That Spring in Paris

by Ciji Ware

  Adelman allowed his gaze to roam from one end of the table to the other.

  “In return, the Thayers will grant the members of the present board who wish to sell the company to you gentlemen,” he said, nodding at the newcomers, “their executed proxies of agreement. In this way, the family members who worked so hard to make a success of GatherGames will be granted what is fairly due them for their five years’ work—and you, gentlemen, will be able to purchase the company that’s proven to be extremely profitable in the video-game industry. Everybody wins.”

  The silence in their private booth only emphasized the loud chatter and clank of dishes beyond the walls in the main dining room. Then, into the void, one of the team of investors asked, “And what about the CEO of GG? The younger Bradshaw Thayer. Can we have his proxy too?”

  Adelman responded with a slight shrug of his pin-striped shoulders. “We do not represent Bradshaw Thayer, the Fourth,” he disclosed in a neutral tone of voice, “so I expect you’ll have to negotiate separately on that score.” With a look in Mildred Thayer’s direction he added, “However, Mrs. Thayer has made a request that her eldest son be granted the right to maintain the stock and options presently due him, plus his salary for the entire year.”

  He turned to the Thayers and suggested, “While these gentlemen consider our proposals, why don’t you four, plus Mr. Marx and myself, move to another booth I’ve reserved for dinner?”

  The Thayers, along with Adelman and Marx, were shown to another private booth at the other end of the restaurant. Juliet couldn’t eat a bite of the dinner she ordered, and the rest of her fellow diners—with the exception of their two lawyers— pushed around their food in a similar manner. Just as dessert and coffee were being served, one of the board members poked his head into their booth, a broad smile on his face. He waved a piece of paper and then placed it in front of Edward Adelman. “Here’s the term sheet,” he said and laughed. “You got practically everything you asked.”

  “What didn’t we get?” Juliet said, her heart speeding up.

  The dissident board member glanced at Mildred Thayer and announced, “If the current CEO resigns his position, he will be granted the stock and salary due him to date, which is still quite considerable, you’ll remember. However, he will be granted only half his stock options to be exercised over a five-year period. If he balks, he can always sue,” he said with another swift glance at Mrs. Thayer. “The investors don’t want young Brad in any position to challenge their authority in future. That’s the deal. No negotiation.”

  All but Bradshaw Thayer IV’s mother declared simultaneously, “We’ll take it!”

  All eyes shifted to Mildred. Juliet reached for her mother’s hand and gave it a gentle, sympathetic squeeze. Mrs. Bradshaw Thayer III slowly nodded her assent. When they had all signed the Letter of Agreement and paid their restaurant bill, even the senior Thayers seemed relieved to have the drama finally over.

  Juliet wondered, however, why she only felt horribly depressed?

  * * *

  An hour later, in the sitting room of her suite, Juliet flipped on a single lamp and sank into the silk-covered slipper chair in front of the fireplace. She was spent from the strain of the evening but was determined to make one more call before she fell into bed. Once again, she punched in Finn’s cell phone number, certain that her name appeared on his phone’s screen whenever she tried to contact him.

  It rang... and rang. Still no human answered. When his familiar, deep voice asked callers to leave a message, she described the night’s momentous events as quickly and succinctly as she could. Her heart beating at an accelerated pace, she told him once again how much she missed him.

  “But I won’t come back to Paris without an invitation, Finn. It’s up to you. I love you. I love you so much, and I hated the way we were together the day I left. But hear me now, flyboy,” she warned, her voice shaking. “I-If you’ve decided... whatever you’ve decided... please, at least let me know and there’ll be no more calls from me.”

  Two days passed and—nothing.

  On the third day, Juliet couldn’t stand the thunderous silence any longer and decided she’d head further north up the coast to paint. This resolve was a prudent move, given that the change-of-control at GatherGames was to be publicly announced this day. She figured making herself scarce would be an excellent strategy, given also that proceedings to disbar attorney Gavin Linley had been filed with the California Bar Association—another bombshell she preferred to miss.

  Juliet started to pack her small, wheeled bag, only to toss it back into her closet since its presence reminded her painfully of her collision with a tall, handsome figure in front of the American Hospital in Paris. Instead, she pulled a canvas sailing bag from under her bed, threw in two pairs of jeans, a sweatshirt and several T-shirts, along with her tights, a pair of tennis shoes, and enough underwear to last her the week. Then she headed north.

  She drove across the Golden Gate Bridge on Highway 101 to the town of Petaluma and turned west to the coast road. Another 125 miles further up the coastline, the fog had burnt off and the picturesque cluster of houses known as Sea Ranch was bathed in the warm sunshine of a typical September Indian Summer. En route, she’d stopped for lunch in the town of Jenner at the River’s End Restaurant, granting herself a quick look at her mobile phone before turning it off in disappointment and burying it at the bottom of her purse.

  “Only one bar!” she grumbled. The entire coastal area was one of the few spots in the “wired state” of California that cell coverage was spotty, at best. Perhaps it’s just as well, she thought, telling herself that ignoring her nonfunctioning cell phone would improve her concentration on why she’d driven north in the first place.

  By late afternoon, she’d checked into the Sea Ranch Lodge and was given a lovely room with wood-paneled walls and spectacular views of the Pacific. Her king-sized bed sported a navy and taupe striped coverlet with large tailored pillows to match. Her surroundings were warm and welcoming and Juliet was determined to stop moping and start painting.

  However, the first night, the distant sound of the surf pounding below the cliff kept her awake. Bitter regret, and then anger at Finn, and then remorse for her dark thoughts began to spiral in her head. How would she get back the possessions she’d left on his barge? Her winter clothes? Her art supplies? Would Avery be willing to be her go-between with Finn and send everything to her? How icky would that be?

  “Oh, hell!” she said aloud. “Why should I care about any of that?”

  And why wouldn’t Finn return her calls? She turned over in bed and tried to get comfortable but hardly slept a wink.

  Despite this—or perhaps because of it—she set out early the next few mornings, marching along a trail that bordered the cliff overlooking the Pacific. She had discovered a clearing that was encircled by a tall stand of majestic redwoods and set up her portable easel. Over three days, she sketched and then painted the scene that stretched before her, grateful to be thinking about something other than the former Air Force Major, Patrick Finley Deschanel.

  In France, she’d taken courses in both oil and watercolor, but it was water-based paints that had become her first love. She could almost hear Caroline Nucholls’ voice on color choice, along with the instructor at L’École advising her on perspective techniques.

  This is my life’s work! she thought with an unexpected and joyous rush. The rest of her life, she decided, would somehow have to take care of itself. As the hours passed with total focus on her work-in-progress, Juliet found great comfort in finally letting go of the collision of thoughts and questions about Finn’s on-going silence ever since she’d returned from France.

  While mixing the pigments she would use on the nearly completed piece propped up on her easel, she mulled over an idea for a new project that she’d had while driving to Sea Ranch—a series of watercolor land-and-seascapes of the Northern California coast where there wasn’t a single human in sight. She figured she could dis
play her finished work in a small room off the Bay View’s main lobby, along with the paintings of other local artists she admired, and run the space as a boutique art gallery for the tourist trade.

  With the sun rising higher in the east warming her back, she dabbed shaded colors on her work that represented the curving coast in front of her. Dipping her brush in the glass jar of water, she thought about the host of photos she’d taken in Europe that she had yet to use in France Unafraid. Should she continue her blog posts and offer the resulting watercolor “postcards” for sale, or would it merely be a painful reminder of Finn and her magical time in Paris, like picking the scab off a wound two times a week? Maybe she should simply shut down the blog as a chapter in her life that was over?

  But France belonged to her just as much as to him!

  And then there was Avery... and Claudine.

  Suddenly, she realized with a sinking heart that her thoughts had circled back where she started. Pangs of yearning invaded every cell of her body. She savagely seized a larger paintbrush, mixing black with purple to create a threatening sky that didn’t exist in the actual scenery that lay before her. She wondered, then, if she were painting a story devoid of a happy ending, now that Finn had completely disappeared from her life.

  In fact, how had so many aspects of her existence gone awry? Her eldest brother had cut off communication with the entire family, made plans to move out of the Bay View Hotel to Silicon Valley, and was already involved in another video war-game start-up. And thus far, poor Jamie had no success getting an editing job at Pixar Studios.

  Meanwhile, her parents were barely speaking to one another, although Jamie insisted that Mildred had finally accepted which of her children truly had her welfare at heart. Juliet tried to take solice in her younger brother’s prediction that Millie and Brad, senior, would eventually return to their lifelong status quo, “Maybe acting even a bit nicer to each other in their golden years,” he’d added with a droll smile.

  Juliet swished more black into the small well of purple where she’d been mixing her paint, wondering if she’d ever have the courage to go back to France at some future date? Given how hard she and her younger brother had fought to retain the Bay View Hotel, there was little doubt that her roots were set deep into the bedrock of Nob Hill.

  I am a San Francisco Thayer, after all, she ironically reminded herself. Her links to this part of the world were stamped into her DNA. She and Jamie had already begun to take up the reins of running the hotel, along with a professional manager her parents had finally given their blessings to hire in the wake of the recent family debacle. She’d also taken the time to write a substantial donation to a charity devoted to halting youthful cyber bullying.

  Crashing into these thoughts, a vision of the Eiffel Tower glittering through Finn’s window made her suck in her breath, her paintbrush poised in the air.

  “We’ll always have Paris,” hadn’t Finn joked once?

  All she had was scores of iPhone pictures and a craving for croissants and tarte tartin. Truth was, Paris would be Paris, whether she ever returned there or not.

  She dipped the tip of her brush into the angry hue she’d concocted, and then gazed again at the cloudless, azure sky meeting the green-blue water of the sea stretched out before her. Life truly imitated Art, she decided, as the day’s perfect weather had demonstrated. She tossed the blue-black water she’d just mixed into the grassy bank. The sun would come up tomorrow—just as it had today. Life would go on.

  Even without Finn Deschanel by her side.

  CHAPTER 31

  By noon on her fourth day at Sea Ranch, with the sun directly above her, Juliet was so hungry she could hear her stomach rumbling. She was also suddenly conscious of an annoying buzz and turned to look behind her. Dumbfounded, she spied a small, four-cornered object overhead, whirling its way in the direction of where she and her easel had been positioned all morning, perched on the edge of the cliff that overlooked the broad Pacific and the curving coastline.

  “Be quiet! Go away!” she shouted at it, shaking her paintbrush at the heavens.

  The move only showered her hair and forehead with the green paint she’d been using to create the stand of redwoods that appeared in the upper portion of the watercolor she’d been slaving over for hours.

  The whirring machine flew ever closer—and lower—regardless of her stream of protests at having such a bucolic scene disturbed by the whooshing, insistent sounds of what could only be a pesky drone.

  A drone? It can’t be...

  The mechanical spider landed not ten feet from where she sat. Heart pounding, she stood up from her painter’s stool and peered more closely at a net pouch attached to the drone’s frame—now soundless—as if obeying her command. She glanced around the broad meadow behind her and squinted at the enormous stand of trees that ringed it. Disappointment flooded her chest. There was nothing unusual in view.

  Probably some kid staying at the lodge... trying out his Christmas present...

  Then something turquoise caught her eye. She took a few tentative steps toward the drone and saw that within the confines of the net was a small, highly recognizable Tiffany box with hand-printed letters on the outside that said, “Open Me.”

  “What the—?” she murmured, advancing a few more steps. Her heart felt as if it had done a backflip above her ribs. With a trembling hand, she leaned down and liberated the box from its carry pouch. Her fingers shook even more when she opened the lid and saw that a tiny note had been squeezed inside.

  I just got back from a month in the jungles of

  Africa on a drone job with no Wi-Fi for miles.

  P.S. You asked me to propose to you

  “on another day,” so I am:

  Will you marry me?

  Again she scanned the meadow, a quizzical smile beginning to pull at her lips. With a whoop, she tossed aside the skinny watercolor brush in her right hand and then freed a small velvet box from inside the turquoise one made of glossy cardboard. She pried open the second box to find a vintage emerald and diamond ring that she instantly recognized—and gasped. It was the very engagement ring that Claudine Deschanel had worn all these years after the love of her life had been killed on a swift boat in Vietnam four decades ago.

  “Where are you, Major Deschanel?” she shrieked to the clear skies above.

  The open velvet box clutched in her hand, Juliet looked up to see a tall, familiar figure in a leather flight jacket emerge from the woods. Even at a distance of a hundred yards, she could see he was holding a black plastic rectangle with a joystick. As she had with her paintbrush, he tossed the controls aside and came galloping toward her.

  “Did you see the message?” he shouted.

  “Yes!” she shouted back, running toward him.

  “And what’s your answer?” he demanded, heading right for her.

  “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you!” she yelled across the tall grass, “but how did you find me and why did it take you so long?”

  And then he was a foot away. He caught her in his arms, crushing her entire length against his body.

  “I was stuck in Kenya—with no Wi-Fi—in the rainforest. And your brother Jamie told me how to find you.”

  “Oh, God, Finn, no Wi-Fi? I just want you to know I am never traveling to Africa!”

  Between kisses he glanced around. “Man, you live in one, beautiful part of the country, and let me tell you, it’s great for flying drones! The civilian kind, I mean.” He leaned back and asked, “Where’s the ring? Did you put it on? Claudine guessed you were a size five and had it sized.” His eyes scanning her paint-spattered face and hair, he asked, “Do you always splatter paint all over yourself?”

  “At least it’s green and matches the ring,” Juliet said, giddy with amazement. “I was shaking my brush at that annoying sound buzzing above my head and paint went everywhere!” She brought her right hand between them, the opened velvet box still clutched between her fingers. “Now, let’s see this ring in all
its glory.” She pulled it from its nest and handed it to him.

  “It was Claudine’s engagement ring.”

  “I know,” whispered Juliet with a catch in her throat. “I can’t believe she took it off her finger.”

  “She and I hope it fits.”

  Juliet looked up at him. “How about you do the honors? Then I’ll know this isn’t a dream.”

  “I’m a little creaky with my left leg, you understand, but here goes...”

  Finn slowly sank onto his right knee with a barely audible groan. “Mademoiselle Juliette,” he said in an excellent French accent, “Allez-tous tous marier de moi et mon épouse bien-aimée?”

  He slipped the emerald and diamond ring in its eighteen carat gold setting onto the second finger of her left hand and smiled up at her. It fit perfectly and the jewel sparkled in the noonday sun.

  “I understood the first part of what you just said... ‘will you marry me,’” she said gazing down at him, one knee still on the grass, “but then—?”

  “I said, ‘Will you marry me and be my beloved wife?’”

  “Oh, Finn,” she said, tears filling her eyes, “oui, mon amour... absolutely oui!”

  Finn grinned up at her. “We’ve got to work on that accent.”

  She offered him a hand as he struggled to his feet. Once upright, he pulled her into his arms again.

  “Where, exactly, have you been, again?” she demanded, her question muffled by his chest. “And why didn’t you find a way to contact me?”

  Leaning back, he replied, “Like I said, in Africa. The same day you flew home, a rich client of the guy who runs the drone school in Rennes got a big assignment in Kenya. Feeling as rotten as I did after you left, I talked him into taking me with him.”