by B. E. Baker
Dad shakes his head. “I haven’t had the heart to do it. Your mother has been filling in during your absence.”
I gulp and explain Beth’s plan, sure that he’ll hate it. After I finish, I watch his face like a pigeon watches a toddler eating a muffin.
“I’m ashamed,” Dad says.
Ashamed? Ashamed of what?
“You say that sweet little friend of Holly’s came up with this?”
“She did.”
“It’s our constitution, son, and those are our laws. A constitution I drafted, and yet, I’m embarrassed to admit that I never thought of that.”
Mom claps her hands. “So we’re back to fighting, then?”
Dad grins. “Back to fighting, yes.” He stands up. “Only this time, we’re going to knock Franz back on his rear.”
17
Beth
“I have the best news!”
I drop the croissant I’ve been picking at while I waited for my agent to arrive for our breakfast meeting. Paris is making me fat—even the hotel restaurants have little cafes with food that is out of this world. The croissants, the crepes, the pastries. And I can’t even think about the chocolate croissants. “I know, my album is climbing the charts.”
He rolls his eyes and sits down, the purple suit he’s wearing today not doing his complexion any favors. Even yellow was better than this. “No, that’s a given. Please.”
“Okay, then what?” I shove my plate away, taking out my irritation at him on an inanimate object. If he had been on time, I wouldn’t be on my third croissant.
“Miguel Mandragoran died.”
My mouth drops. “I thought you said you had good news. That’s awful.”
He sighs, as though talking to me is like talking to a recalcitrant toddler. “Yes, of course that’s terrible news.” He leans closer, not even trying to fake sadness. “But he was going on tour next week.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You need to grab the bull by the horns, dear, whenever life throws one your way.”
“I hope no one is throwing bulls anywhere,” I say.
He tosses his hands in the air. “He’s with the same record label as you. They have to notify fans, and they would far prefer to offer them the option to transfer their ticket price to another performer. One of their performers, perhaps a new one, one about whom there is a lot of buzz would be the best of all. Someone whose shiny new record that we rushed through to capitalize on the current excitement is climbing the charts steadily.” He lifts his eyebrows and beams.
“Miguel’s music was beautiful,” I say. “He played the most amazing ballads. Sweet, sad, thoughtful.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said, it’s very sad. But if you spend all your time mourning singers who overdose, you’ll never get anywhere.”
I’ve always suspected Mr. Ferrars was the devil, but now I know. “Supposing the record label offers me the option.”
His nostrils flare. “They are offering you this option. Why do you think I’m here? I don’t set up meetings to giggle with my girlfriends, Elizabeth. I am here to offer you the spot, but you need to commit now, this morning. Otherwise, they pass it to the next new talent on their list.”
Miguel had a solid following, but he wasn’t huge. He’s no Henrietta Gauvón, for instance. “The venues? They’re mid-sized?”
Mr. Ferrars nods. “Yes, I knew this would be your question. One or two have more than five thousand seats, but not many.”
“Do you have a list of the schedule?”
He whips one out so quickly that he must have known I’d ask. I scan the list. “Luxembourg?”
“Yes, as you see.”
“But no Liechtenstein.”
“Why would you want to go there? It’s a small speck of a place, without culture or entertainment. No one goes there. If they want music, they travel to it.”
I think about the people who came to see me play at Jostli’s restaurant. If I hadn’t had that experience, I never would have played my songs out loud. I’d never have had the guts to play when Beneficio canceled, and I wouldn’t have this record deal. “I’ll do it, but only if you add a stop in Liechtenstein. I’ll give you the number of the person who will set the whole thing up. He’s a local business owner there and a good friend of mine.”
Mr. Ferrars stares at me, hoping I’ll buckle. Beth Graham would have buckled, but as a singer, I’m not Beth Graham. I’m Elizabeth Gauvón, and I get what I want. Always.
“Fine—I think I can get them to agree, but it’ll have to be tacked on the end and it won’t have much of a budget.” He stands up. “If I sit here another second, I’ll eat that stupid croissant.” He leans close. “Better cut back on those. You’re about to be standing on a stage in front of thousands of people.”
“Why me?” I ask.
He pauses. “Excuse me?”
“Why are they offering me this chance instead of the many, many other musicians they could be asking? Did you advocate for me?”
“Of course I did.” He doesn’t meet my eye.
“No, they came to you,” I say. “And I want to know why.”
He sighs. “They ran the budget numbers. Everyone else has entourage upon entourage. You just need a piano. It’s cheap. Much cheaper. If they sell half full on the venues with you, they make all their money back and a small profit.”
At least it’s the truth. “Thanks.”
After he leaves, I catch my waiter’s eye and ask for the check. I’ve been working on my French while I’ve been here recording my album and meeting with the press to promote it. It’s not great, but I can ask for food and communicate with the hotel staff.
“You visiting here?” the waiter asks in English. When he hands me my check, his sky blue eyes twinkle. Boyishly charming. At home in Atlanta, I’d be swooning right now.
“Uh, sort of,” I say. “I’m working here right now, but it looks like I’ll be traveling for work soon.”
“You have plans for tonight?” he asks.
I shake my head and prepare to turn him down. I’ve been asked out a few times since taking up temporary residence here, but I always say no.
“I’d love to take you to dinner,” he says. “Something. . .” His nose scrunches up. “I do not know word in English. Something easy?”
“Low key?” I ask. “Casual?”
“Yes,” he says. “That, yes. You practice your French, and I can practice my English.”
He’s so earnest, like a puppy dog, and so non-threatening that I surprise myself by saying, “Yes. Okay.”
“You’re staying here at the hotel?”
He knows I am, since I paid by giving him a room number. I nod.
“I can come and meet you, and then we can walk together.”
“Sure.” I switch to French. If I’m supposed to be practicing, I better do it. “What time are you done with work?”
“Usually by six,” he says.
“Great,” I say. “So I’ll see you then.”
On my way back to my room, the news sinks in. I’ll be on tour in a week. The remains of the croissants sit in my belly like a concrete lump. I head back to my room and change into workout clothes. My attempts to exercise here have been half-hearted at best, but today I’m motivated. I push hard and manage to jog almost five miles on the hotel’s treadmill. I hope I can walk tomorrow.
I shower when I get back to my room, and a song idea strikes me. I hop out of the shower and turn on my keyboard. Time slips away while I work on it. Once I have it like I want it, I decide to work on a rough line in the song I thought of last week. Some of the lyrics that didn’t work on this one might improve it. A knock on the door surprises me. I thought I put the ‘no service’ sign up, but maybe I forgot.
I walk across the room and open it, expecting Linda’s kind face.
The waiter from this morning is holding his hand in the air, like he’s going to knock again. His eyes widen and then look me over from head to toe. “Uh, I, um, you—”
/>
Thanks to the inspiration of the song that struck as I emerged from the shower, my hair air-dried into a huge halo of frizz. I have no makeup on, and I’m wearing the sweat pants and a baggy t-shirt I threw on before I started transcribing. “I thought we were going to dinner at six,” I say.
He nods.
I look at my watch. Five after six.
I swallow. “I am so sorry. I got caught up working and lost track of time. If you give me a minute, I can do my hair and change clothes.”
“Or maybe another night would be better.” He backs up a step.
“That’s fine,” I say.
He takes another step backward. “Great, another night.” He forces a smile and then turns and walks down the hall, disappearing around the bend.
I realize that he may have been saying another night, but he doesn’t even have my cell number. Clearly he was just trying to escape. One look at my hair in all its untamed glory, paired with my lounge around clothes and Mr. Boyishly Charming bails? And here I am, alone again. The solo act—the cheapest option in life just as I am the cheapest option professionally, because I’m always alone. I fling myself onto my bed and shove my face into a pillow and cry. Maybe I should have ignored Brekka and stayed home.
I’d be alone there too, but at least I’d have Mom and Dad to keep me company.
After a few moments, I realize what a brat I’m being. I’m here because I’m pursuing my dreams. I have no band because I wanted a small show, an intimate feeling. I’ve chosen this, and I caught a huge break today. Who cares if some waiter I haven’t spoken fifty words to thinks I look unattractive? Not me.
But it does remind me of another guy who saw me looking far worse than this—streaked dress, makeup running down my face, hair every bit as awful as this—and he didn’t care. He never looked at me like the waiter did tonight. He never made me feel small—quite the opposite in fact. His lip didn’t curl, his eyes didn’t widen. In fact, if anything, he looked at me with empathy, with concern, and with care. He couldn’t have been attracted to me then, we’d barely met and I looked my absolute worst, but he didn’t miss a beat at lending me aid.
Ah, Cole.
No waiter I meet, no accountant, no artist, no one will ever compare to you. If only you had called me, or texted.
Brekka made me call Mr. Ferrars.
The thought strikes my brain like lightning. She made me take that first step. Cole told me how he felt, and I never said a word about my feelings. Then I ran to his jet and disappeared. Is it possible he thinks he’s being a gentleman? Does he think that he put himself out there, and I shot him down? Could he be missing me too?
Or is he glad, now that I’m not constantly underfoot, that he’s rid of me? I may never know—unless I take steps to discover the truth.
My heart hammers frenetically inside my chest as I pull out my phone. I MISS YOU, I type.
That’s pathetic. I delete it.
I’M IN PARIS. Nope. That’s too. . . click-baity. I’m practically begging him to ask me why. Plus, it’s a loaded location. The last time he kissed me, it was here, in this very city. No, I’m not ready to tell him where I am, because if he doesn’t ask, if he doesn’t come. . . then it’s over. Dead. Done.
I realize that I’ve been holding out hope this entire time. If only I make it big enough, if I gather enough fans, if word of me spreads, I’ll be good enough for Cole. Maybe once I’m the star who wowed him the last time we were here, he’ll like me again. Maybe he’ll come to one of my performances. Maybe he’ll barge backstage and tell me that he loves me like I love him. I lean back against the headboard. Do I love him? Do I know him well enough to love him? Two weeks together in Liechtenstein, a few weeks of texts, a handful of phone calls, a night in Paris.
It’s crazy.
But I feel something for him, something stronger than a crush. I’ve felt it for a while.
HEY STRANGER, I text. I hit send before I can think about it.
Now that I’ve sent him a text, my fingers fly over my phone screen, tapping, tapping, the words flowing almost like when I’m writing a song. YOU KNOW HOW, WHEN TOO MUCH TIME HAS PASSED, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO SAY? SO YOU SAY NOTHING. THEN THERE’S NO WAY TO RECOVER FROM THAT. . .
He still hasn’t replied.
WELL, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED, AND NOW I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO SAY, SO I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU’D BE A GENTLEMAN AND LET ME SKIP ALL THAT AND PRETEND THAT WE’VE BEEN IN TOUCH ALL ALONG.
Nothing.
No dots. No reply. Nothing at all. I stare at my phone for far, far too long. It’s embarrassing, really.
I finally force myself to do my hair and put on real clothes and leave my hotel room for a sandwich so I don’t stare obsessively at my phone. My hotel isn’t far from the Eiffel Tower, which I’ve discovered a lot of residents think is tacky and touristy and awful. I mean, it was intended as a temporary structure, and when you get up close, it’s just a bunch of ugly metal blocks all screwed together. It’s not really a work of art when you focus on the details. Even from a few hundred feet away the rust is apparent, and the bolts and the construction lines.
But I’m a tourist, and I love it unabashedly.
So I grab a caprese panini and sit on a bench and watch people walk past until the lights on the Eiffel Tower click on. Only after the air begins to chill enough that goose bumps rise on the backs of my hands and run up my arms do I head back to the hotel. When I reach my room, I can’t help myself. I race for my phone. When I see that I’ve received a text, my heart soars.
I’M GAME, BUT YOU NEED TO CATCH ME UP ON A FEW THINGS SO I CAN PLAY ALONG.
Butterflies chase each other around my stomach. SURE. SHOOT.
HOW IS BREKKA? HOW’S THE BABY?
DIDN’T PAISLEY TELL YOU THAT?
SHE TOLD ME THAT BREKKA HAD THE BABY AND SHE WAS IN THE NICU. HAVEN’T HEARD AN UPDATE SINCE.
I send him a photo of me holding Baby Ruth the day I left for Paris to record my album.
BEST PHOTO I’VE SEEN THIS MONTH.
ANY OTHER QUESTIONS? I ask.
ARE YOU HAPPY?
In this moment? Deliriously happy. I AM. ARE YOU?
TODAY? BETTER THAN EVER, he says.
I almost ask whether he’s in Antwerp, but I worry that he’ll ask me where I am. I’m not ready to go there yet. It makes everything too real, and I need to float on a cloud for a while.
When my phone starts ringing, I nearly drop it. It’s Cole. I wobble back and forth for a moment, but just before it goes to voicemail, I click talk. “Hello?”
“Hello,” he says. “How was your day?”
“I’ve had better.” Right up until right now, anyway.
“Uh oh, what happened?” he asks. “Your favorite European flat iron won’t work in America?”
I giggle. “I hope I would have gotten that problem resolved a long time ago—if I hadn’t, I’d be wandering around frightening who knows how many people for months.”
“I thought we were acting like we hadn’t missed any time at all.”
“No, we’re just pretending that we’ve been talking every day.”
“Ah. Well, now that I have my marching orders,” Cole says, “why don’t you tell me what made today lousy.”
“It didn’t start out so bad. I met a friend for breakfast, and after he left, the waiter asked me to dinner.”
“Wow, two guys in one day. Impressive.”
“For the record, the breakfast was most definitely not a date. My friend is gay and has a very good-looking husband. Actually, I have no idea why his husband stays with him, because my friend is pretty much ridiculous—and high-strung—and sort of awful. Did I say he was my friend? I meant that we work together.”
“Noted. But how did getting asked out turn bad? Did he follow you home? Stalk you?”
“He came early to pick me up,” I say, editing a few details, “and I wasn’t ready. He took one look at my hair and my non-made-up face and ran the other direction.”
“I
don’t believe you.”
“God’s honest truth, I swear.”
“Why would you accept a date with someone that stupid?” Cole asks.
“I must have been mesmerized by his dreamy blue eyes.”
“A sucker for the blue eyes,” he says. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“I like green eyes better,” I say. “But those are exceptionally rare. Actually, I looked it up. They’re the most uncommon color.”
“You don’t say.”
“It’s hard to find a good guy whom my hair won’t scare away who also happens to have green eyes.”
“I can imagine,” Cole says. “Especially when you’re restricting your search to Atlanta.”
I want to tell him that I’m not in Atlanta. I’m in Europe, probably not far from where he’s working in Antwerp. In exactly three weeks, I’ll be performing there. Suddenly it hits me—he will have to see that. He may not immediately put together that Elizabeth Gauvón is Beth Graham, but if he sees posters, they feature my face.
“True,” I say. “Just not enough green-eyed men in Atlanta. And it’s even harder because I’m so tall. I basically need a green-eyed giraffe. Maybe I should try the zoo.”
He laughs. “Probably a good idea.”
“Or I could lower my standards, I suppose.”
“No, don’t do that.” His voice is deep, serious. “Never do that. You deserve exactly what you want in life.”
Mr. Ferrars calls in on the other line. I ignore him. “You do, too.”
“I didn’t think so for a long time,” he says.
Mr. Ferrars calls again. “But now you do?”
“Do you have a call on the other line?” Cole asks.
“Yes, and I’m afraid they’re going to call back over and over until I answer.”
“You better take that, then,” he says. “But maybe if you text me tomorrow, we won’t have as much catching up to do next time.”
“You didn’t text me either,” I say.
“You’re right.”
“Well, I guess now you know.”
“What do I know?” he asks, his voice puzzled.
“You know that it takes me about a month to recover from wounded pride.”