And much to her consternation, Jean-Pierre gave her one too, a far simpler one than Richard had given Meg, but with equal meaning, though his came without a proposal, but the implication was clear. It was a gold band with a tiny diamond heart on it, and he put it on her left hand, which had seemed so naked to her for so long. She had missed her wedding ring so much and so often wished that she could still wear it, but it seemed a travesty now, with Peter married to someone else. Paris had loved all it stood for, and had never taken it off till the end. But Jean-Pierre's ring warmed her hand and her heart again, and made her wonder yet again if she should think seriously about spending the rest of her life with him. There were worse fates. She asked Bix what he thought of it, when they were talking about Meg's wedding one day, the week after she'd gotten engaged.
“You have to follow your heart,” he said sensibly. “What do you want?”
“I don't know. To be safe, I guess.” They were the first words that came to mind. After what had happened with Peter, that meant everything to her. But they both knew that in life everything was possible, and nothing was sure. There were no guarantees. Some risks were greater than others, and they seemed considerable to her with Jean-Pierre. He was undeniably young, though he had just turned thirty-three, which sounded better to her. But she was about to turn forty-eight in May, just over two months away. It sounded so old to her. And everything about him was young, his looks, his mind, his ideas. He was undeniably and irresistibly immature, and even if they had been the same age, their lifestyles and ideas and goals were often worlds apart. His sweetness appealed to her, and they loved each other. But Paris knew better than most that love was not always enough. He might grow up and feel differently one day, and fall in love with someone else. Or maybe not. Peter had. It had shaken her faith in everything, and now Jean-Pierre. It would forever taint whatever she loved or believed in or touched. There was no turning back the clock.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I just don't know if I love him enough.”
“How much is enough?”
“Enough to grow old together, and put up with all the miseries and disappointments that come your way in life.” They both knew that they never failed to come, no matter how much you loved someone. You had to be willing to stick it out. Peter wasn't. Would Jean-Pierre? Who the hell knew? Paris didn't. Nor did Bix. Jean-Pierre probably didn't know himself, but he thought he did. And in March, he proposed. His visa was running out in a month, and he wanted to know what Paris was going to do. She was desperately sorry he had asked. Once he did, there was no turning back. And he was devastated that she did not instantly accept. She gave it a great deal of thought.
He wanted her either to marry him so he could stay in the States and get a green card, or move back to Paris with him, so he could resume his life. But that meant giving up everything she had now. She loved working with Bix, and her life in San Francisco. It meant leaving the States. But Jean-Pierre was more than willing to stay. And he could only stay legally if they got married, so he could work. He felt he couldn't put off his real life any longer. He had given her a six-month gift. But she knew she couldn't hold him back forever. It wasn't fair to him. He had to go back to what he'd been doing before, as a star photographer in a bigger world. Or stay with her forever here, and drum up work on a bigger scale, probably in L.A. But they couldn't live in the twilight zone forever, as he pointed out to her when he told her how much he loved her, and wanted her to be his wife. In some ways, she wanted that too, but she couldn't help but worry about the future, and what would happen when he grew up, because he wasn't a grown-up yet. He was nearly there, but not quite, and his boyishness erupted constantly. It made her feel like his mother. And she hated that. She didn't want to be his mother. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to be his wife. There was no question that she loved him. The question was how much. And in all fairness to him, she felt he deserved someone who was sure.
It took her three weeks to figure it out, and it was already early April when they took a long walk in the Marina, and wound up on the lawn at the Palace of Fine Arts, sitting on the lawn, and watching the ducks. She loved going there with him. She loved going everywhere with him. It took every ounce of courage to say the fateful words to him that he had waited for, for three weeks. She said them in a whisper, and they tore at her heart, and were like a cannonball in his.
