Klein laughs softly. “I would love to have met her.”
“I would have loved for her to know you.” I press my lips together and look away, wondering if I have revealed too much in the seriousness with which I have voiced this.
“I’ve felt that same guilt,” Klein says. “Kind of like survivor guilt, I guess. I wonder why I’m the generation who didn’t succumb to drugs, why I was able to untangle myself from the snare of addiction, and why both of my parents couldn’t do that. It’s easy to declare a person completely bad, and I went through a good number of years where I was convinced there wouldn’t have been anything good to find in either my mom or dad.
“But I think I know now that we’re all made up of good and bad, and I wonder what would have happened to them if they had had the opportunity to be exposed to a different life, a chance to clean up their act, and the kind of rehab facility I went to. I know they wouldn’t have had that chance because there wasn’t money for that kind of thing. But somehow, I don’t know, it doesn’t really seem fair, does it? That I should get a second chance for my bad choices, but they didn’t.”
“No,” I say. “It doesn’t seem fair, and that’s the sort of thing about life that I have no explanation for.”
“Did your mom get sick before you—” He breaks off there as if he’s rethinking the question.
But I understand what he’s asking, and say, “No, she died before I got sick. I don’t know. I’ve wondered sometimes if the stress of losing her might have been what caused whatever was brewing inside of me to get an advantage.”
“How long was she sick?” he asks. “Not very long, or at least not that we knew. She died within three months of the cancer being discovered.”
“So it was a shock to you,” he says with audible sympathy.
“Very much so. She was in the hospital because she’d had a reaction to one of the chemo drugs they were giving her, and I had spent the afternoon with her. But Josh and I had something we were supposed to go to that night, and I debated not going. My mom insisted because she felt so much better, and they were planning to send her home the next morning. So, I went, and she died at eleven that night while we were at a party.” Tears shred my voice, and I drop my head, trying to blink them away, but there’s no stopping them now. They’ve reached the surface, and sobs shake my shoulders.
Klein reaches for me, pulls me into the curve of his arm, and hugs me hard. I try to stop crying, but something about being held this way, comforted this way, makes me realize I never really got that from anyone after Mama died. Josh tried, but he never understood just how much I loved my mother. I think I tried to hide some of my grief from him. I didn’t want to feel ridiculed or questioned about my sadness. I just wanted it to be.
“Shh,” Klein says, kissing my forehead. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
I don’t know how long we sit there on the bed, me wrapped in his arms, sobbing quietly against his chest. But when my renewed grief finally eases, I realize how much I needed that, and say in a low voice, “I don’t think I even knew how much of that was still knotted up inside me. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Klein says. “Clearly, she loved you so much, and she deserves to be missed like this.”
“I do miss her,” I say, biting my lower lip, still resting my cheek against his chest. “Sometimes I would give anything just to be able to pick up the phone and call her to hear her say, ‘Hey, sweetie, how are you?’ Until I lost her, I never understood how rare the kind of love she had for me is. And I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. It’s just a fact that once we lose our parents and grandparents, no one in our lives will ever love us like that again.”
Klein pushes me back a little, so he can look down at me. “You do deserve to be loved like that, Dillon. And the right husband would love you like that. It’s supposed to be unconditional. Isn’t that what marriage vows are supposed to be about?”
“Yeah,” I say, “they are supposed to be that. But mine didn’t end up being like that.”
“I don’t think that’s your fault,” he says softly.
“I wasn’t the perfect wife by any stretch, Klein. I’m not trying to say that I was.”
“I know,” he says. “I wish I’d had a chance to meet your mother.”
“I wish you had, too,” I say with a teary smile. “Oh my gosh. She would have been so in love with you.” I realize then exactly how much I’ve said and break off there.
“That could only be the highest compliment, given the woman you’ve described.”
I sit up, rub at a spot on his T-shirt. “Somehow, I managed to get pizza sauce on you.”
He smiles. “No biggie.”
I sit up, throw my legs over the side of the bed, my back to him now. “Thank you, Klein, for listening. I really didn’t mean to open all of that up, but I do appreciate your kindness.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Dillon. That’s what friends are for, a shoulder to lean on when you need it.”
I nod, still not facing him. Friends, that is what we are, and he truly is an amazing one. But I need to remember that this isn’t more than that, and that it’s not ever going to be more.
Klein
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
―St. Augustine
WE BOTH FALL asleep on the bed watching a movie. I wake up sometime in the middle of the night to find Dillon curled up against me, and it takes a few moments for me to remember where I am and who it is I’m in bed with. I start to move but then decide against it, not wanting to wake her. She makes a small sound of protest and curls closer. I stare at the ceiling and count to thirty. I force myself to recite lyrics, anything to keep my mind from wandering to the obvious fact that there’s a beautiful woman wrapped around me, and I can’t do a thing about it.
I probably count a couple of thousand sheep by the time I actually fall asleep again. The next time I wake up, it’s morning, and the sunlight is streaming in through a crack in the curtains. I feel a jolt on the other side of the bed, turn my head to see Dillon looking at me with wide eyes. “I’m sorry. I meant to sleep on the couch,” she says.
“It’s not a problem,” I say. “We were both out like a light. That doesn’t say a lot for the movie, though.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she says. “Would you like some coffee if I order some?”
“I would love some.” I walk to the bathroom and close the door, turning on the shower and stepping under the cold spray. When I come back out, a silver tray sits on the corner of the bed. Dillon is sipping from a cup of coffee.
“Sorry, I couldn’t wait,” she says. “It smelled too good.”
“It does smell good.” I pour myself a cup and say, “What time was the rental car company dropping off the car?”
“Nine,” she says. “It should be out front waiting for us.”
“That gives us about forty-five minutes to get packed up and checked out.”
“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” Dillon says, and disappears into the bathroom with her coffee.
Once she’s no longer in the room, I drop down on to the bed, take another fortifying sip of coffee, and ask myself if the two of us spending more time together is really a good idea. My life is pretty much a mess. Dillon’s not even divorced yet. And I’m playing with fire. I do know that much. I think about waking up in the middle of the night and realizing she was in bed beside me, and one thing I know for sure is we can’t be sharing a bed. I don’t have that much faith in my willpower.
Would it be wiser to tell Dillon we should just get together for some writing sessions in Nashville? I am pretty sure that would be the smart thing to do. But it isn’t what I want to do.
~
A BELLMAN COLLECTS our luggage from the room, and we meet him at the entrance to the hotel. I’ve already checked out by calling the front desk and settling the bill. A young man greets us at the rental car, handing me the keys and wishing us a pleasant journey
.
The make and model aren’t one I recognize, so I’m assuming it’s a European manufacturer. I look at Dillon and dangle the keys. “Would you like to drive?”
“I think I will leave that up to you,” she says.
“I’m not making any promises. I’ve driven in LA, but I’m not sure how that will compare to this.”
“We’ll see,” she says, smiling and sliding into the passenger seat.
I get in, my knees hitting the dashboard under the steering wheel. “Ouch.” I move the seat back as far as it will go.
“I’m not sure this car is going to be big enough,” Dillon says.
“We’ll make do.”
“We could remove the driver’s seat, and you could sit in the back,” she says, giggling. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh like that, and I realize with a jolt how much I enjoy being the one to cause it.
“Reverse chauffeuring, or something like that.” She giggles again, and I make an attempt to stab the key in the ignition, finally finding it and starting the car. It makes a rattling sound that causes us both to look at each other with a question mark on our faces.
“Ah, do you think they gave us a good car?” Dillon asks.
“Remains to be seen,” I say. “We could take it back or just go with it. A rattling muffler outside the Ritz Paris is a bit of a contraindication, but we’ll see where we get.”
“Okay,” Dillon says, not hiding the skepticism in her voice.
The car is a manual shift, and it’s been a long time since I drove anything other than an automatic. I let the clutch out, and we lurch forward. I hit the brake. The tires squeal. Dillon is laughing full force now, and I glance out the window to see a frowning hotel employee clearly ready for us to get this jalopy out of the square. I give another try, and we’re off, fairly smoothly this time. I turn the car onto the street, stopping at a red light.
“Okay, now. No more making fun of my driving. Have you got the GPS on?”
“Yes,” Dillon says, still trying not to laugh. She props her phone on the ledge above the car’s radio and points at the map. “We’re here, and we’re going there.”
“Let’s hope we make it,” I say.
“You sure we shouldn’t change out cars?”
“Too late now,” I say. “We’re off.”
The Paris traffic is definitely different from Nashville, but it’s not LA. I manage to get us to the outskirts of the city without incidence. I give Dillon a side glance. “Sure you don’t want to drive?”
“Oh, no, you’re doing excellent,” she says. “And besides, I don’t know how to drive a straight. That would be disastrous. When did you learn how to drive a straight?”
“Somewhere along the way. One of my buddies in high school had an old farm use truck he used to take out in his granddaddy’s hayfield and cut up on. He taught me how to drive it one Saturday night when he’d had a few too many. He started me out on a hill, I guess because he thought it would add a little humor to the situation and that if I could conquer that, I’d be good to go.”
Dillon smiles. “Were you?”
“Pretty much, after we rolled backward a dozen or so times.”
Dillon smiles, and I can tell she is picturing my learning curve. “So tell me about this place we’re going to,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, picking up her phone and tapping out of the map screen. “It’s a château that was built in the sixteenth century. Obviously renovated since then. They have a vineyard and make their own label of wine. They have an orchard and use the peaches and pears they grow in the foods made in the restaurant. They have a barn of forty horses that do various disciplines, including jumping. That one I’m sure you will want to do,” she says, cocking me a smile.
“Of course, absolutely,” I say.
“They have ponies for children. They have horses for trail riding and some dressage.”
“Dressage. What exactly is that?”
“That is a discipline in which the horse is taught certain movements at the most basic level and advances up the chain of difficulty. It’s beautiful to watch, sort of like a horse dancing.”
“Sounds beautiful,” I say. “You’ll be doing that, right?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “No, I’ll be doing whatever the most basic riding form they have available is. Walk, trot.”
“Oh, good. Then possibly, I’ll be able to keep up with you.”
“No doubt,” she says.
“What else do they have?” I ask.
“There’s a spa with a sauna and a cold therapy room. You can get massages, facials, sports pedicures. That one I’ll be signing you up for,” she says.
“Ha. Men don’t get pedicures.”
“Well, they should. It’s just another form of self-care,” she says.
“And I’ve never had one,” I say.
“I’ll be happy to get one with you,” she suggests. “It’s actually incredibly relaxing. The techs massage your feet and buff them up so they look all neat and clean.”
I laugh. “Okay, I’m wondering if there’s some implication there.”
“No,” she says. “But why wouldn’t men want to keep their feet neat? That’s one of those stigmas that somehow got created because someone thought it was sissy to have your feet pampered.”
“I’ll agree with that. In my town, there weren’t too many men going to Lou Ann’s Nails to get their feet pampered.”
She laughs now outright. “You could start a trend. The first time you showed up at Lou Ann’s, everybody would be on their cell phone posting on Facebook how they saw you getting a pedicure, and then before you know it, half the men in your hometown will be calling for appointments.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Oh, you think that’s how it would go, huh?”
“I’m sure of it. You know sometimes, men just need to see a guy they admire doing something to think it’s okay for them to do it, too.”
“So this is my new mission in life. Saving men from their feet.”
She’s laughing so hard now she can’t speak. “I think it’s an admirable undertaking,” she finally manages.
“Forget world peace, curing hunger, things like that.” We’re both laughing now, and once I have myself under control again, I say, “It’s amazingly easy to be around you, Dillon.” I feel her looking at me, glance her way to see her eyes are still warm with laughter.
“It’s pretty easy to be around you too,” she says.
“I can’t really say that of many of the people I’ve been close to in my life,” I say.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
I shrug, passing a car and then cutting back into the right lane. “I don’t know. It seems like most of the people I’ve had relationships with tend to be difficult, controlling, I guess.”
“Do you think that’s been deliberate on your part?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”
“Why?” she asks.
“That would be the million-dollar question. The obvious choice would be to choose to be around people who make life lighter, easier, more fun.”
“Well, I definitely didn’t choose someone like that,” Dillon says. “Do you think we pick someone opposite from ourselves?”
“Maybe, although, unless we don’t like ourselves, I guess that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Or maybe we think we need someone different from us to complete the picture.”
“Yeah, or maybe we think somewhere down deep that we don’t really deserve to be happy, so we pick someone who will make sure we’re not.”
Dillon looks off to the side for long enough that I wonder if I’ve said too much. “It would be sad to think that’s true,” she says. “But maybe on some level, it is. Do you think you deserve to be happy, Klein?”
I answer before giving myself time to think about it. “I don’t think I deserve everything I have in life.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because some part of me th
inks I’ve been lucky. That I’m not any more deserving of it than some other guy who’s worked hard to develop his talent and maybe hasn’t gotten anywhere with it.”
“Or, do you think,” she says, “it could be because of what happened in your early life? That because your parents made the choices they made, some part of you thinks that says something about you?”
I consider the question, realizing without too much thought that she’s probably hit on an undeniable truth. “Maybe,” I say. “I think I know why you’re such a good writer.”
“Well, thank you, but—”
Before she can finish, I say, “You look not only at the person but their why. You go below the surface and dig around until you’ve found the answer to what makes them who they are. You’d also make a good therapist if you ever decide to get out of writing.”
“Ah, thank you, I think,” she says.
“It’s actually the highest form of compliment,” I say. “You listen to what other people have to say, but you actually hear them. Not too many people can say that. Have you ever noticed how sometimes when you’re talking to someone you can see in their eyes that they’re not really listening, that they’re actually thinking about what they’re going to say when you’re done?”
“Yes,” she says. “So true.”
“And you don’t even really want to continue what you were saying because you know they’re not really interested.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I guess we all struggle not to be that person because even though we know better and don’t want to admit it, we’re all actually more interested in ourselves than other people.”
“True,” I agree. “But to be a writer, you have to be able to hear others, and I think you do, Dillon, whether you are exactly aware of it or not.”
“In all honesty, I’m not sure that I get any bonus points for that because it’s probably more about my own curiosity than it is about my interest in them.”
“You might be selling yourself a bit short.”
“And I think you’re being kind.”
“Just honest,” I say.
That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Page 13