That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3)

by Inglath Cooper

  “We’re all selfish on some level,” Dillon says.

  “The price of being human. Hard to get out of our own way, isn’t it?”

  “Definitely,” she says, sighing. “But I don’t know. After everything I went through being sick, I started seeing life differently than I had seen it before.”

  “How so?”

  “Um, I mean, we all know we’re going to die. We learn that early on in life, but somehow I’m not sure we really believe it until we’re faced with our own mortality. It’s like it’s not real, or we think on some level that it happens to other people, but it won’t really happen to us. And then one day you hit that wall where it becomes very, very clear that your body has a stop point, and things just start to look totally different.” Her voice drops a note or two, serious now. She looks out the window.

  “There’s a reason why someone came up with that saying that youth is wasted on the young. I guess it’s also wasted on the uninitiated. By that, I mean, those of us who haven’t yet hit that wall, realized there really is another side, and when we do, at least for me, it was impossible to look at my life as I had looked at it before. Now, it’s like I want to get as much from every day as I possibly can. I want to give back in ways that I never did before because I understand that is really the only way I can leave something of myself here. What I give to others.”

  She trails off there, and it’s a good bit before I can bring myself to speak around the lump in my throat. “You might think, Dillon, that everyone comes out the other end of what you went through feeling as you do now, but I don’t think so. I think you’re rare in that you took something awful that happened to you, something that would break a lot of people, and you allowed it to make you stronger. It would be very easy to let something like that break you. I’m pretty sure it would break me.”

  “I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” Dillon says.

  “You’re strong,” I say.

  “I’m stronger than I ever would have believed,” she agrees, surprising me a little. “But as I go along, I realize more and more that life is full of tests, and sometimes we pass, and sometimes we fail. I’m pretty sure where Josh is concerned, I failed.”

  “You think you’re to blame for the problems you’ve had.”

  “I feel sure I’m partially to blame. It’s almost never one person who’s wrong about everything. Sometimes I think I expected too much, like the fairytale version, or something. But there’s no such thing as a fairytale in real life.”

  “No,” I agree. “There isn’t.”

  We’re on the Autoroute now, a toll road, and cars are blowing past me in the left-hand lanes. I’m hugging the right lane at 130 kilometers. “Okay, given the speed of this traffic,” I say, “I’m pretty sure we should have gotten a bigger car.”

  “It is fast, isn’t it?” Dillon says. “But you’re holding your own.”

  “Yeah, over here in the chicken lane,” I say.

  She laughs softly. “What do you drive back home?” she asks.

  “A truck, of course.”

  “What kind?”

  “Ford.”

  “So, you’re a Ford man.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “I have a little bit of a soft spot for the Dodge, but I get the whole Ford thing. Nothing low slung for you?”

  “I’ve toyed with the idea but never really thought it was me.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’d look good in a Ferrari.”

  “We’re a long way from that,” I say, patting the dashboard.

  She laughs again. “Transportation and nothing more when you take ego out of the picture.”

  “You got that right,” I say. And the car is holding up to that obligation just fine over the next couple of hours, that is, until the back right tire blows.

  Dillon

  “It is strange how new and unexpected conditions bring out unguessed ability to meet them.”

  ―Edgar Rice Burroughs, The Warlord of Mars

  I HEAR MYSELF scream and wonder for a moment if it’s coming from someone else. And then I realize that we’ve blown a tire. I grab the door handle, praying our seatbelts hold while Klein fights for control of the car. It is an utter miracle that he manages to get us into the side lane without flipping the car. We kathump to a stop, and both of us sit for a full few seconds with our heads pressed against the seat backs, dragging in deep breaths of air.

  “Did we run over something?” I ask.

  “I never saw anything,” Klein says, “but it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

  “I’m hoping we have a spare,” I say.

  “Let me get out and check the back.” He walks around to the rear of the car, popping the trunk. I hear him say, “Yep, we have a spare.”

  “And I’m hoping you know how to change it,” I call out through the lowered window.

  “It’s been a while,” he says, “but here’s hoping.”

  I get out of the car and walk around to the side, hoping none of the vehicles blowing past at eighty miles per hour decide to veer off the road and run into us. “Can I just say what an amazing job you did getting us to a stop?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking right now I will definitely continue with the weightlifting because that took about all the strength I have.”

  “Thank you then, for making the very wise decision to lift weights.”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “Now, to see if I can remember how to change a tire.” He finds a jack in the trunk and carries the tire around to set it beside the blown one. It’s literally in shreds, and I’m again amazed that we didn’t wreck.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.

  “Maybe just stand at the back of the car and make sure no one plows into us. If you see someone coming, make a dive for the grass over there, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  I smile a little and say, “I’m really hoping that scenario doesn’t play out. Although I have to admit I did see a news report before I left home about this car that ran out of gas. A police officer stopped to help her. While they were standing there, a huge truck lost control and ran right into them. Luckily, they were able to leap out of the way in time.”

  “Okay,” Klein says, working a little faster now. “That’s definitely making me want to get this done quick.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It just, well, it actually really did happen. I’m going to stop talking now.”

  I keep my eye on the traffic, but, admittedly, glance a few times at Klein, who is working at a pace that makes the muscles in his arms leap and dance beneath the skin. Not for the first time, I think what an incredible body he has. But then, that is not what I should be thinking about right now.

  “I almost have it,” Klein says. “Just a couple more minutes, and we should be out of here.”

  “Do you think maybe we picked a car that had a bad luck curse or something? I mean, we started with the muffler, and then there’s the tire,” I say.

  “Maybe this will be the last of it,” Klein says.

  “Let’s hope,” I agree. Klein is true to his word, and within a few minutes, we’re back inside the car and using the side lane as a ramp back onto the Autoroute.

  We’ve been driving for about three hours when I say, “I’m actually famished. Would you want to stop at the next little town and get some lunch?”

  “Sure,” Klein says. “See anything on the map that looks good?”

  “As a matter of fact, there’s something that looks great just a few minutes ahead.”

  “Perfect,” Klein says.

  Fortunately, we spot the exit and get off the highway, winding around a curvy road that leads us to a charming little town whose buildings were all erected in centuries past. “This is beautiful,” I say. “The thing about Europe is, you really can go town to town and be amazed by what’s beautiful and unique in each place. And they all have something because there’s such a wealth of
history.”

  “To be honest,” Klein says, “I never really thought much about coming to Europe. It wasn’t something I had any real desire to do, but I understand now why people love coming here.”

  “We could park at the edge of town, and walk, see what we find,” I suggest.

  “That sounds good.” He finds the first available spot to leave the car. My French is good enough to know that we don’t need to put money in a meter or pay anyone. We start walking, and it isn’t long before the first shops start to appear, first a bakery, whose window display makes my mouth literally water.

  “Can you believe how beautiful their food is?” The bread is poofy and delicious looking. Desserts made of apple tarts, and beignets decorate beautiful wooden trays.

  “We could get something from here on the way back out to take with us,” Klein says.

  “That sounds like a great idea,” I agree. We walk on, passing an art gallery with lovely colorful canvas paintings adorning the walls, and it isn’t long before we come to a cluster of cafés with outdoor seating. It’s a beautiful sunny day, so we opt to sit outside and peruse the menu as soon as the waitress brings it to us.

  “I have no idea what to order. I want everything on here,” I say.

  Klein laughs softly. “Me, too, but I think I’ll go for the mushroom risotto.”

  “That sounds incredible. And I’m going to have the pizza and mashed potatoes.”

  Klein looks up at me and smiles. “Interesting combination.”

  “Gotta eat what you love,” I say. “But let me qualify that with, both of those will be a treat. I try to stick to my mostly fruit and vegetable diet, which I actually love. It’s not a hardship. But I do like to treat myself in places like this.”

  “And you should,” Klein says. “Besides, you look amazing.”

  I feel the heat creep into my cheeks and glance down at the menu. “Thank you,” I say.

  “Am I right when I suspect that’s hard for you to believe?”

  “Hmm.” I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “If I compared myself to the women you most assuredly have throwing themselves at you on a regular basis, then, yeah, maybe.”

  He looks up at me then, meets my gaze and holds it directly. “I’m not interested in any of those women, though,” Klein says.

  We look at each other for several long moments, and I can feel my heart thudding against the wall of my chest, realize too that my cheeks have heated up again.

  We finish our lunch and consider seeing more of the town but decide to get back on the road so that we can reach the château by dinner. An awkwardness has settled over us, and we drive for a bit without actual conversation beyond what is necessary to stay on top of our directions. At some point, I decide it might be a good idea to get things away from the personal and more on the reason behind the two of us setting out on this trip together.

  I reach into the backpack at my feet and pull out a notepad and a pen. “Why don’t we work on some song ideas?”

  “Okay,” he agrees. And I think that’s relief I hear in his voice. I’m guessing the awkwardness between us was starting to bother him, too. So I decide to tackle that head-on. “I realize that the two of us, we’re just, we’re friends. And I’m not thinking this is about anything other than exactly what we agreed to. The two of us taking a little time to see the sights and write some songs. I know things got a little personal back there in the restaurant, and I don’t want you to feel like—”

  “Dillon.” He says my name, and I stop. “I’m not thinking anything other than the fact that the last few days with you have been some of the best I’ve had in a long time. Whatever happens between us—” He hesitates and then, “I don’t have any expectations. I just would kind of like to go on doing what we’ve been doing, enjoying life as we’re living it right now in this moment. Nothing more, nothing less. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Klein

  “But how could you live and have no story to tell?”

  ―Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

  THE LAST THREE hours of the drive go by in a blink. I didn’t know it would be possible to drive and write a song at the same time, but all Dillon has required of me is to think out loud. I seem to be able to do that and drive at the same time. We’ve ended up with some pretty incredible lyrics and have honed out a melody for most of the song except the final bridge.

  “You’re a productive person, aren’t you?” I say, glancing at her as she taps out the melody with her fingers on the dashboard.

  She shrugs a little. “I like to make use of my time. I also don’t like to be bored. My brain prefers to be occupied.”

  “Mine, too, actually,” I say. “I guess maybe that’s the creative in us.”

  “When I’m in Nashville,” she says, “and I have any amount of drive time, I use a recorder on my phone to dictate ideas and lyrics. It actually turns dead time into really productive time.”

  “That’s admirable,” I say. “No wonder you got songwriter of the year.”

  “I’ve written as much bad stuff as I have good,” she says. “But I like to think that if you sift through the sand often enough, you’ll find a gold nugget here and there.”

  “How many songs have you written?”

  “Hmm, hundreds, I would say.”

  “And how many do you consider great?”

  “We all like to think our creations are perfect, but I know better. A very small percentage of those songs are really good. An even smaller percentage would I call great.”

  “That’s honest. I learned early on that just because I created something, it didn’t mean that anyone else would find it worthwhile. It was only when I started looking outside myself to the way other people saw the world and tried to sync that with my own experience that I started to write things that might endure.”

  “When I first started performing, I didn’t really care what a song had to say as long as it made people dance or raise their beers when I came on stage. Somewhere along the way, though, I realized it was kind of like I was throwing cotton candy at the crowd, and while they loved it in the moment, it wasn’t anything that was going to stick with them very long or make them tell another person about the message in the song. I began to want to write and perform songs that would make them tell another person about it.”

  “Yeah, I get that,” Dillon says. “I was kind of the same way in the beginning, looking at what other people were doing to try to figure out how to make it. But eventually, I figured out that the only story I can truly tell is my own story, bits and pieces of it, anyway, that resonate with other people and their stories. You have your own story that is unique to you, but there’s so much of it that your fans are sure to identify with. It’s finding those pieces of yourself that you would rather not show to the world and then realizing that other people feel the same about the things they believe are their flaws and weaknesses. We all have them. I think the reason people love music and books is because when a writer makes himself, herself vulnerable, the people listening to or reading that story understand that they’re not alone, that they’re not unique in their shortcomings.”

  I consider this for a moment. “That’s true. It’s just early on, it’s hard to believe that people really want to see the ugly parts of you. I have a feeling,” I say, glancing at her, “that you’re going to make me open a vein and bleed whenever we write together.”

  “I won’t consider this a success unless you do,” she says, smiling.

  The GPS announces our exit as upcoming. We put our attention on the road and not missing the turnoff to the château. Off the Autoroute, we drive a few miles south and then come to the château’s massive stone column entrance. It has a gate we received the code for through a welcoming email.

  Once we drive through, it’s as if we’ve entered a movie set in the French countryside. To either side of us, beautiful green fields lie behind white-painted wood fencing. The pastures are dotted with grazing horses, a couple of which stand beneat
h trees along the edges of the fields. Others nap in the waning sunlight, tails swishing lazily. The road serving as the entrance goes on for at least half a mile. We round a turn. The château is there before us, an enormous stone monument to centuries past that has been lovingly maintained and cared for. Large boxwoods line the front of the house.

  “They must be hundreds of years old,” Dillon says. “They’re huge.”

  To the right of the house, we can see the corner of a huge barn, white fencing that matches that along the driveway coming in.

  “It’s like we’ve stepped back in time or something,” Dillon says.

  A very discreet sign indicates parking to the left of the château. I follow the drive around and pull in beside a few other vehicles. We get out and grab our suitcases from the trunk. I offer to take Dillon’s, but she says, “Oh, it’s easy. It’s the pull kind.”

  We walk through the massive front door and into an area that serves as the lobby with several large sofas for seating. The front desk is to the right.

  A smiling woman with gray hair and bright green eyes greets us with a sincere welcome. “We are so happy to have you,” she says. “We will just check you in, and then I will be happy to show you to your room.”

  I hand her a credit card. Dillon reaches for hers. “It’s fine,” I say. “We’ll settle up later.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  We take care of the necessary paperwork, and then the woman helping us says, “Right this way, please. I will show you to your rooms. Your luggage will be up shortly.”

  We take the elevator to the second floor, and she leads us down a long, vast corridor.

  “Here we are,” she says, taking out a key, the old-fashioned kind instead of the card system hotels use today. “We have you in this room and then also the corner room. They are adjoining if you would like for me to open the door in between.”

  I look at Dillon, who looks at me, and we both say at the same time, “Oh, sure, of course, that’ll be fine.”