“We’ll always have Paris,” Meg murmured to herself.  She carefully arranged the plum blossom tea cups on the table in the sun room, whose white decor shone blindingly in the rays of the morning sun.

“We haven’t been to Paris.”  Her husband’s voice came gruffly from behind his newspaper.

“Eddie.  It’s Sunday.”

“Just like it’s been Sunday every week for the past thirty-five years, Meg.  I’ll be gone before Helena gets here.”

“I’m sorry, Ed.  I guess I didn’t sleep very well last night.”  She crossed to sit in his lap and rested her head on his shoulder.

“You think it’s the meds? I can call Dr. Busse if you want me to.”

“Don’t be silly.  I’m fine.  Finish your paper and go beat Jack at chess.” She pressed her nose against his.  “You have a reputation to maintain.”  She received his trademark half-grin and a comfortable kiss.  He brushed a silver hair behind her ear, one of those intimate gestures Meg had always loved.

“You’re sure?”

“Go,” she ordered, using the chair’s arm to lever herself into a standing position.  The look on her husband’s face made her wonder how she must look, weight loss and undereye circles.  “I won’t break. Not this afternoon, anyway.”

A year ago, Meg would have hidden in the kitchen while her husband gathered his things and left.  Foregoing the pretense, she climbed the stairs to their bedroom.  Sunlight filtered in from the accordion blinds they’d installed last month when they repainted.  Ed wouldn’t need such a big house.  He’d take the bed to a new apartment, one close to the library, or a townhouse with its own garage.  He might move out west to be near the kids, although Ed hated California.  She didn’t think he’d be that lonely.

The night before, she’d set the scrapbook on the top of her dresser.  Now it stared at her reproachfully.  Serves me right for hiding it all this time.

The doorbell chimed and seconds later Helena appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.  Her usual smile faded when her eyes met Meg’s, traveled up and down the length of Meg’s body.

Before Helena could speak, Meg pulled her down to kiss her. “You really can’t be gone so long again.  I don’t care who’s having gallery openings.”  She kissed her again, urgently, and soon Helena was in bed where she belonged.   
Helena changed perfumes frequently, but Meg always found spice and vanilla in the scent of her hair, in the taste of her skin.  She ran fingers over Helena’s athletic form, still strong and lithe.  The first time Meg had pressed her body against Helena’s, they were in their little room in student housing, the same building where Rimbaud stayed in 1862, across the street from the Sorbonne.

“Meg.”  Helena’s voice sounded panicked.  “What is this?”  Meg felt fingers tracing the bandage on her right breast.

She breathed in before answering, spice and vanilla.  “I found a bright red spot.”

“My god.  When were you going to tell me?”

“I didn’t find out til you’d left for San Francisco.”

“Well, what’s the prognosis? I mean, are you doing chemo? Is that why you look so thin?”

“I have done a little.”

“And?”

“I have – it’s called Inflammatory Breast Cancer.  I’ve got about four months.”

She’d said the same words to Ed.  Then she’d told him about Helena, and about Paris.  He’d stared at her and finally said, “What about the kids?”

Ironic that’s how they’d reconnected.  Helena threw fits when she got back from her gallivanting abroad, angry that Meg had gone ahead and graduated, gotten married, got pregnant.   In typical fashion, Helena had frozen Meg out, refused to speak to her, refused to see her at all as she finished her own degree, single and free.

But the baby was harder than Meg had imagined.  Her mother-in-law ridiculed any suggestion that Meg was tired; Ed had seven brothers and sisters.  Exhausted, numb, without thinking, she’d phoned Helena. And Helena came.  She tucked Meg into bed and popped Henry into the pram.  And when she came back, the next week, to take Henry for a walk, Meg made sure he was already asleep and she took Helena, shyly, into bed with her.  It might have ended, then, but Ed started playing chess on Sunday afternoons.  Under the the pretense of ladies’ tea, Meg and her lover continued spending the afternoons with each other.

For thirty-five years.

“You know, I do actually like tea.”  Helena laughed half-heartedly against Meg’s hair, and then her voice caught.  They rose slowly, dressed slowly, lingered on buttons and zippers.  Meg set the water to heat while Helena pulled out a loose leaf black tea and the tea ball for steeping.  They lounged next to each other on the wicker loveseat, flipping through the scrapbook Meg had kept of ticket stubs and rose petals, photos of the curly-haired girls they used to be, cigarettes in hand.

The summer sun was lazing on the horizon when they heard the car, the key in the door.

“Helena,” Eddie nodded, restrained, as he joined them.

“Ed.”

“You told her, then?” Ed asked his wife, still staring at Helena.

Meg nodded, reached to interlace her fingers with Helena’s and held out the other hand to her husband.

“Paris it is,” she said quietly.