Chapter 5: 1966 - A Perfect Day (1 year before the main timeline)

The sun, like a benevolent monarch in a deep blue sky, dappled the Fontainebleau forest floor with gold as I ventured in, my three-year-old Zoe skipping ahead with her golden hair, a cascade of curls bouncing with every step. It was the end of the summer 1966, and one can smell the refreshing perfume of pine. We were on a quest to gather the forest's bounty: flowers and mushrooms. Zoe, with the boundless enthusiasm of childhood, would pause every few steps, her small hand reaching out to touch a velvety petal or delicately prod mushrooms and stones with a curious finger. I would occasionally kneel beside her, explaining the secrets of the forest, adorning each discovery with a magic only a father's affection could conjure. A shaft of sunlight, filtering through the canopy, illuminated a patch of bluebells, their delicate bells swaying gently in a soft breeze. Zoe, captivated, gasped, her eyes - a replica of Marie's emerald eyes- wide with wonder. I gathered a handful, and wove them into her hair, "a crown fit for a woodland princess" I told her and hugged her, her scent, a delicate blend of the forest and baby shampoo, filling my senses. Her tiny frame nestled against me, warm and soft, a feeling of pure paternal love washing over me.

Later, we came upon a cluster of chanterelle mushrooms, their golden hues mimicking the sunbeams dancing on the moss. Zoe, following my guide, plucked one, almost with reverence, holding it aloft like a precious jewel. I smiled, her innocent joy mirroring my own. The forest was a cathedral of green, and it resonated with our laughter, the contented exclamations that accompanied each small discovery.

As we continued our foraging journey, Zoe's excitement was palpable. She darted from one bush to the next, her eyes scanning the undergrowth for the perfect specimen. I laughed as she tried to pick up a tiny, unripe mushroom, only to have it slip out of her chubby fingers.

"You have to be gentle with the mushrooms. We don't want to hurt them," I explained, plucking it from the ground and placing it in the basket.

Zoe's lower lip poked out in a pout, "But I wanted to kiss it!"

"Well, we can't kiss the mushrooms Zoe. Some may even be poisonous like I had told you, but we can admire their beauty," I replied, pointing to the cluster of chanterelles we had already collected. "Look at how they shine like little gold coins!"

As we walked, the rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs underfoot served as a rhythmic backdrop to our conversation. I knelt down, holding up a small, brightly colored mushroom. "Look at this one, Zoe. What color is it?"

Zoe's gaze drifted from the mushroom to me, her brow furrowed in concentration. "It's pink, Daddy!"

"Pink, huh? You're absolutely right, it's a beautiful shade of pink. What do you think it tastes like?"

Zoe pondered this for a moment before announcing, "Chocolate!"

I grinned, ruffling her curls. "Hmm, chocolate might be a bit sweet for this, but I bet it would make a tasty soup."

Zoe nodded vigorously. "Yeah, like the kind we had last week!"

As twilight began to paint the sky in hues of lavender, we retraced our steps, our basket full with nature's gifts, our hearts overflowing with the simple, profound beauty of a father-daughter's shared Saturday afternoon. "Maman is waiting for us," I said, "Let us take these and the beautiful flowers as a gift to her workshop." Zoe, eager, nodded, her eyes sparkling.

We found Marie amidst a whirlwind of canvases and brushes, her face flushed with the enthusiasm of a good day of teaching painting. We led her away to a restaurant we all three liked, tucked away on a quiet lane.

The last rays of the setting sun poured its golden hues through the windows, painting the scene in a warm embrace. We settled into a corner table. There was a gentle symphony of laughter and conversation as we dined. A simple, shared meal, yet filled with the joy of togetherness.

"A mischievous one, that Hugo," Marie began, her eyes twinkling with amusement, telling the story of one of her workshop students who decided to paint a self-portrait with a sunflower sprouting from his right ear. "He was convinced that he was channeling his inner Van Gogh. And he insisted it was a profound artistic statement, a symbol of his connection to creativity. Quite the eccentric fellow, a promising painter nonetheless."

Zoe, perched on the edge of her seat, her gaze fixed on Marie, listened with attention. Though the intricacies of the story and the artistic expression were beyond her comprehension, the vibrant storytelling held her captive.

"He had a flower growing out of his ear?" Zoe piped up, her brow furrowing in thought and concern.

Marie chuckled, her hand instinctively reaching out to caress Zoe's curls and the flower crown we had made. "Not exactly, darling. He painted a rather convincing self-portrait, complete with a sunflower growing from his right ear. he said it was a symbol of his art.'

Zoe's eyes widened in wonder. "A sunflower ear? That's silly" She paused, her small hand instinctively reaching out to touch Marie's, a silent thread of connection woven between them. "Did the sunflower smell good?"

Marie's and my laughter filled the corner. "Ah, Zoe, you have a great imagination," I chimed in, "No, the sunflower wasn't quite real. It's a drawing like maman's drawings." And to Marie I added "She," pointing to Zoe, "has your artistic imagination."

Zoe, content with the magic she imagined being woven into the story, leaned against Marie for a hug.

A profound happiness settled over me, a feeling so complete it bordered on the surreal. In that moment, amidst the clinking of glasses and the murmur of diners, Zoe's voice and giggles mingled with Marie's soothing voice creating a melody as sweet as honey, a peculiar sensation washed over me - a resonance of a past time, vivid and somewhat unsettling. It was as if I had lived that very moment, savored those same flavors, heard those identical laughters and felt those same sensations, before. A fleeting shiver ran down my spine, an echo of the inexplicable. It's was the span of an instant and then it was gone, it did not detract from my joy. For in that moment, with Marie and Zoe by my side, life felt like a perfect, harmonious composition, a melody played out with exquisite notes.

Back at home, I tucked Zoe into her bed, her small hand clutching my finger as I read her favourite bedtime story about Saint Nicolas, her breaths growing slower, more rhythmic until sleep claimed her. A swell of paternal love again, rich and deep, filled my chest. Then, Marie and I, alone in our quite apartment, poured two glasses of bordeaux, the liquid catching the lamplight like captured embers. We spoke little, our silences pregnant with unspoken desires.

She moved towards me, a goddess in the dim light. Her emerald eyes held mine, a silent invitation I couldn't resist. Her perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and amber, intoxicated me. I cupped her face, tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone with my thumb, feeling the warmth radiating from her skin. A sigh escaped her lips as I lowered my head, my kiss a fervent exploration, tasting the sweetness of her, the promise of surrender. Her body responded with a languid grace. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss. We moved as one, a dance of flesh and desire. Her moan, a throaty murmur, echoed in the quiet room as I explored her with passion, each touch igniting a wildfire within me. I lost myself in her landscape, savoring the silken softness of her skin, the swell of her hips, the delicate tremor of her breath. My desire for her, a consuming force, found its outlet in a fervent rhythm, a symphony of moans and gasps, culminating in a glorious release, a torrent of passion flooding within me, flooding her with my essence.

Later, nestled together on the brown sofa, a shared cigarette smoldering between us, Marie with her head against my shoulder, a contented sigh escaping her lips. "Life," she murmured, "it feels so full, so vibrant now."

I inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around us like a comforting embrace. "It is, isn't it?" I replied, delicately tracing an imaginary line down her arm with my finger. "Zoe in particular adds another layer of chaos and joy to this beautiful mess."

Marie laughed, a soft, melodic sound. "I try to imagine her when she would become a teenager in about a decade from now, rebellious, thinking she knows better!" A wistful smile touched her lips. "And even later, several years from now, when our hair is silver and our steps weaker, I see us watching her walk down the aisle, hand in hand with someone who loves her as fiercely as we do."

"And us," I added, squeezing her hand, "two old souls, content in the knowledge that we built a love strong enough to weather any storm." We fell silent, content in the shared vision.

Later, entwined in the aftermath, our bodies still humming with the echoes of our love, a profound peace settled over me. Marie, her face serene, nestled against my chest, her heart beating in time with mine. In that nocturnal silence, love, pure and complete, filled the room. We slept, two souls united in the stillness of the night.