planning the same thing--almost the same thing, for two nights in a row."
"But that would have ruined the surprise."
"And why did you have Carrie tell me to dress up?"
"Well, partly to, ah, what's the word?"
"Mislead?"
"Yes, mislead you. And partly because . . . you look very beautiful in that dress, ma belle."
Alain is not, truth be told, much of a cook, but he can make crepes; his uncle taught him. And while no one would mistake Alain's for the ones that Sylvain makes and that are written up in guide books, they are still very good.
"I almost forgot," Alain says, after dinner, as they're settling in on the couch. He pulls a small box, wrapped in green paper, from his pocket and hands it to her.
"Liar," Meg says. "I doubt you even came close to forgetting."
"You are, of course, right. I was in no danger of forgetting about it."
"You already gave me a car," Meg points out.
"But this is your real present. Open it."
There's another box inside the first, a deep burgundy velvet box. And inside it is a ring, a gold filigreed band set with an amethyst.
"Alain . . ."
"Don't say I shouldn't have. And don't say it's too much. Because I wanted to. And it's not enough."
Meg had been about to say at least one and possibly both of those things. Which leaves her kind of at a loss for words.
"It's . . . it's beautiful. Thank you."
"You're welcome." He takes it out of the box she's still holding, and takes her right hand. "Let's see if it fits."
It fits the third finger on her right hand perfectly. "It's beautiful," she says again. "But you have to stop giving me jewelry, Alain. I'm running out of places to wear it."
"Now I think you're the one who is lying," he says. "There are still plenty of places. Like right here," he says, mouth against her ear for a moment before he moves to kiss her neck, and her collar bone, and the hollow of her throat. "And here."
"Alain . . ."
"And here," he says, touching the base of the ring finger on her left hand. "I have plans for this place, someday, Meghan Margaret Ford. If that is all right with you."
And that leaves her utterly at a loss for words. For a second or two, it's like she's forgotten even how to breathe. And then she nods. "Someday, yes."
"Someday," he says, lifting her hand so he can kiss it, too. "I love you."
"Je t'aime, aussi."
They're silent for a moment then, fingers entwined, until Alain says, "What are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking," Meg says, "that this has been the nicest birthday of my life. And I am thinking that you are going to have a very hard time topping it, next year."
Alain laughs. "Then I better start planning now."
"What do you mean, 'Alain asked you to'?" Meg asks, hanging the sweater back in the closet.
"Oh, and I'm supposed to give you this," Carrue says, handing her an envelope.
The note inside says, "Meg, You said I was allowed to conspire with your friends. Joyeux anniversaire. À bientôt. Alain"
Meg rolls her eyes. "Green dress, then?" she asks Carrie.
"Wear the tiara," Carrie suggests, with a wave towards the plastic crown on Meg's dresser, and leaves Meg to change.
Alain arrives, as ever, exactly at six.
Carrying grocery bags.
And Olivia and Carrie, laughing, take their bags and their coats, and promise they won't be back before ten.
"So, we're staying in?" Meg asks, when her roommates are gone, with a nod towards the bags.
"Yes. Happy birthday."
"So, exactly what we're doing tomorrow?"
"No, tomorrow we are cooking. Tonight, I am cooking."
"I stand corrected," Meg says. "So almost exactly what we're doing tomorrow?"
Alain laughs and then kisses her. "It's a good plan, ma belle. We both thought of it."
It is a good plan. Because given that she has two roommates and he lives with his parents, four hours of privacy is just about the best birthday present she can have.
But . . .
"You could have told me that we were planning the same thing--almost the same thing, for two nights in a row."
"But that would have ruined the surprise."
"And why did you have Carrie tell me to dress up?"
"Well, partly to, ah, what's the word?"
"Mislead?"
"Yes, mislead you. And partly because . . . you look very beautiful in that dress, ma belle."
Alain is not, truth be told, much of a cook, but he can make crepes; his uncle taught him. And while no one would mistake Alain's for the ones that Sylvain makes and that are written up in guide books, they are still very good.
"I almost forgot," Alain says, after dinner, as they're settling in on the couch. He pulls a small box, wrapped in green paper, from his pocket and hands it to her.
"Liar," Meg says. "I doubt you even came close to forgetting."
"You are, of course, right. I was in no danger of forgetting about it."
"You already gave me a car," Meg points out.
"But this is your real present. Open it."
There's another box inside the first, a deep burgundy velvet box. And inside it is a ring, a gold filigreed band set with an amethyst.
"Alain . . ."
"Don't say I shouldn't have. And don't say it's too much. Because I wanted to. And it's not enough."
Meg had been about to say at least one and possibly both of those things. Which leaves her kind of at a loss for words.
"It's . . . it's beautiful. Thank you."
"You're welcome." He takes it out of the box she's still holding, and takes her right hand. "Let's see if it fits."
It fits the third finger on her right hand perfectly. "It's beautiful," she says again. "But you have to stop giving me jewelry, Alain. I'm running out of places to wear it."
"Now I think you're the one who is lying," he says. "There are still plenty of places. Like right here," he says, mouth against her ear for a moment before he moves to kiss her neck, and her collar bone, and the hollow of her throat. "And here."
"Alain . . ."
"And here," he says, touching the base of the ring finger on her left hand. "I have plans for this place, someday, Meghan Margaret Ford. If that is all right with you."
And that leaves her utterly at a loss for words. For a second or two, it's like she's forgotten even how to breathe. And then she nods. "Someday, yes."
"Someday," he says, lifting her hand so he can kiss it, too. "I love you."
"Je t'aime, aussi."
They're silent for a moment then, fingers entwined, until Alain says, "What are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking," Meg says, "that this has been the nicest birthday of my life. And I am thinking that you are going to have a very hard time topping it, next year."
Alain laughs. "Then I better start planning now."