Northern Moonlight (2 page)

When
the fire investigators
had
conclude
d
that it was Mrs. Salvatore’s numerous candles that had set the house ablaze
,
Giovanni had gone to live with his uncle
Stefano in New York City.  He quickly
found that he detested not only his disinge
nuous salesman relative
, but
also
the disturbingly f
renetic pace of city life.
 
It didn’t help that Stefano’s wife, Helena, had the most frigid disposition he had ever encountered, and together the childless couple made him feel like an outcast. 

At eighteen
, longing for the simpl
icity and rugged nature of his home state
, Giovanni dropped out of high school and returned to Vermont, becoming a fireman in honor of his lost parents and sibling.
 
Nearly fourteen
years later, he was still a fireman and proud of that fact.
 
His career was a point of
honor
and self-definition, but his private life was something of a shambles.
 

Still a bachelor, with a string of emotionally detached liaisons behind him, Giovanni scoffed at the idea of love, firmly believing that everything in this life was borrowed and
hopelessly
impermanent, liable at any moment to erupt into choking smoke and leave heart-wrenching destruction in its wake.
 

The powerfully built,
six feet two inch
Giovanni had
never had any trouble
finding his share of “swinging seventies”
encounters that so many disco
tune
s
glorified, but he was none too proud of them.
 
Indeed, as his aging truck sputtered along the
slick
roads, now perilously laced with hard sheets of ice, he
had never felt lonelier.

*****

Paris, France
,
December 31, 1979

There---that’s the perfect angle
, Sabrina Montrouge thought as she positioned her camera and snapped a shot of the Eiffel Tower in the waning afternoon sun.  The twenty-seven year old photographer was in Paris on assignment for the glossy travel magazine that graced every bookshelf in the United States.  Her weeklong stay in the glamorous city had been even more magical since it coincided with the holidays. 

The lights of Paris were more luminous than usual in December.  Metallic-colored decorations blended with the scents of cinnamon, apples, and nutmeg while the joyful strains of street carolers completed the dazzling scene. 

Soon, though, Sabrina would have to return her small cape house in Burlington, Vermont. Majestic Lake Champlain and the rugged Green Mountains made an arresting backdrop for any serious photographer.  Sabrina had not hesitated to move there after earning her bachelor’s degree in photography five years ago.  But it could get so lonely…

Shrugging off nagging thoughts about returning to an empty house, Sabrina contented herself with the fact that she still had three more carefree days to explore Paris.  Then she would worry about going home.  For now, the air was growing chillier as the sun made its final descent of the decade into the horizon.

The city began to illuminate and vibrate with palpable energy as Sabrina snapped a few more photographs of her glittering surroundings.  With a wistful sigh, she slipped the camera into her handbag and began walking toward the metro station that would bring her to her hotel in the fifth
arrondissement
.  Passing by walls papered with glossy film posters and abstract art, Sabrina validated her ticket in the machine and hustled over to the subway train that was poised to speed away.

Inside the subway, there were no seats left, so Sabrina hung onto one of the overhead straps, staring curiously at her fellow passengers.  To Sabrina’s eyes, every face told an enthralling story.  As much as she would have loved to whip out her camera again and capture this historical moment, she decided not to draw unnecessary attention to herself.  Her light but discernable American accent, along with her unassuming beauty, already garnered enough attention.

It was a short walk from the metro station to the hotel, and Sabrina waltzed through the charming lobby of the three-story
Hôtel des Fleurs
. Instead of retreating to her room, she made her way over to the obscenely expensive restaurant
L’Étoile de Paris
.  Generally, Sabrina was partial to the simplicity of a hearty New England meal like clam chowder and heaps of crispy bread.  But tonight was New Year’s Eve and she was in Paris.  Smiling at the
maître d’
, Sabrina resolved to treat herself to a decadent dinner, perhaps even a glass of fine champagne to ring in the new era. 

*****

January 1, 1980, Paris, France

Sabrina awoke in the hotel room with a jolt.
 
Color flooded her face as she
floated out of an
intensely sensual dream just as the electric lights of Paris
transformed into
sunbeams.  In her dream, she
had been ballroom dancing in the nude with a dark, thrillingly masculine stranger.
 
He had held her at arm’s length, going through the motions of the dance like a well-oiled machine, calculating and calm, while his eyes
clearly devoured her and betrayed ferocious desire.
 
They were circling the ballroom, palpable heat between their bodies rising steep
ly with their elegant movements.  T
hey were
on the verge of engaging
in what promised to be a
dizzyingly erotic kiss when Sabrina had woken up.
 

Now lying awake in her hotel room, she pondered the dream.  The swarthy stranger in the dream was unlike anyone she had ever met.  She wiped a damp wisp of chestnut-colored hair from her brow and chalked the dream up to an overly romantic imagination.  Being in a city like Paris could awaken one’s cravings for intimacy, she had found. 

For the past week, in between snapping photos, her life had consisted of
nibbling on fruit tarts from a corner bakery, marveling over glass-enclosed artifacts at the Louvre,
and watching French movies at the cinema
.
 
Too many movies
, she told herself drolly. 

Mornings in Paris had been particularly charmed when she would fetch a
pain au chocolat
at a sidewalk café and proceed to comically wrestle with her flimsy umbrella as the persistent rain turned it inside out.  Sabrina was enamored with Paris, just as she was with every exotic locale her job afforded her the opportunity to visit.  At the same time, she longed for an exciting interlude
à deux
to ease her loneliness and provide someone special with whom to share these experiences.

Two Days L
ater
…

Sabrina dragged her suitcase along the street as she hailed a taxi, pausing to toss an indignant look over her shoulder as a passing car splashed grimy water onto her powder blue overcoat.  A cab pulled up to the curb, as the striking brown-eyed brunette, looking disheveled now, clenched her teeth and stepped with dignity into the cab.  She looked with dismay at her stained cloak, irritated that she would have to endure a six hour transatlantic plane ride in filthy attire. 

Resolving not to let the incident mar her last few moments in Paris, Sabrina waved a friendly
au revoir
to the hotel and imagined herself in a hot shower back home.  A hot shower, but no
pain au chocolat
, she acknowledged, shutting her eyes and indulging in replays of her sweet sojourn.

The cab ride was bumpy and laden with city traffic.  When the taxi finally deposited Sabrina at Charles de Gaulle Airport, she was teetering on the edge of motion sickness.  As her stomach flip-flopped, she allowed herself one last French shopping jaunt.  Sabrina was fascinated by the specialty boutiques that lined the airport terminals.  She ventured inside a gift shop and purchased imported Swiss chocolates for herself, along with hand-blown glass figurines to arrange over the mantel back home.  Sabrina
spent the rest of the waiting period in a bookstore, flipping through French paperback novels.

To Sabrina’s relief, the flight departed at its scheduled time, and she requested club soda as soon as the stewardess came over to take her drink order.  The cold, fizzy liquid helped to avert any further motion sickness.  Deeming the in-cabin movie a dud, Sabrina happily buried herself inside the pages of the novel she had picked up from the airport bookstore.  Just as she began to read, the middle-aged man seated next to her struck up a conversation, making some inane comment.  After a few minutes of obligatory polite discourse, Sabrina turned her head away and returned to her book.  She wanted to bask in as much peaceful time as she could until arriving in New York City, where her garrulous sister Cara would be waiting with dozens of spitfire questions.

Paris was much like London in winter, with hanging mist and falling rain prevailing over ice and snow.  Back in New York, the air was clear, but a foot of snow on the ground greeted the arriving passengers.  As Sabrina carried her suitcase through Customs, she could see Cara waving in the crowd.  Trying to plaster an energetic smile on her face, Sabrina walked into the welcoming arms of her baby sister.  At twenty-five years old, Cara could have passed for Sabrina’s twin, except for her noticeably longer physique and crystal blue eyes. 

“Welcome home!” Cara exclaimed, giving Sabrina a European-style kiss on either cheek.

“Thanks!  It’s good to see you.  Let’s go.”

Sabrina wasted no time, walking quickly past her sister towards the parking area.  Before they exited the airport, jet lag had already begun to set in for Sabrina.  The five hour ride to Vermont had only begun, and Sabrina was already exhausted from her sister’s well-meaning, but excessive, questions.  Completely oblivious, Cara buoyantly chattered away. 

“Oh Sabrina, tell me everything!  Remember, I have to report all the details to Mom and Dad.  You know they really wanted to pick you up at the airport, but your trip coincided with their New Year’s vacation in Colorado, so, here I am!  What was it like in Paris?”